Chapter One: The Man in the Photograph The dead had a terrible habit of coming back when you finally learned how to live without them. Isabella Moretti learned that on a Thursday evening, standing barefoot in her apartment with a glass of wine in one hand and a photograph of her supposedly dead father in the other. The photograph had arrived in an unmarked envelope. No stamp. No return address. No explanation. Just a picture of her father standing outside a café in Florence, wearing the grey coat she had buried with him three years ago. On the back, someone had written seven words in black ink. Ask Alessandro what happened that night. Bella read it again. Then again. She laughed once, a small, ugly sound that frightened her more than the photograph did. Her father was dead. She had watched the flames consume the car. She had identified his watch, his wedding ring, the little silver chain he wore beneath his shirts. She remembered the funeral, the rain, and her mother's hand gripping hers so tightly that their fingers had gone numb. She remembered going home afterward and throwing up until there was nothing left in her stomach. You did not come back from that. You did not get to be alive in a photograph three years later. Unless someone had made a terrible mistake. Or unless someone had lied. Bella put down her wine. Alessandro. She had not heard that name spoken in months, not without feeling something sour twist beneath her ribs. The last time she had seen him, he had stood outside a courthouse in a black suit, his expression as unreadable as a locked door. She had asked him whether his father had anything to do with her father's death. He had looked at her for a long time. Then he had said, "You should stop asking questions you aren't prepared to have answered." She had slapped him. He hadn't stopped her. That had been the worst part. Not the humiliation, not the way the people around them had gone silent, but the way he had looked at her afterward-as if she had broken something he had been desperately trying to keep intact. She had hated him for that look. She had hated herself more for remembering it. Her phone vibrated on the kitchen counter. Unknown number. Don't go to the Moretti mansion tonight. Bella stared at the message. A second one arrived. Especially if Alessandro invites you. She looked at the photograph again. Then she did what any sensible person with a possible dead father, a suspicious message, and a deep personal hatred for the Moretti family should have done. She called a taxi. The Moretti mansion stood behind iron gates on the outskirts of the city, all pale stone, towering windows, and expensive landscaping designed to make the place look welcoming. It failed spectacularly. Bella had been there twice before. Once when she was seventeen, when her father still shook hands with men whose smiles never reached their eyes. And once three years ago, when she came searching for answers and left with a warning she couldn't forget. Tonight, the gates opened before she could press the intercom. That should have been her first reason to turn around. Instead, she stepped out of the taxi, smoothed the black dress she had borrowed from her roommate, and walked toward the entrance. The doorman recognized her. His face changed. "Miss Moretti." "Good evening, Carlo." He glanced behind her, as though expecting someone to emerge from the darkness. "You're expected." Bella stopped. "By whom?" He hesitated. "Mr. Alessandro." Of course. She almost laughed. Alessandro had spent three years avoiding her, ignoring her messages, and making it perfectly clear that she was a problem he wanted nothing to do with. Now, apparently, he was expecting her. The universe had a wicked sense of humour. "Tell him I'm here to see his father." Carlo looked genuinely uncomfortable. "His father isn't receiving visitors tonight." "Then he'll have to learn to make an exception." She walked past him before he could argue. Inside, the mansion smelled of polished wood, expensive perfume, and roses. Bella hated roses. Her father used to bring them home every Friday. Red ones, always. He would leave them in a vase beside her mother's bed, kiss her forehead, and pretend not to notice when Bella stole one for her bedroom. After the funeral, she had thrown every rose in their house into the rubbish. She had never explained why. A string quartet played somewhere beyond the grand staircase. Men in tailored suits stood in small groups, speaking quietly over glasses of champagne. Women wore diamonds that caught the chandelier light every time they moved. A party. Naturally. The Morettis could turn a funeral into a networking opportunity if there was money to be made. Bella had barely crossed the entrance hall when she saw