Chapter 5 - THE LETTERS VITTORIO NEVER RECEIVED
“No.”
Vittorio said it before I could.
“No one brings Elena anywhere near Ricci House.”
I stared at Paolo’s photograph.
My cousin.
My family.
Bleeding because of me.
Or because of Vittorio.
Or because of a trust written by dead men who thought children were financial instruments.
“We have to get him.”
“We will.”
“Giacomo wants me.”
“He will not have you.”
I turned.
“You don’t decide that.”
His face tightened.
“Elena.”
“My cousin is tied to a chair.”
“And you are pregnant.”
“I know.”
“He chose Paolo because he expects you to trade yourself.”
“Maybe I will.”
“No.”
The mafia boss returned in one word.
Cold.
Final.
I hated it.
“Stop.”
He froze.
“You lied to me for six months, disappeared for another six, and now you think becoming commanding makes any of this safer?”
His hands clenched.
“I think keeping you away from a man who murders for succession makes you safer.”
“Then say that.”
“I just did.”
“No. You said no like I’m an employee.”
His expression changed.
Francesca watched.
Sofia watched.
Everyone waited.
Vittorio finally said:
“I am afraid.”
The room went still.
I looked at him.
He continued.
“I am afraid that if you walk into Ricci House, I will spend the rest of my life remembering the moment I let you.”
Different.
Not authority.
Fear.
I swallowed.
“Good.”
He frowned.
“Good?”
“Now we can talk.”
Francesca smiled faintly.
Vittorio glared at her.
She looked innocent.
Antonio coordinated with police contacts Vittorio trusted—few, apparently—and private security teams.
Giacomo wanted Ricci House.
Why?
Because the family trust archive was there.
Original documents.
Succession papers.
Records Vittorio’s father kept before his death.
If Giacomo intended to force a legal acknowledgment, destroy one, or create another, the house mattered.
But Paolo was in Bologna.
At least the photograph suggested.
Metadata had been stripped.
Background generic.
Vittorio’s analysts worked.
I sat with Sofia.
Francesca remained nearby.
At 2:30 in the morning, Dr. Ferraro ordered me to sleep.
I refused.
At 3:10, she threatened to admit me to hospital for observation if my blood pressure rose another ten points.
I lay down.
I did not sleep.
At 3:41, someone knocked.
Vittorio.
I almost ignored him.
Then:
“Elena.”
Soft.
I opened the door.
He held a cardboard box.
Not a weapon.
Not a file.
A box.
“What?”
“We searched Giacomo’s Milan office.”
“And?”
He handed it to me.
Inside were envelopes.
My envelopes.
I stopped breathing.
Three letters.
My handwriting.
Vittorio’s old address.
The apartment where Alessandro had supposedly lived.
All opened.
None returned.
I stared.
“I thought they came back.”
“Two did.”
He sat across from me.
“These are different.”
I counted.
Three.
I had written more than three?
Yes.
Memory returned.
The first weeks after discovering the pregnancy.
I had mailed three letters to the apartment.
Later, after all three went unanswered, I sent three more to the shipping office.
Those were returned.
These had reached someone.
Giacomo.
My hands shook.
Vittorio said:
“Read them if you want. I haven’t.”
I looked at him.
“You didn’t?”
“They are addressed to Alessandro.”
Pain entered his face.
“That was me. But it was also the lie I gave you.”
I opened the first.
My own words.
Alessandro,
I don’t know whether you are coming back. I don’t know whether “space” means days or forever. I am angry enough that I almost hope it means forever.
But I need you to know I am pregnant.
I found out this morning.
I haven’t seen a doctor yet.
I am scared.
I do not expect you to return because of a baby. I only think you have the right to know.
Elena.
I covered my mouth.
Vittorio looked away.
Second letter.
Two weeks later.
I saw the heartbeat today.
I cried in the bathroom afterward because everyone else in the waiting room had someone with them.
I hate you for making me miss you.
I hate that I still think you would have cried too.
Third.
The doctor says everything looks normal.
I am done writing after this.
If you ever loved me, I hope someday you at least tell me why disappearing felt easier than telling me the truth.
