Chapter 2 - THE WOMAN ON THE TAPE SAID NOT TO BELIEVE HER BODY
The wine cellar beneath the Moretti estate had been designed by my grandfather to impress politicians.
Forty years later, it became the room where my dead sister spoke to me.
I did not allow Marco or Victor to be touched.
That surprised everyone.
It surprised me.
Eight years earlier, I would have closed the door, dismissed the staff, and spent the night extracting answers by methods no prosecutor could ever place in a report.
Instead, I called my attorney.
Then I called a federal prosecutor I had spent six years avoiding.
That decision nearly killed my pride.
It probably saved the truth.
Marco sat at one end of the cellar table with two of my guards positioned behind him.
Victor sat at the other.
His hands were folded, but I could see the tremor in his fingers.
Dante Russo, my chief of security, placed the VHS cassette beside an ancient combination television and VCR someone had dragged from the estate archive.
“Found three machines,” he said.
“Two ate tapes.”
“This one?”
“Hasn’t yet.”
“Encouraging.”
My attorney, Rebecca Sloan, entered behind him.
She was fifty-two, sharp-eyed, and had spent most of our fifteen-year professional relationship telling me that being feared was not the same thing as being legally intelligent.
Tonight she carried an evidence bag.
“Before anyone plays anything,” she said, “the cassette gets photographed, documented, and copied under controlled conditions.”
Marco laughed.
“This is absurd.”
Rebecca did not look at him.
“Your opinion is not chain of custody.”
Victor cleared his throat.
“Luca, this family has always handled internal matters internally.”
I looked at him.
“That philosophy appears to have buried my sister.”
His mouth closed.
Elena remained upstairs with Sophie.
I had wanted her beside me.
She refused.
“My daughter does not need to watch whatever is on that tape,” she said.
Correct.
I asked whether she wanted to remain with Sophie.
“Yes.”
So she did.
No order.
No guilt.
Something had shifted inside me after four-year-old Sophie said:
Mommy said they would try to take it from me.
For eight years, I had believed protecting family meant controlling information.
That night I began to understand control might have been the weapon used against us.
Rebecca documented the cassette.
Dante inserted it.
The screen rolled with gray static.
Then black.
Then a date appeared in white digital text.
OCT 12
23:43:08
My chest stopped moving.
The image shook.
A face appeared.
Alessandra.
Nineteen years old.
Alive.
Her dark hair was soaked from rain. Mascara ran beneath both eyes. She was crouched inside what looked like the old laundry storage room.
She stared directly into camera.
“Luca.”
My hands curled against the table.
Marco looked away.
Alessandra whispered:
“If you are watching this, something went wrong.”
I could not breathe.
Eight years.
Eight years since I heard her voice.
She continued.
“I don’t know who I can trust anymore.”
“I thought Marco.”
My cousin’s face hardened.
“I thought Victor.”
Victor closed his eyes.
“I thought Thomas.”
Another name.
Thomas Reed.
The estate administrator who produced the digital security logs proving Alessandra drove away alone.
The man who had retired to Arizona three years after her death.
Alessandra looked over one shoulder, terrified.
Then back.
“I found copies of the White Harbor manifests.”
Dante went still.
I knew that name.
White Harbor had been a Moretti shipping subcontractor my father shut down nearly a decade ago after insurance irregularities.
At least that was what I had been told.
Alessandra continued.
“They’re using our port codes.”
“They’re changing container numbers after inspection.”
“I thought it was drugs.”
A pause.
“It isn’t only drugs.”
Her voice broke.
“There are people inside some of those shipments.”
Every muscle in my body tightened.
Marco snapped:
“This is fabricated.”
I looked at him.
“Speak again and you leave the room before the tape ends.”
He shut up.
Alessandra continued.
“I copied financial records.”
“Payments go through Victor.”
Victor went pale.
“Thomas changes the estate security logs.”
“And Marco signs the offshore releases.”
Marco stood.
Dante’s men immediately moved.
“I said sit.”
“You are going to believe a terrified nineteen-year-old over me?”
I looked at my cousin.
“She has been dead eight years.”
His jaw tightened.
“Sit.”
He did.
On the screen, Alessandra wiped her face.
“I tried to tell Dad.”
“He said I misunderstood.”
That hurt.
Our father, Salvatore Moretti, had been alive then.
He died three years later from a stroke.
“He told Victor to review everything.”
“Victor told me I was emotional.”
Of course.
“I went to Michael Whitaker.”
I frowned.
Whitaker?
Then I remembered.
Andrew Whitaker’s younger brother Michael had died in a warehouse shooting around the same period.
Different family.
Different war.
Or perhaps not.
Alessandra continued.
“Michael said he believed me.”
“He said Andrew needed proof because Andrew trusts evidence more than people.”
Despite everything, that sounded like Whitaker.
Then:
“Michael was killed yesterday.”
The cellar became silent.
I looked at Dante.
He looked equally stunned.
Alessandra’s breathing became ragged.
“I think they killed him because of me.”
“No,” I whispered.
Pointless.
Eight years late.
She could not hear.
“I found one more thing.”
She held a document toward camera.
Blurry.
Dante paused the recording.
Rebecca stepped closer.
“Back five seconds.”
The page displayed a list of payments.
At bottom were initials.
M.M.
V.H.
T.R.
Marco.
Victor Hale.
Thomas Reed.
Then another.
S.M.
My father?
My stomach turned.
Marco saw.
“There.”
He pointed.
“Salvatore.”
“Your own father.”
“Maybe Alessandra discovered he was part of it.”
I stared at the screen.
Rebecca said:
“Or initials mean something else.”
Good.
Evidence.