him. Alessandro stood near the windows, dressed in a black suit with his tie loosened and his sleeves buttoned neatly at the wrists. His dark hair was pushed back from his forehead. He held a glass of whisky he hadn't touched. He was listening to an older man speak. Then he looked up. The older man kept talking for another few seconds before realizing he had lost his audience. Bella watched Alessandro's expression change. It was subtle. Anyone else might have missed it. His jaw tightened. His fingers closed around the glass. For one brief, unguarded moment, he looked less like the heir to a criminal empire and more like a man who had just seen a ghost. Then the mask returned. He said something to the older man and started toward her. Bella's heart betrayed her immediately. Three years, and her body still remembered him before her mind could remind it why she shouldn't. She remembered his hand at the small of her back when they were younger, guiding her through a crowded room. His laugh when she beat him at cards. The way he used to steal the olives from her plate because he knew she hated them. She remembered the night he kissed her. She remembered the morning he disappeared. And she remembered the last message she had sent him. Please just tell me if any of it was real. He had never answered. Now he stood in front of her, smelling faintly of cedarwood and whisky. "You shouldn't be here," he said. Bella smiled without warmth. "That's a lovely way to greet someone." "Isabella." "Alessandro." His eyes moved over her face, searching for something she couldn't identify. "Did someone invite you?" "Do I need an invitation to attend a party?" "In this house? Yes." "Then consider me very rude." He exhaled through his nose. It was almost a laugh, except nothing about his expression was amused. "You haven't changed." "You haven't learned how to hold a conversation." "And you've apparently forgotten how to stay away from trouble." "Funny. I was about to say the same thing about you." For a moment, neither spoke. The orchestra changed songs. Somewhere behind them, someone dropped a glass, and the sharp crack against the marble made Bella flinch. Alessandro noticed. His expression softened before he could stop it. "Are you all right?" The question was so ordinary, so painfully familiar, that Bella nearly forgot why she had come. She wanted to tell him about the photograph. She wanted to grab the front of his expensive shirt and demand that he explain why her father was standing alive outside a café three years after his death. Instead, she said, "I need to speak to your father." His expression closed. "No." "Excuse me?" "You heard me." "Does he know something about my father?" Alessandro went completely still. There it was. Not surprise. Not confusion. Recognition. Bella felt the room tilt beneath her feet. "Oh my God," she whispered. "Lower your voice." "You know something." "Bella-" "Don't call me that." He looked at her then, really looked at her, and she saw something in his eyes she had spent three years trying to forget. Fear. Not for himself. For her. Before he could speak, a woman's voice interrupted them. "Alex, darling. Your father is looking for you." Bella turned. The woman approaching them was breathtaking in a way that made the room seem suddenly dull. She wore a fitted black dress, a diamond bracelet, and an expression of effortless amusement. Her dark hair fell over one shoulder. Valentina Russo. Bella knew her name. Everyone did. The daughter of the Russo family, whose business interests had collided with the Morettis for decades. The woman who had grown up beside Alessandro and, according to the gossip Bella had tried very hard not to read, had once been expected to marry him. Val's eyes settled on Bella. For one strange second, her smile disappeared. Then she recovered. "Isabella Moretti," she said. "I've heard so much about you." "I doubt any of it was flattering." "Actually, most of it was heartbreaking." Bella frowned. Val stepped closer and adjusted the strap of Bella's dress, a gesture so intimate that Bella instinctively moved back. "Careful," Val murmured. "This family has a way of making people believe they're loved." Her eyes flicked briefly toward Alessandro. "And then reminding them what love costs." Before Bella could respond, Val pressed something into her palm. A small brass key. Bella looked down. When she looked up again, Val was already walking away. Alessandro caught Bella's wrist. "What did she give you?" "Nothing." "Don't lie to me." She pulled free. "You lost the right to ask me for honesty a long time ago." Something shifted across his face. For a moment, he looked almost wounded. Bella hated that, too. Because the worst thing about Alessandro Moretti wasn't that he