Chapter 2 - THE BROTHER IN THE GRAVE
Vittorio forgot Isabella for three full seconds.
That was how impossible Alessio’s face was.
His younger brother stood in the sunlight wearing a dark suit, one hand resting against the open car door.
Same scar beside the left eyebrow.
Same habit of tilting his head before speaking.
Same eyes their mother used to call dangerous because they always looked amused when they should have been afraid.
Vittorio had touched Alessio’s coffin.
He had carried it.
He had stood beside their mother while she collapsed at the grave.
“You’re dead.”
Alessio smiled sadly.
“So everyone keeps telling me.”
Vittorio stepped out from behind the trees.
Isabella gasped.
The false driver reached toward his jacket.
Three Morelli men surrounded him before his hand got there.
Isabella’s face transformed.
Not surprise that Vittorio was alive.
Terror that Alessio was standing behind him.
“You,” she whispered.
Alessio looked at her.
“Good morning, Isabella.”
Vittorio turned.
“You knew.”
She said nothing.
“You knew my brother was alive.”
Still nothing.
Alessio spoke.
“She knew before you buried me.”
Vittorio felt something inside him split.
He looked at his brother.
“Explain.”
“Not here.”
“Now.”
Alessio glanced toward Sophia.
The little girl stood by the trees clutching her dress.
“Renzo first.”
Vittorio hated that he was right.
He crouched beside Sophia.
“Did your father ever tell you where he goes when he buys fertilizer?”
She nodded.
“A warehouse near the old train yard.”
“Why?”
“He says the cheap place smells like dead fish.”
One of Vittorio’s men almost smiled.
Vittorio looked at Alessio.
“Could Renzo be there?”
Alessio nodded.
“Likely.”
“How do you know?”
“Because Marco used that warehouse for off-book meetings.”
Another betrayal.
Vittorio turned to Isabella.
She finally found her voice.
“Vittorio, please.”
He looked at her.
“Do not use my name like we still share it.”
She went pale.
Then:
“I can help you find Renzo.”
“No.”
“I know who has him.”
“Who?”
Isabella looked at Alessio.
“My brother.”
Vittorio frowned.
“Your brother is in Milan.”
“No.”
Her voice trembled.
“Luca came back three weeks ago.”
Luca Bellandi.
Isabella’s older brother.
Publicly, a legitimate shipping executive.
Privately, a man Vittorio never trusted enough to bring close.
Apparently he had been right about exactly one person too late.
“Why does Luca want Renzo?”
“Renzo saw the car being changed.”
Sophia’s face tightened.
Vittorio looked at her.
“You knew?”
She nodded.
“Papa told me not to tell anyone unless something strange happened.”
“What did he see?”
“Men brought another black car at night.”
Of course.
The false plate.
The duplicate sedan.
Renzo saw preparation.
So they took him.
Vittorio’s oldest captain, Carlo Serra, approached.
“Boss, we have the false driver.”
“Name?”
“Matteo Ferri.”
Vittorio recognized it.
A freelance killer.
Expensive.
Not loyal to anyone.
Good.
Mercenaries often cracked before believers.
“Keep him breathing.”
Carlo nodded.
Vittorio looked at Isabella.
“Where is Enzo?”
Her eyes shifted.
“Dead.”
Sophia gasped.
Vittorio closed his eyes.
His real driver.
Three years.
Weddings.
Hospitals.
Funerals.
A man who knew when Vittorio wanted silence and when he wanted football scores.
Dead because Isabella needed his car.
“Who killed him?”
“Luca.”
“Did you know?”
She began crying.
“Yes.”
Vittorio’s voice became almost gentle.
“That answer matters more than the tears.”
He turned away.
Sophia tugged his sleeve.
“My papa.”
He looked down.
Right.
Not vengeance.
Renzo.
Vittorio ordered Isabella confined to the villa under guard.
Not harmed.
Not questioned yet.
He refused to become sloppy because he was angry.
Then he looked at Alessio.
“You’re coming.”
“I expected nothing else.”
They drove toward the train yard.
During the ride, Vittorio stared out the window.
Alessio sat opposite.
Finally:
“How?”
“Bomb in Bari.”
“I saw the car.”
“You saw what was left of it.”
“The body matched your dental records.”
“Changed.”
“By whom?”
Alessio smiled without humor.
“Your wife.”
Vittorio looked at him.
Isabella had helped fake Alessio’s death.
Why?
“Because Luca wanted me hidden.”
“Why would you agree?”
“I didn't.”
Alessio’s jaw tightened.
“They took me.”
Vittorio stopped breathing.
Two years earlier, Alessio had discovered a shipping route being used without Morelli authorization.
He followed the money.
It led to Luca.
And eventually Isabella.
Before he could tell Vittorio, he was abducted.
His death staged.
Then held outside Italy while Luca used information extracted from him to map Morelli alliances.
“How did you escape?”
“Six months ago.”
“And you didn’t come home?”
Alessio looked at him.
“I didn't know if you were involved.”
That hurt worse than Vittorio expected.
“You thought I helped bury you.”
“I thought someone inside the family did.”
Vittorio nodded.
Fair.
“Why today?”
“Because your Sicily meeting gave them the perfect stage.”
Alessio had spent months tracking Luca’s plan.
He learned about the duplicate sedan only last night.
Tried to reach Vittorio.
Marco blocked every channel.
So Alessio came himself.
Then Sophia found the truth first.
Carlo’s voice came over the radio.
“Warehouse ahead.”
They stopped three blocks away.
No dramatic assault.
No shouting.
Vittorio sent men around the perimeter.
He wanted Renzo alive.
Inside, two guards surrendered quickly.
One tried to run.
Carlo stopped him.
They found Renzo tied to a steel chair in a back office.
Sophia’s father lifted his head weakly.
“Signor Morelli.”
Vittorio cut the rope himself.
“You taught your daughter well.”
Renzo started crying.
“Sophia?”
“Safe.”
The gardener closed his eyes.
“Thank God.”
Then Renzo grabbed Vittorio’s sleeve.
“The Sicily flight.”
“What?”
“Don’t go.”
“I’m not.”
“No.”
Renzo shook his head.
“They want you to think the car was the whole plan.”
Vittorio stared.
“What else?”
Renzo looked at Alessio.
Then whispered:
“The men waiting in Palermo were never waiting for you.”
Vittorio felt cold.
“They were waiting for news of your death.”
Alessio swore softly.
Renzo continued:
“And one of your five captains is with them.”
The betrayal was larger than Isabella.
Larger than Luca.
Maybe larger than Naples.
Vittorio looked at his brother.
“Which captain?”
Renzo whispered a name.
And Vittorio’s world tilted again.
“Carlo Serra.”
Outside the office, a gunshot cracked.
Then another.
May you like
Carlo had just disappeared.
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