Chapter 2 - THE MAN WHO WALKED OUT OF THE FIRE
“His name is Arthur Bellini.”
The words left my mouth so quietly that I barely heard them myself.
But Luca Moretti heard every syllable.
At the far end of the dining table, Vanessa's uncle stopped lifting his wineglass.
Arthur Bellini was sixty-three, with neatly combed silver hair, a navy suit, and the pleasant face of a man who had spent years convincing strangers that he could be trusted.
He had introduced himself to me earlier that evening.
He'd even thanked me for bringing Frank an extra blanket.
Now he looked at the old man in the wheelchair.
And smiled.
“Frank,” Arthur said gently, “I think you've had enough excitement for one evening.”
Frank couldn't hear him.
But he could read his lips.
His expression changed.
He reached for my hand and signed three words.
Don't trust him.
I translated.
Arthur's smile disappeared.
Luca rose slowly from his chair.
“Arthur. My grandfather says you were at the warehouse when my father died.”
Arthur set down his glass.
“I was. Everyone knows that.”
Vanessa immediately stepped forward.
“Luca, Uncle Arthur helped your family after the accident. Your grandfather is confusing memories.”
“Sit down, Vanessa.”
“Don't speak to me like that.”
“Then stop speaking for a man who can speak for himself.”
The silence that followed was absolute.
I had worked in the Moretti mansion for eight months.
I'd seen Luca angry.
I'd seen him dismiss men twice his size without raising his voice.
But I'd never seen him look at another person the way he was looking at Arthur Bellini.
As though he were studying a photograph that had suddenly revealed something terrible in the background.
Luca turned to me.
“Ask Grandpa exactly what he saw.”
I knelt beside Frank.
His hands were shaking badly.
“Take your time,” I signed.
He looked into my eyes.
Then he began.
Arthur carried Michael.
Michael Moretti.
Luca's father.
Michael was hurt. Still breathing.
I swallowed.
Frank continued.
Arthur took him inside. Then locked the door.
My eyes filled before I could stop them.
I turned toward Luca.
“Your grandfather says your father was alive when Arthur carried him into the warehouse.”
Luca didn't move.
For twenty-nine years, he'd believed his father died after becoming trapped during an accidental fire.
He had been eight years old.
His mother died three months later from complications following a serious illness, leaving Frank to raise him and his younger brother Dominic.
Luca's voice was barely audible.
“Grandpa saw Dad alive?”
Frank nodded.
Arthur pushed back his chair.
“This is outrageous.”
Luca looked at him.
“Then explain it.”
“I was there trying to save your father.”
“By locking him inside?”
Arthur's face tightened.
“The doors were secured because a chemical fire had broken out. I was following emergency procedures.”
Luca took one step closer.
“What emergency procedures require locking a wounded man inside a burning building?”
Arthur opened his mouth.
Then closed it.
Vanessa interrupted.
“Luca, my uncle has a heart condition. You cannot interrogate him like a criminal.”
“He can answer a question.”
“He's practically family!”
Luca turned toward her.
“So was my father.”
That stopped her.
For a moment, the only sound was the soft hum of the chandelier above us.
Then Frank tugged my sleeve.
The watch.
I looked down.
“What watch?”
Frank pointed toward Arthur's left wrist.
A beautiful gold wristwatch rested beneath his cuff.
Its face was rectangular.
The leather strap was dark brown.
And on the side of the case was a small, unmistakable dent.
Frank signed again.
Michael's watch.
I stared at him.
“Are you certain?”
Frank nodded fiercely.
I translated.
Luca's eyes dropped to Arthur's wrist.
Something changed in his expression.
“My father had a watch like that.”
Arthur immediately covered it with his sleeve.
“Hundreds of men wore these.”
Luca shook his head.
“Not with that dent.”
I watched his breathing become uneven.
“When I was seven, I dropped Dad's watch on the kitchen tiles. He was furious for about ten seconds. Then he laughed and told me a good watch should survive a little boy.”
Luca stepped closer.
“He never repaired the dent.”
Arthur's face had lost its color.
“Your father gave me this watch.”
“When?”
“A few days before the accident.”
