Chapter 3 The Boy Who Came Back

Chapter Three: The Boy Who Came Back

The first thing Alessandro did when I asked him about the photograph was lie to me.

"I don't know who that is," he said.

He was sitting on the edge of his bed, his shirt unbuttoned around the bandage covering his side. The colour had returned to his face, but he still looked tired. Outside his bedroom, men moved through the hallway, speaking in low voices about the shooting.

I held up the photograph of the two boys.

"You expect me to believe you've never seen your own face before?"

His eyes moved to the picture.

For a moment, something changed in his expression. It was small, almost impossible to catch, but I saw it.

"You should go home, Bella."

I laughed without humour. "You people keep saying that as if my life isn't falling apart every time I walk through your front door."

"I'm trying to keep you safe."

"From who? Your father? Valentina? My supposedly dead father? Or the mysterious boy who looks exactly like you?"

He stood, then immediately winced. I almost reached for him before remembering that I was angry.

Almost.

"Don't," he said quietly.

"Don't what?"

"Look at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you still think there's something good left in me."

For a second, neither of us spoke.

I hated that sentence. Not because it was sad, but because a part of me wanted to prove him wrong.

I folded the photograph and slipped it into my pocket.

"Fine," I said. "Keep your secrets. But if I discover that you've been lying to me about my father, whatever we used to be is over."

Alessandro looked at me.

"Whatever we used to be ended a long time ago."

He said it so calmly that I believed him.

That was the worst part.

I walked out before he could see how much it hurt.

Valentina was waiting in the kitchen.

She had changed into a loose grey sweater and black trousers. Her hair was tied back, and there was a mug of untouched coffee in front of her.

"You look terrible," she said when I entered.

"Thank you. You look suspicious."

"That's my natural beauty."

Despite myself, I smiled.

It disappeared almost immediately.

"Your sister," I said. "What was her name?"

Valentina's fingers tightened around the mug.

"Why?"

"Because she apparently has a habit of shooting people and disappearing."

"She didn't shoot Alessandro."

"Then who did?"

"I don't know."

I watched her carefully. Valentina was good at hiding things. She did it with the ease of someone who had been practising since childhood.

But she was also afraid.

Not of me. Not even of what had happened upstairs.

She was afraid of her sister.

"Tell me her name," I said.

Valentina stared at the coffee.

"Vittoria."

The name sounded familiar, though I couldn't understand why.

"What happened to her?"

"She died."

"When?"

"Three years ago."

The same year my father supposedly died.

I pulled the photograph from my pocket and placed it on the counter between us.

Valentina barely looked at it before pushing it away.

"Where did you get that?"

"Alex's room."

"Then you need to leave this house."

"You keep telling me to leave, but nobody will tell me what I'm leaving behind."

Valentina looked up.

"Because once you know, you won't be able to pretend you don't."

Before I could answer, someone knocked on the kitchen door.

A young man stood on the other side.

I had never seen him before. He looked about twenty-eight, perhaps a little older, with dark hair, a black coat, and a thin scar running from his left eyebrow towards his temple. He carried no visible weapon, which somehow made me more suspicious.

His gaze settled on me.

For a moment, he looked genuinely surprised.

Then he smiled.

"Isabella Moretti?"

I went still.

Nobody had called me that in years.

"My name is Isabella Rossi," I replied.

"Of course." His smile widened slightly. "That's what they told you."

Valentina rose so quickly that her chair scraped against the floor.

"Get out."

The man didn't even glance at her.

"I'm here to see Don Lorenzo."

"He isn't receiving visitors."

"Tell him Daniel Cross is here."

The smile vanished from Valentina's face.

I noticed.

So did Daniel.

"Ah," he said softly. "You remember me."

"I remember what you did."

"Then you remember the wrong thing."

He finally looked at her, and whatever passed between them made the room feel smaller.

I stepped between them.

"Who are you?"

Daniel turned back to me.

"Someone who knew your father."

"Everyone seems to know my father except me."

"That's because your father was very good at making people believe what he wanted them to believe."

He reached into his coat.

Valentina's hand moved towards the knife tucked beside her waistband.

Daniel noticed that too.

Slowly, he withdrew a folded piece of paper and placed it on the counter.

"Give that to Alessandro," he said. "Tell him the boy in the photograph is looking for him."

Then he walked away.

Just like that.

No explanation. No threat. Nothing.

I waited until his footsteps disappeared before unfolding the paper.

There was a single sentence written inside.

You buried the wrong brother.

I found Alessandro in the library ten minutes later.

He was standing beside the window, speaking on the phone. When he saw me, he ended the call without saying goodbye.

I handed him the note.

He read it once.

Then again.

"What is it?" I asked.

"Nothing."

"Alessandro."

He folded the paper and put it in his pocket.

"Daniel Cross shouldn't be here."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one I'm giving you."

I stared at him, struggling to recognise the boy I had once known in the man standing before me.

"Do you have a brother?"

His silence was enough.

"Oh my God."

"Bella"

"You have a brother, and you let me stand in your bedroom holding a photograph of him while you pretended you didn't know who he was?"

"It's complicated."

"Then simplify it."

He rubbed a hand over his face.

"My brother died when we were children."

"Valentina says her sister died three years ago. You say your brother died when you were children. My father died three years ago. Do you hear how none of this makes sense?"

Alessandro looked towards the library door.

"I need you to trust me."

I almost laughed.

"That's a very strange thing to ask someone you've spent years lying to."

He took a step closer.

"I know."

His honesty caught me off guard.

He didn't defend himself. He didn't tell me I was being unreasonable. He just stood there, looking at me as though he was tired of carrying something too heavy to put down.

For one foolish second, I wanted to touch his face.

Instead, I asked, "What was your brother's name?"

His eyes met mine.

"Matteo."

The name struck me with a strange sense of recognition.

I had heard it before.

Not recently. Not in this house.

Years ago.

A memory surfaced: a garden at night, my small hands covered in dirt, a boy crying behind a stone fountain.

And a voice whispering, Don't tell them which one of us you saw.

I stepped back.

Alessandro noticed.

"Bella?"

"I need some air."

I left before the memory could become anything more.

The garden was quiet, the grass still damp from the rain.

I found a bench beneath an old tree and sat down, trying to make sense of everything. My father's photograph. The mysterious Daniel Cross. A dead brother nobody wanted to discuss.

And Matteo.

Why did I remember that name?

My phone vibrated.

An unknown number.

You remember the garden. Good.

I stared at the message.

Another arrived.

Now remember who you helped bury.

My hands went cold.

I typed a reply.

Who is this?

The answer came almost immediately.