could hurt her. It was that some stupid, stubborn part of her still wanted him to care. She found the photograph room by accident. At least, that was what she told herself later. The brass key opened a narrow door behind the library, revealing a staircase that descended into darkness. Bella stood at the top for several seconds, listening. Nothing. She switched on her phone's flashlight and went down. The room at the bottom was small, windowless, and lined with filing cabinets. Dust covered the floor, except for a narrow path leading to a wooden desk. On it lay a cardboard box. Her name was written across the lid. Bella's hands began to shake. Inside were photographs, newspaper clippings, and handwritten letters tied together with faded ribbon. The first photograph showed her father standing beside Lorenzo Moretti, Alessandro's father. They were younger, smiling, their arms around each other's shoulders. On the back, someone had written: Before the betrayal. Bella swallowed. The next photograph showed a little girl with dark curls sitting on a garden wall. Bella recognized herself immediately. She was five years old. Beside her stood a boy whose face had been scratched out with something sharp. Her fingers went cold. She lifted the photograph closer to the light. On the back was a date. And beneath it, a sentence written in her father's unmistakable handwriting. If she remembers what happened that summer, neither of them will survive. A floorboard creaked behind her. Bella spun around. Alessandro stood in the doorway. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes had gone to the photograph in her hand. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then he stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. "Put it down," he said quietly. Bella couldn't move. "Who is the boy?" Alessandro looked at the photograph again. Something in his face broke. Not dramatically. Not enough for anyone who didn't know him to notice. But Bella noticed. She had once known every version of his smile. She had once believed that meant something. "Alex," she whispered. "Who is he?" He crossed the room slowly, as though approaching a frightened animal. "Listen to me. Whatever you find in this room, whatever anyone tells you, you need to understand one thing." "What?" His eyes met hers. "Your father didn't die in that fire." Bella stopped breathing. The photograph slipped from her fingers and landed on the desk. For a few seconds, the only sound in the room was her own heartbeat. Then she shook her head. "No." "I'm sorry." "No, you're not." Her voice cracked. "You're not sorry. You knew. You knew, and you let me bury an empty grave. You let me spend three years-" She couldn't finish. The grief came back so violently that she had to grip the desk to remain standing. She remembered her mother sobbing into a pillow. She remembered the funeral flowers, the condolences, the terrible quiet of the house afterward. She remembered calling Alessandro in the middle of the night because she couldn't breathe. He had answered. He had listened to her cry. And he had said nothing. She looked at him through burning eyes. "Did you ever love me?" The question escaped before she could stop it. Alessandro's face changed. He reached for her, but she stepped back. "Don't." "Bella-" "Answer me." He looked at her as though the truth was a weapon he had been carrying for years and had finally grown too tired to hold. "Yes," he said. Her heart broke all over again. Then he added, "That was the problem." A loud crash sounded upstairs. Alessandro immediately turned toward the door. Another crash followed. Then a scream. He pulled a gun from beneath his jacket. Bella stared at him. He looked back at her, and for the first time that night, there was no arrogance in his face, no carefully constructed indifference. Only terror. "Stay here," he ordered. "What's happening?" He didn't answer. He opened the door, stepped into the corridor, and stopped. Someone stood at the far end of the staircase. A woman in a white dress. Blood stained the front of it. Bella couldn't see her face clearly, but she knew the shape of her shoulders. The way she held her head. The silver bracelet around her wrist. Valentina. She was staring directly at Alessandro. Then she lifted her hand and pointed the gun at him. "I'm sorry," she whispered. The shot rang through the mansion. Alessandro stumbled backward. Bella screamed his name. And as she rushed toward him, her phone vibrated inside her handbag. One new message. From her father's number. My darling girl, if Alessandro is dead, do not let Valentina leave the house. Bella looked up. Alessandro was bleeding on the floor. Valentina was gone. And somewhere upstairs, a man began laughing. End of Chapter One.

