Chapter 4 - THE RED ROOM
Dante had never heard of a red room in the Moretti mansion.
His mother had loved pale colors.
Cream.
Blue.
White.
She disliked red.
Said it made rooms feel smaller.
Yet Carlo claimed her final words referred to a red room.
Dante began searching old architectural plans.
The mansion had been built in 1912.
Renovated in 1948.
Expanded in 1979.
And extensively remodeled after Vittorio purchased it.
One set of plans contained an unusual notation.
EAST WING — ROOM 17 — PRIVATE ARCHIVE.
The room no longer appeared on modern layouts.
Dante showed the plans to Alessia.
"Have you ever seen this?"
She studied them.
"Room seventeen?"
He nodded.
She frowned.
"There's a wall there now."
"Exactly."
They went to the east wing.
At the end of a narrow corridor stood a large painting.
Bianca Moretti.
Dante's mother.
He stared at it.
"That painting has been here since I was a boy."
Alessia stepped closer.
She examined the frame.
Then the wall.
"Something's wrong."
Dante looked at her.
"What?"
"The dust."
He frowned.
She pointed.
"The frame has been moved recently."
Dante called a specialist.
The painting was removed.
Behind it was a concealed door.
Painted dark red.
Dante stared.
"The red room."
Alessia swallowed.
Inside were filing cabinets.
A desk.
An old telephone.
And shelves filled with documents.
The room smelled of paper and dust.
Dante switched on the light.
A single bulb flickered overhead.
On the desk sat a typewriter.
Beside it was a leather folder.
Dante opened it.
Inside were photographs of children.
Dozens of them.
Each photograph had a number.
A date.
And a handwritten notation.
Alessia covered her mouth.
"What is this?"
Dante stared.
He recognized the format.
Private guardianship files.
But the documents were not legal adoption records.
They were payment records.
He turned a page.
A photograph showed a little boy holding a toy airplane.
Another showed twin girls in matching dresses.
Another showed a baby wrapped in a hospital blanket.
Beside each was an amount.
Dante felt sick.
Alessia looked at him.
"Your mother found this."
He nodded.
"Yes."
At the bottom of the folder was a handwritten letter.
Dante recognized Bianca's handwriting immediately.
My son,
If you ever find this room, understand that your father is not the man you believe him to be.
The children were never abandoned.
They were taken.
And the people who took them are still inside this house.
Dante lowered the letter.
His hands shook.
Then Alessia pointed toward the final page.
There was a photograph attached.
A little girl.
Perhaps four years old.
Dark curls.
A pink dress.
Beneath it was written:
SUBJECT 41 — ELENA MORETTI.
Dante stared.
"Elena?"
His younger sister.
The sister who had supposedly died as an infant.
Alessia looked at him.
"Dante..."
He couldn't speak.
Because beneath the photograph was another notation.
TRANSFER COMPLETED — AGE FOUR.
May you like
His sister hadn't died.
She'd been sold.