My eyes blurred.
Vittorio sat completely still.
“You never received them.”
“No.”
“Giacomo did.”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“The apartment lease was held through a family shell company.”
“Of course it was.”
“My mail was automatically forwarded to a private security office after I returned to the Ricci identity.”
“Controlled by?”
“Giacomo.”
My stomach turned.
He had known.
From the beginning.
“Six months.”
Vittorio whispered.
“He knew you were pregnant for almost six months.”
“Yes.”
“And didn’t attack.”
That was strange.
Why wait?
Because something changed.
The trust provision.
Maybe Giacomo needed confirmation of sex.
A son.
I looked at Vittorio.
“When did you learn the baby was a boy?”
“You told me tonight.”
“Who else knew?”
“Sofia.”
She nodded from the doorway.
I had not heard her arrive.
“My doctor.”
“Clinic?”
“Yes.”
Francesca appeared behind Sofia.
“Giacomo may not have known sex until recently.”
“How?”
I thought.
Then remembered.
Three weeks earlier, my maternity clinic called.
Someone had requested confirmation of insurance coverage for “Baby Moretti.”
They said it was an administrative error.
My surname.
The sex had been entered on the chart.
No.
I felt sick.
“They accessed my medical file.”
Vittorio’s face changed instantly.
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
I explained the call.
Antonio was summoned.
Within an hour, the clinic’s logs showed unauthorized access using an administrative account.
Vittorio wanted names.
I wanted police.
Francesca wanted both.
By dawn, the answer arrived.
The account belonged to a temporary billing clerk.
Hired one month earlier.
Through a staffing agency owned by a Ricci subsidiary.
Giacomo again.
My pregnancy had been watched from inside a clinic.
I nearly vomited.
Vittorio went into the hallway.
I heard nothing for several minutes.
Then a crash.
I found him standing beside a broken side table.
Blood across his knuckles.
I stared.
He looked ashamed.
“Sorry.”
“Did the table attack you?”
“No.”
“Then stop.”
His jaw clenched.
“Elena—”
“You don’t get to break furniture every time you feel guilty.”
He looked at his hand.
“You should clean that.”
“I’ll have someone—”
“No.”
I took the first-aid box from the wall.
He stared.
“This does not mean anything,” I warned.
“I know.”
I cleaned the cuts.
He watched my face.
“I would have come back.”
My hand stopped.
“If I had received the first letter.”
I looked at him.
“You don’t know that.”
“Yes.”
“You were negotiating with Bellandi.”
“I would have burned the agreement.”
“You say that now.”
“I know.”
That honesty mattered.
He continued.
“I cannot prove what I would have done.”
“No.”
“I can only prove what I do now.”
I finished bandaging his hand.
“Then start with Paolo.”
He nodded.
“And the trust.”
“Yes.”
“No inheritance tied to my son.”
“I’m working on it.”
“And no public announcement.”
“Agreed.”
“No photographs.”
“Agreed.”
“No christening in a cathedral with fifty armed men.”
His mouth almost smiled.
“That was very specific.”
“I’m learning your family.”
He laughed.
For one second, Alessandro appeared.
The man in my kitchen.
The man who burned toast and pretended not to.
My heart hurt.
Then Antonio entered.
“We found Paolo.”
Sofia stood so fast the chair fell.
“Alive?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Not Bologna.”
Of course not.
“Where?”
Antonio looked at Vittorio.
“Ricci House.”
Silence.
Giacomo never wanted us to bring Elena there.
Paolo was already there.
The demand had been theater.
A way to force Vittorio home.
“Why?” I asked.
Vittorio understood first.
“The archive.”
Antonio nodded.
“Security cameras went offline eighteen minutes ago.”
Francesca swore.
Vittorio moved.
I caught his arm.
He looked at me.
“Come back.”
The words escaped before I could stop them.
His face changed.
I corrected immediately.
“Paolo comes back too.”
Vittorio nodded.
“Both.”
Then he left.
May you like
And for the first time since Alessandro disappeared, I found myself afraid not only of what Vittorio might do.
But of whether he would return.
