Chapter 13: The Heir's Dinner

Villa Isabella, Sabine Mountains

Nightfall

The dining table could seat twenty people.

Today there were only six.

Elena sat between Dante and the void, observing the other diners as one observes snakes in a terrarium. Matteo the Elder presided at the head of the table in Salvatore's place, the place of the head of the household. To his right, Luca ate with the leisurely pace of someone in no hurry. To his left, Alessia sipped red wine with the confidence of someone who had won a game no one else knew was being played.

And at the end of the table, opposite Elena, sat little Matteo.

The seven-year-old boy cut his meat with unsettling precision. Each movement measured, each bite brought to his mouth with the ceremony of an adult. His gray eyes were the same ones they all occasionally used to look up and meet Elena's, and then he would offer a small, polite, terrible smile.

No one spoke.

The only sounds were the clinking of silverware against china and, outside, the wind rustling through the cypress trees.

It was Luca who broke the silence.

"Do you know what brought me back to my senses, Elena?" His voice was soft, almost gentle. "Certainty. The certainty that my father was a monster, that he deserved to die, that I was locked up because of him." He took a sip of water. "When you take away your doubt, everything else falls into place."

Elena stared at him. "And now you're sane?"

"I'm free." He smiled. "It's not the same, but it's enough."

Matteo the elder put down his silverware. "Enough with the philosophy, brother. We have business to discuss."

He turned to Dante.

"The capos are meeting tomorrow in Rome. They want to know who controls the family now. They want to pay their respects or make their demands, as it suits them." He paused. "You're coming with me."

Dante didn't look up from his plate. "As a hostage or as a partner?"

"As proof." Matteo leaned forward. "You killed Salvatore. That gives you the right to claim the position. But you ran away. That takes it away. I'm the rightful heir by blood, but I've been gone for thirty years. I need the capos to see that I'm in control. And seeing you by my side, obedient, alive, is the best proof."

"And if I refuse?"

"The boy." Matteo nodded toward the child. "Have you seen how he cuts meat? I taught him. In a week, I'll teach him worse if you don't cooperate."

Dante clenched his jaw. Elena felt his tension like an electric current.

"I'll accept," Dante said. "But with conditions."

Matteo raised an eyebrow. "Conditions? You?"

"Elena is coming with us." Dante looked at her for a second. "I'm not moving without her."

Alessia let out a short laugh. "The killer's in love? How lovely."

It wasn't a question. It was a stab in the back.

Elena felt heat rise to her cheeks. "It's not—"

"Yes." Dante interrupted her, his eyes locked on Matteo's. "That's it. She comes, or there's no deal."

Matteo studied them for a long time. Then he nodded.

"Let her come. Two hostages are better than one."

"Let her come."After dinner, Elena found Alessia in the garden.

Francesca's sister was smoking a cigarette by the dry fountain, gazing at the stars with an expression Elena knew well: the mask of someone who has lost too much and no longer knows how to cry.

"I didn't know you smoked," Elena said, approaching.

"You didn't know much about me." Alessia didn't look at her. "That was the idea."

Elena stopped beside her. "About Francesca… I'm truly sorry. I wasn't lying when I said I understood your pain."

"I know." Alessia stubbed out her cigarette on the stone. "That's why you're alive. That's why we didn't kill you the first night."

"And why didn't you?"

Alessia turned to face her. Her eyes were older than her years, harder than her smile.

"Because Matteo believes in poetic justice. He wants Dante to suffer. To see his nephew become what he hates. To make him choose between his blood and his conscience." She smiled bitterly. "Killing is easy. Making someone suffer is an art."

Elena felt a chill. "And you? Do you believe in that?"

"I believe in revenge." Alessia shoved her hands in her pockets. "I've been dreaming of killing Salvatore for two years. When Dante did it, he stole that dream from me. So now Matteo is my new dream. And when I'm done with him, I'll find another. And another. Until someone kills me or I get tired of it."

"That's not living."

" ... And another. Until someone kills me or I get tired of it.""And what is living, Elena? What do you know?" Alessia took a step toward her. "You killed your sister in a different way. You left her alone, ignored her, judged her. And now you wear her ghost around your neck as if that cleanses anything." She pointed to the silver necklace, Chiara's rose. "That's not living. It's crawling."

The blow was precise, deadly.

Elena had no response.

Alessia walked away toward the house. She stopped at the door.

"Tomorrow, in Rome, they're going to test you. The bosses don't trust anyone. They'll want blood, loyalty, sacrifices." She didn't come back. "If you want to survive, remember one thing: you're no longer a federal agent. You're Lia Moretti. The woman who loves the killer. The one who would follow him to hell."