Not conclusion.
We resumed.
Alessandra shook her head.
“I don’t know what S.M. means.”
Good.
“I don’t think it’s Dad.”
“She specifically—”
Marco started.
I looked at him.
He stopped.
Alessandra continued.
“Someone is framing him too.”
Then a sound outside the laundry room.
She froze.
Footsteps.
“Shit.”
The nineteen-year-old sister I remembered almost never swore.
She moved camera.
For several seconds we saw only floor.
Then the image stabilized through a crack in shelving.
A door opened.
Victor entered first.
Eight years younger.
Same gold-rimmed glasses.
Marco behind him.
Then Thomas Reed.
Alive.
Real.
Not accusations.
Images.
Victor’s recorded voice filled cellar.
“Where is the copy?”
Alessandra answered off camera.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Marco:
“Don’t make this harder.”
Alessandra:
“You killed Michael.”
Marco:
“Michael made his own choices.”
My chair scraped.
Rebecca put one hand on my shoulder.
“Watch.”
I stayed.
Victor said:
“Alessandra, you are frightened and confused.”
“Your brother doesn’t need to know about any of this.”
She laughed.
“You mean because Luca will kill you?”
Marco replied:
“No.”
“Because Luca will start a war before he understands what’s really happening.”
I hated that he was not entirely wrong.
Then Thomas said:
“The car is ready.”
My blood froze.
Alessandra:
“What car?”
Victor:
“You’re leaving.”
“No.”
“Tonight.”
“No!”
The picture shook violently.
A struggle.
Someone screamed.
The camera hit floor.
We saw shoes.
Marco’s polished black shoes.
Thomas’s brown boots.
Victor’s cane.
Then another pair entered.
A woman.
Red heels.
I frowned.
Who?
The woman’s voice:
“Stop.”
Every person in room froze.
I knew that voice.
My mother.
Donna Rosa Moretti.
Dead six years.
Marco whispered:
“Oh, God.”
On the tape, my mother said:
“You promised she would not be harmed.”
Victor answered:
“We have no choice now.”
“You said you would scare her.”
“She made copies.”
“She is my daughter.”
“And if Luca sees those files?”
Marco asked.
“He destroys everything.”
My mother whispered:
“Then tell him.”
Marco laughed.
“You think he will listen?”
That hurt because again—
maybe he would not have.
Then Alessandra cried:
“Mom?”
The sound broke me.
I had buried both of them.
My mother had spent the two years after Alessandra’s death barely leaving her bedroom.
Had she known?
How much?
The recording jumped.
Static.
Then Alessandra appeared again.
Different location.
Inside a car.
Camera propped low.
Her face swollen.
A bruise on her cheek.
“It’s 1:17.”
She whispered.
“They drugged me.”
“I pretended to swallow.”
“They think I’m unconscious.”
My vision blurred.
“If this tape reaches Luca, listen carefully.”
She leaned closer.
“Do not believe the body.”
The cellar disappeared.
Only those words remained.
Do not believe the body.
“They have another woman.”
“I don’t know who she is.”
“She’s already dead.”
Rebecca whispered:
“Jesus.”
Alessandra continued.
“They’re going to put her in my car.”
“They think I’m going somewhere else.”
“I heard Thomas say the canal.”
My stomach turned.
The closed casket.
The identification.
The trace narcotics.
The storm.
Alessandra’s voice became urgent.
“If you buried someone tomorrow, Luca…”
Tears streamed.
“It wasn’t me.”
I stopped breathing.
Eight years of grief collapsed into one impossible possibility.
My sister had not been in the coffin.
Marco stood again.
“This is insane.”
I ignored him.
On screen, Alessandra whispered:
“Julian is coming.”
“Julian who?”
I said.
She answered eight years later.
“Julian Cross.”
I knew the name.
Investigative journalist.
Freelancer.
Disappeared five years ago.
His final series had focused on corruption at Midwest ports.
Alessandra said:
“He promised to get me out.”
“If I survive, I can’t contact you.”
“They watch you.”
“They watch everyone.”
Her voice broke.
“I’m sorry.”
Then she looked directly into the lens.
“I love you.”
The recording cut to static.
I sat motionless.
Nobody spoke.
Then Victor Hale said quietly:
“She survived.”
Every head turned.
My blood became ice.
“You know that?”
He looked at Marco.
Marco’s face twisted.
“Shut your mouth.”
Victor laughed weakly.
“What difference does loyalty make now?”
I stood.
“Where is she?”
Victor looked at me.
“Alive?”
“I don’t know.”
I took one step.
Rebecca said:
“Luca.”
I stopped.
Victor continued.
“She escaped that night.”
“Julian Cross took her.”
“We lost them for years.”
“Then four years ago…”
He stopped.
My heart pounded.
“What happened four years ago?”
Victor looked terrified.
“Marco found her.”
Marco launched himself across the table.
Dante intercepted.
The room erupted.
No shots.
No broken bones.
Guards restrained Marco.
He screamed:
“HE’S LYING!”
Victor shouted back:
“You ordered it!”
“Ordered what?”
I roared.
Silence.
Victor stared at me.
Then whispered:
“Alessandra had a child.”
Everything inside me stopped.
“A little girl.”
I knew before he said the name.
No.
Impossible.
Four years old.
Brown eyes.
Red rain boots.
A battered VHS cassette held against her chest.
Victor whispered:
“Sophie.”
And upstairs, the child who had walked through twenty-three powerful adults without fear was sitting in Elena’s kitchen eating chocolate pudding.
Believing Elena Bellini was her mother.
While the woman who had given birth to her—
May you like
my sister Alessandra—
might still be alive somewhere.
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