Chapter Two: The Things We Leave Alive The first thing Bella noticed was that Alessandro was still breathing. The second was that she was relieved. She hated herself for both. "Alex?" He lay on the marble floor with one hand pressed against his side. Blood seeped between his fingers, spreading across his white shirt. His face had gone pale, but when Bella dropped beside him, he caught her wrist. "Don't," he muttered. She stared at him. "Don't what?" "Cry." "I'm not crying." "Your face says otherwise." She almost laughed. It came out as a broken breath instead. "You've been shot, Alessandro. Can you stop being an insufferable bastard for five minutes?" His mouth twitched, and for one ridiculous second, she was seventeen again, sitting beside him on the steps behind her father's house while he stole food from her plate and pretended he hadn't. Then she looked at the blood on her hands. The memory disappeared. "Someone get a doctor!" she screamed. Footsteps thundered above them. Doors slammed. Somewhere in the mansion, a woman was crying. Bella pressed her hands against Alex's wound, trying to remember everything she'd ever heard about stopping bleeding. Her fingers shook so badly that she could barely keep them in place. "Look at me," she said. His eyes found hers. "Stay awake." "Bossy." "Alex." "I'm awake." "Then tell me who shot you." His expression changed. Not much, but enough. He looked past her toward the empty corridor. "Where's Valentina?" Bella went still. Of course. He was bleeding on the floor, and he was asking about another woman. Something sharp twisted inside her chest. It was stupid, childish, and horribly inconvenient. She had no right to feel jealous. She and Alex had been nothing for three years. Whatever they'd once been, he'd made sure it was over. Still, she hated the thought that his last words might be about Val. "She ran," Bella said. "After shooting you." Alex looked back at her. "Are you sure?" Bella stared at him. "What kind of question is that?" Before he could answer, men rushed down the stairs. Two guards lifted him carefully while another ordered everyone to clear the corridor. Alex reached for Bella's hand as they carried him away. She caught his fingers. He held on for a second longer than necessary. Then he whispered something she almost missed. "Don't trust the messages." "What?" But his eyes had closed. And just like that, she was left standing in a corridor with blood on her dress and a phone that had just received a message from a dead man. The mansion descended into chaos. Guests were escorted into the ballroom and told to remain there until the police arrived. The guards checked every room, every bathroom, every unlocked door. Someone had switched off the music, and without it, the house seemed strangely ordinary. Bella sat on the edge of a staircase, staring at her hands. She'd washed them twice. She could still see the blood. A woman approached carrying a glass of water. "Drink something." Bella looked up. Valentina. For a moment, she genuinely forgot how to speak. Val was wearing the same black dress she'd worn earlier, not the white one Bella had seen at the end of the corridor. Her hair was still neat, her makeup untouched. There was no blood on her, no gun in her hand. She looked like someone who had simply stepped out for a breath of fresh air. Bella stood so quickly that water spilled from the glass. "You." Val stopped. "Bella" "Don't." Val set the glass down on the nearest table. "Let me explain." "Explain what? The part where you shot him, or the part where you disappeared afterward?" Val's expression tightened. "I didn't shoot Alessandro." "I saw you." "No. You saw someone wearing my dress." Bella stared at her. Val reached into her handbag and pulled out her phone. She unlocked it, opened a photograph, and held it out. It showed Val standing beside a woman in a white dress at a charity event earlier that evening. The woman had Val's face. Not similar features. Not a passing resemblance. The same face. Bella looked from the photograph to Val. "Who is she?" "My sister." "You have a sister?" "Had." The word settled between them. Bella felt her anger hesitate, though she wasn't ready to let it go. "What happened to her?" Val looked away. "That's a long story." "Funny. Everyone in this house seems to have one." Val's eyes returned to her. "Your father did, too." Bella's stomach tightened. "Don't bring him into this." "I think he's been in this longer than either of us." For a moment, Val looked as though she wanted to say something else. Something important. Instead, she reached for Bella's hand. Bella pulled away. "Don't touch me." Val's expression fell, and Bella immediately hated that she'd noticed. "I'm sorry," Val said quietly. "I know you don't trust me." "You're right about that." "But if I wanted Alessandro dead, I wouldn't have waited until you were standing beside him." It was a terrible argument. It was also annoyingly difficult to dismiss. Before Bella could respond, a guard approached them. "Miss Russo. Mr. Moretti wants to see you." Val's face went blank. "Which Mr. Moretti?" The guard hesitated. "Don Lorenzo." Bella watched the colour drain from Val's face. Then Val looked at her. "Whatever happens next, don't leave this house." "Why?" Val began walking away. "Because I don't think your father is the only person who came back from the dead." I found Alessandro's blood on my shoes. I noticed it while standing outside his bedroom, listening to a doctor explain that the bullet had missed anything vital. The doctor had said he would recover. I should have felt better. Instead, I kept thinking about the way Alex had looked at me before they carried him away. Like there was something he wanted to tell me but couldn't risk saying aloud. I'd seen that expression before. The night my father died, Alex had called me at 2:13 a.m. I'd missed the call because my phone was on