Chương 8
He stepped inside.
His footsteps sounded louder than they should have.
The furniture remained covered.
The walls still held old photographs.
His father standing beside a boat.
His mother smiling beside a table.
Matteo at nineteen, looking uncomfortable in a suit that did not fit him.
He stopped at that photograph.
He barely recognized the person in it.
A young man who still believed becoming powerful would make him free.
His phone vibrated.
Norah.
He answered.
“Tell me.”
“We found more information.”
“About Carlo?”
“Yes.”
Matteo walked deeper into the house.
“Go on.”
“His passport was used at the airport.”
“When?”
“An hour ago.”
“Destination?”
Norah hesitated.
“Switzerland.”
Matteo stopped.
“Is he on the plane?”
“We don’t know yet.”
“Find out.”
“I’m trying.”
He heard the frustration in her voice.
Not fear.
Responsibility.
“Norah.”
“Yes?”
“Be careful.”
A pause.
Then:
The call ended.
Matteo looked at the envelope again.
The handwriting on the front seemed different now.
Less like a message.
More like a warning.
He sat at the old dining table.
The same table where his father had once taught him how to negotiate.
Not through advice.
Through observation.
His father had believed people revealed themselves when they thought nobody was watching.
Matteo opened the envelope.
Inside was a single letter.
Three pages.
The paper was old but carefully preserved.
He unfolded it.
My son,
If you are reading this, then something I feared has already happened.
Matteo stopped.
His father had never written emotional letters.
Never.
He continued.
I spent most of my life believing control was the same as protection.
It is not.
Control only creates the illusion that nothing can reach you.
The people closest to you are usually the ones who can hurt you the most.
Matteo read slowly.
Each sentence felt strange coming from the man he remembered.
Your grandfather taught me that loyalty was everything.
He was wrong.
Loyalty without honesty becomes obedience.
And obedience without thought becomes destruction.
Matteo leaned back.
Outside, the lake moved quietly against the shore.
He continued.
There is a reason I kept certain records away from everyone.
Not because I was hiding mistakes.
Because I was hiding my own.
His fingers tightened around the paper.
For years, Matteo had heard stories about his father’s decisions.
Most people described him as someone who always knew the right move.
The letter suggested something else.
A person who had spent his life correcting damage he created.
The next paragraph was shorter.
Carlo knows about the account.
He found it before I could decide what to do with it.
Matteo stopped breathing for a second.
The account.
Not the restoration money.
Something else.
The letter continued.
There are funds connected to decisions I made before you were old enough to understand them.
Money was moved.
Agreements were made.
People were protected who should have answered for their choices.
I believed I could repair everything quietly.
I was wrong.
Matteo closed his eyes.
The pattern was becoming clearer.
His father had not created a perfect system.
He had created a system where problems were hidden until they became someone else’s burden.
A sound interrupted him.
A floorboard.
Someone inside the house.
Matteo looked up.
The room was empty.
He stood slowly.
“Carlo?”
No answer.
He moved toward the hallway.
The old house gave another sound.
A door closing.
Not from outside.
Inside.
His hand moved instinctively toward the phone.
Then he stopped.
Fear was useful.
Panic was not.
He walked quietly toward the back room.
The old office.
The room his father used when he wanted privacy.
The door was slightly open.
Inside, a figure stood near the desk.
Not Carlo.
A woman.
Matteo recognized her after a moment.
Evelyn.
He stopped.
“What are you doing here?”
She turned.
Her face looked different without the controlled expression she wore at the estate.
Older.
More tired.
“I followed you.”
“That was a mistake.”
“Probably.”
The answer caught him off guard.
She looked around the room.
“I needed to see this place again.”
“Why?”
She looked at the desk.
“Because this is where everything started.”
Matteo entered slowly.
“What started?”
Evelyn touched the edge of an old folder.
“The reason I stayed.”
He watched her carefully.
“You worked for my father before me.”
“Yes.”
“You never mentioned that.”
“You never asked.”
The answer irritated him because it was true.
“So tell me now.”
Evelyn looked at him.
“Your father hired me when I was twenty-nine.”
“You were that young?”
“Yes.”
“What did you do?”
“Administrative work.”
Matteo almost smiled.
He had heard that phrase before.
Administrative work was often what people called the things they did not want described.
“What did you really do?”
Evelyn looked toward the window.
“I cleaned up problems.”
The honesty was unexpected.
“What kind of problems?”
She took a breath.
“The kind powerful men leave behind when they think they have time to fix them later.”
Matteo looked at the letter in his hand.
“You knew about this.”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“Enough.”
He hated that answer.
Everyone in his life seemed to know enough to be afraid but never enough to tell the truth.
“Did you know Carlo was stealing?”
Evelyn shook her head.
“No.”
“Did you know he found the account?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Her eyes moved to him.
“Because I was afraid you would react exactly like your father.”
The words hit harder than an accusation.
“What does that mean?”
“It means you would destroy everything around you trying to fix one thing.”
Matteo looked away.
Because part of him knew she was not entirely wrong.
His anger had always been easier than patience.
His father had passed down more than a name.
The question was whether Matteo could choose what to keep.
A sound came from the hallway again.
This time louder.
Both of them turned.
Someone was inside the house.
Someone who was not supposed to be there.
May you like
Matteo stepped in front of Evelyn without thinking.
The movement surprised both of them.