Luca held out his hand.
“Let me see it.”
Arthur hesitated.
Then reluctantly unfastened the strap.
Luca turned the watch over.
On the back were four engraved words.
For Michael. Always. Eleanor.
Eleanor was Luca's mother.
For the first time that evening, Luca looked genuinely unsteady.
He lowered himself into a chair.
“My mother gave him this on their tenth anniversary.”
Arthur spoke quickly.
“Michael asked me to keep it safe.”
“Then why have you been wearing it for twenty-nine years?”
Arthur said nothing.
Luca stared at the inscription.
And I watched something painful happen.
He wasn't only remembering his father.
He was remembering the people he'd trusted to tell him how his father died.
Frank touched my arm again.
Ask about the photograph.
“What photograph?” I signed.
Arthur took it. Before fire.
I translated.
Arthur stiffened.
Luca immediately noticed.
“What photograph?”
Arthur shook his head.
“There was no photograph.”
Frank slapped his wheelchair armrest.
Three sharp taps.
Then he signed with sudden urgency.
Blue coat. Michael wore blue coat.
Luca looked confused.
“My father wore a gray coat that winter.”
Frank shook his head.
Blue. The photograph proves.
I tried to understand.
Frank's hands moved again.
Arthur lied about where Michael stood.
Luca turned to his security chief, Gabriel Rossi.
“Find every photograph from the warehouse investigation.”
Gabriel nodded.
“I can have them brought here.”
“Now.”
Arthur stood.
“I won't remain here while you insult me.”
Gabriel moved toward the dining-room entrance.
Arthur stopped.
Luca held up a hand.
“Arthur, sit down.”
For a moment, I thought Arthur would refuse.
Instead, he lowered himself into his chair and stared at the table.
Vanessa looked from her uncle to Luca.
And something about her expression bothered me.
It wasn't simply fear.
She looked as though she were calculating how much Luca knew.
Frank suddenly began signing again.
Hannah. Listen carefully.
I turned toward him.
The photograph isn't in the police file.
“Where is it?”
He pointed toward Luca.
Then signed.
His mother kept it.
I translated.
Luca frowned.
“My mother's things were packed away after she died.”
Frank shook his head.
Not all.
He spelled something carefully.
E-L-E-A-N-O-R.
Then signed:
Wedding dress.
Vanessa's head snapped toward him.
I felt her grip on my shoulder.
“Don't.”
The word was barely a whisper.
I looked up.
Vanessa's fingers tightened.
Luca saw it.
“Take your hand off Hannah.”
Vanessa released me.
But she was staring at Frank now.
And for the first time, I understood something important.
Vanessa hadn't been trying to send Frank upstairs because his presence embarrassed her.
She was afraid of what he remembered.
Luca turned to Gabriel.
“Bring my mother's wedding dress from storage.”
Gabriel hesitated.
“Sir, Miss Bellini arranged for the old family clothing to be removed last month.”
Luca slowly turned toward his fiancée.
“Removed?”
Vanessa swallowed.
“I was organizing the house before our wedding.”
“Where is the dress?”
She looked away.
“It's being restored.”
“By whom?”
“An antique textile specialist.”
“Which one?”
Vanessa didn't answer.
Frank grabbed my wrist.
His fingers moved with such urgency that I nearly missed the final sign.
Not restored.
I leaned closer.
Destroyed.
I looked toward Vanessa.
Then toward Luca.
“Sir, your grandfather says the dress wasn't sent for restoration.”
Luca's voice hardened.
“Then where was it sent?”
Frank pointed directly at Vanessa.
His hands moved once more.
She burned the wrong one.
Luca stared at me.
“What does that mean?”
Before I could ask, Frank reached into his jacket.
He pulled out a small folded photograph.
Its edges were yellow with age.
He placed it into my palm.
It showed Luca's mother standing beside a wedding dress.
But it wasn't the dress that made me stop breathing.
Behind Eleanor Moretti stood Arthur Bellini.
And beside him was a younger woman holding a newborn baby.
May you like
On the back, written in Eleanor's handwriting, were seven words.
Dominic must never learn who his mother is.