She disappeared inside.

Elena was left alone under the stars, the cold necklace against her skin, Alessia's words burning like acid.

The woman who loves the killer.

Was that it?

Since when?

And most importantly: did it even matter anymore?

Rome, Italy

The following night

The palazzo where the capos met was older than Isabella's villa, more imposing, more dangerous. Walls that had witnessed the birth of empires and the deaths of men. Marble floors where blood was easily wiped away.

Elena entered on Dante's arm, like a bride walking to the scaffold.

Matteo, the elder, walked in front, confident, smiling. Luca flanked the rearguard with that calm of a rehabilitated psychopath. Alessia was already inside, waiting.

In the main hall, the capos waited.

Elena recognized De Luca from Naples, the one who had spoken about Chiara's necklace. Conti from Milan, with his nervous fingers. Ferrara from Palermo, the old man who barely spoke, but saw everything. And others: faces from FBI files, names she had memorized, histories of blood and money.

De Luca was the first to speak.

"Matteo Moretti." His voice was a restrained roar. "You've been dead for thirty years and now you're back. Explain yourself."

Matteo smiled, sat at the head of the table, Salvatore's place, and crossed his legs.

"Thirty years learning. Thirty years waiting. Thirty years preparing for this moment." He pointed at Dante. "My brother killed Salvatore. You know that. What you don't know is that he did it on my orders."

A murmur rippled through the room.

Dante didn't move. Elena felt his tension, but his face showed nothing.

"Why would you order your uncle's death?" Ferrara asked.

"Because he was incompetent." Matteo leaned forward. "He lost control of the Santi family, let a federal agent infiltrate, and tarnished the family name with his womanizing scandals. Salvatore was a liability. I am the future."

Conti drummed his fingers on the table. "And what future does he offer us?"

"Power." Matteo smiled. "More than you've ever had. International connections, clean business, politicians on the payroll. And an alliance with the Santi family—a real alliance, not my uncle's stupid war."

De Luca stood up. "The Santis? The same ones who've been stealing our shipments?"

"The same ones who now work for me." Matteo pulled a phone from his pocket and showed a message. "They're signing a peace agreement tomorrow. With terms favorable to us."

The silence was absolute.

Ferrara stood up slowly, with the measured pace of the old who no longer fear death. He walked toward Matteo and looked at him intently.

"You're smart," he said. "Smarter than your uncle. But something doesn't add up."

"What?"

Ferrara pointed at Dante. "He killed Salvatore. That makes him a murderer of his own flesh and blood. And yet, he's here, alive, by your side. Why?"

Matteo hesitated for a fraction of a second, but it was enough.

"Because"

"Because you need him." Ferrara smiled, revealing yellow teeth. "Because without him, the bosses wouldn't accept you. Because he has what you don't: years of loyalty, shared blood, history. You're a ghost, Matteo. He's real."

The atmosphere grew tense.

De Luca stood up as well. "The old man is right. What guarantees do we have that you won't betray us like you betrayed your uncle?"

Dante spoke for the first time.

"I killed Salvatore because he deserved to die." His voice was clear, firm. "Not out of ambition. Not out of hatred. Because he killed my sister. Because he killed innocent women. Because he tarnished the name we bear."

He stood up slowly.

"If Matteo turns out to be the same, I'll kill him too."

The silence that followed was heavier than any scream.

Matteo looked at him with a mixture of fury and... respect?

Ferrara laughed, a dry sound.

"That's a man." He gestured to Matteo. "You're an enigma. But if your brother keeps an eye on you, perhaps we can trust each other."

He returned to his seat. The others slowly followed suit.

The crisis had passed.

But Elena, watching from the shadows, had seen something the others hadn't.

When Ferrara spoke, Matteo had looked at Luca. And Luca had nodded.

An order. A signal.

This wasn't what it seemed.

Back at the villa, Elena found Dante in the library, alone, staring at Isabella's portrait.

"Your mother," she said. "She knew, didn't she? About Matteo."

Dante nodded. "She knew she'd had a son before me. She never told me his name. I think she did it to protect me."

"Or to protect him?"

Dante turned. "What do you mean?"

Elena told him what she had seen: the look, the nod, the feeling that Matteo and Luca represented something neither of them yet understood.

"This is bigger than an inheritance," she said. "There's something more. Something they're not telling us."

Dante looked at her for a long moment. Then he said:

"Then let's find out."

In the villa's basement, Luca held a photograph. Three children: Matteo, himself, and another. A third brother.

The one they never mentioned.

The one who waited in the shadows.

The real gardener.