silent. When I called back, he didn't answer. By morning, my father was dead. For three years, I'd wondered what Alex had wanted to say. Now I wasn't sure I wanted to know. The bedroom door opened, and the doctor stepped out. "He's asking for you." I nodded and walked inside. Alessandro was propped against several pillows, his shirt replaced by a loose black T-shirt. He looked exhausted, and there was a bandage wrapped around his side. He also looked irritated. Some things, apparently, survived a gunshot. "You came," he said. "Don't sound so surprised. I wanted to make sure you were suffering." "That's sweet." "I try." I pulled a chair beside his bed but didn't sit immediately. I needed the distance. I needed something between us that wasn't a memory. His gaze dropped to my hands. "You washed the blood off." "I thought it would be polite." "Bella." I hated the way he said my name when he was being serious. He used to say it like it belonged somewhere safe. "What?" "I'm sorry." I looked at him. For a second, I couldn't remember what I was supposed to say. Alex Moretti didn't apologize. Not to his enemies, not to his business partners, and certainly not to me. I sat down slowly. "For what?" He looked toward the window. "Everything." "That isn't an answer." "It's the only one I have right now." I laughed without humour. "You know, I used to think you were mysterious. Turns out you're just incredibly annoying." That earned a faint smile. Then it disappeared. "Did you receive a message tonight?" My stomach tightened. "How do you know about that?" "Because someone sent me one, too." He reached toward the bedside table, picked up his phone, and handed it to me. The message was from an unknown number. You have until midnight to tell her what happened in the garden. I read it twice. "What garden?" Alex held my gaze. "The summer you were five." I remembered the photograph in the basement. The little girl on the garden wall. The boy whose face had been scratched out. My fingers tightened around his phone. "What happened?" He looked away again. "I don't remember everything." "That's convenient." "I remember you crying. I remember my father telling me to stay inside. And I remember your father carrying someone through the back door." "Someone who?" "I don't know." "You expect me to believe that?" "No." He looked at me again. "I expect you to understand that if I knew the whole truth, I would have told you." I wanted to believe him. That was the humiliating part. Even after everything, some foolish corner of my heart still wanted to find a reason to forgive him. I put his phone down. "Did you love me?" He didn't answer immediately. I almost wished he hadn't answered at all. "Yes," he said. "I did." "Then why did you leave?" His eyes glistened, though he looked away before I could be sure. "Because your father asked me to." I stared at him. For three years, I'd blamed myself for the way things ended. I'd replayed every conversation, every kiss, every moment I'd been too afraid to tell him how much he meant to me. I'd wondered if I'd been too needy. Too emotional. Too easy to leave. And now he was telling me that my father had been involved all along. I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Alex reached for my hand. This time, I let him take it. "I know you hate me," he said. I looked down at our joined hands. "I don't hate you." His fingers tightened around mine. "That might be worse." Before I could ask what he meant, someone knocked on the door. Three quick knocks. Alex released my hand immediately. "Come in." A guard entered carrying a small envelope. "Sir, this was found in the west wing." Alex took it. The moment he saw the handwriting, all the colour left his face. "What is it?" I asked. He didn't answer. I stood and reached for the envelope, but he pulled it away. "Alex." "Go back to your room, Bella." I stared at him. "Are you serious?" "Please." That stopped me. He rarely said please. I looked at the envelope again. My father's name was written across the front. And beneath it, in smaller handwriting, were four words. For the son we lost. I felt the room grow cold. "Alex, what does that mean?" He closed his eyes. For a moment, he looked like a little boy who had been caught doing something he couldn't explain. Then he opened the envelope. Inside was a photograph. A photograph of two little boys standing beside a swimming pool. One was Alessandro. The other had his face. Not similar features. Not a resemblance. His face. Alex turned the photograph over. On the back, someone had written a date and a single sentence. One of you was never supposed to survive. I looked at him. He looked at me. Neither of us spoke. Then my phone vibrated. Another message from my father's number. Bella, darling, there's something I need you to understand. I stared at the screen, my heart pounding. The next message arrived before I could breathe. Alessandro Moretti is not the boy you fell in love with. I slowly raised my eyes to his. He was already looking at me. And for the first time since I'd known him, I couldn't tell whether the fear in his eyes was for me or for himself.

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. Someone who has been waiting for you to remember me. I looked towards the mansion. A light had come on in one of the upstairs bedrooms. Through the window, I could see Alessandro standing alone, his phone pressed to his ear. Then a figure appeared behind him. A man. The same height. The same build. The same face. Alessandro turned. The figure smiled. And for one brief moment, both men looked directly towards the garden. My phone vibrated again. Don't tell Alessandro I'm alive. I looked back at the window. Only one man remained. He was watching me. I couldn't tell which brother I had just seen. But I knew one thing. Someone in that house had been dead for far too long. And someone else had been pretending to be alive.