Chapter 4 - THE GIRL WHO WASN'T THERE
I stared at the name written in the neat, looping cursive of a young girl.
Property of Sofia Moretti.
“I don’t understand,” I whispered, looking from the diary to George. “Teresa said Sofia died when she was a baby. She said the car exploded.”
George’s hands were trembling as he held the small black book.
He looked toward the living room, where Teresa was quietly sobbing on the sofa.
“Teresa believes what Frank told her,” George said, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “Frank told everyone the child in that car was Sofia.”
I felt a cold chill run down my spine. “The child in the car?”
George slowly opened the diary to the first entry.
“Hannah, look at the date.”
I leaned in.
The date was exactly sixteen years ago.
Luca was thirty-six. If Sofia was three years older than him, she would have been thirty-nine today.
Which meant this diary was written when Sofia was twenty-three years old.
“She didn’t die in the explosion,” I gasped, the realization hitting me like a physical blow.
George closed the book, his eyes wide with a terrifying truth.
“Frank lied to Teresa,” George said. “He lied to Michael. He let his wife mourn a dead child for thirty-six years.”
“Why?” I asked, completely bewildered. “Why would a father fake his own daughter’s death?”
George looked at the loose floorboard.
“To hide her from Carlo Bellini.”
Suddenly, a loud crash echoed from downstairs in the restaurant.
I jumped, my heart leaping into my throat.
“Luca told Daniel to lock the doors,” I whispered.
“Stay here,” George ordered.
He walked quietly to the door of the apartment, carefully unlocking the deadbolt, and stepped out onto the landing that overlooked the restaurant below.
I followed right behind him, holding my breath.
We peered over the wooden banister.
The main dining room was entirely dark, save for the streetlights spilling through the front windows.
Daniel was lying motionless on the floor near the bar, a pool of blood forming near his head.
Standing over him, holding a suppressed pistol, was Michael.
Michael hadn’t been locked in the basement. He had overpowered Daniel.
But Michael wasn’t alone.
Standing in the center of the dark dining room, wearing a tailored black coat, was Carlo Bellini.
“You said you had the ledger, Michael,” Carlo’s voice echoed in the empty room, raspy and terrifying.
Michael was sweating profusely, backing away toward the kitchen.
“I did! I swear to God, Carlo! I gave it to Vanessa!”
“Vanessa brought me a book of old recipes, you idiot,” Carlo sneered, taking a step toward him. “Your father outsmarted you even from the grave. He moved it.”
Michael looked around frantically. “I’ll find it! I know this building! Just give me ten minutes!”
Carlo raised his gun.
“I don’t have ten minutes. Luca is currently tearing my house apart looking for me. Which means he knows about Sofia.”
Carlo looked up toward the ceiling. Directly at the apartment.
“And if he knows about Sofia, Teresa knows about Sofia.”
I clamped a hand over my mouth, terrified to make a sound.
“Go upstairs, Michael,” Carlo ordered coldly. “Find the real ledger. And if your mother gets in the way… remind her who you really work for.”
Michael hesitated.
“Carlo, she’s my mother.”
“She’s a liability,” Carlo corrected. “Go.”
Michael slowly turned toward the staircase.
I grabbed George’s sleeve, pulling him backward into the apartment.
I locked the deadbolt silently.
“He’s coming up,” I panicked, my voice barely a squeak. “Mr. Ellis, Michael has a gun.”
George didn’t panic.
He looked at Teresa, who was still sitting on the sofa, completely unaware of the nightmare unfolding downstairs.
Then he looked at me.
“Hannah. Go into Frank’s old office. There’s a safe behind the painting of the Italian coast. The code is Teresa’s birthday. 04-12-48.”
“What’s inside?” I asked, my hands shaking.
“A gun,” George said calmly. “And a file.”
“A file?”
George looked at the locked door as Michael’s heavy footsteps began climbing the wooden stairs.
“Frank didn’t just hide Sofia,” George whispered. “He hid what happened to the real child in that car.”
I ran.
I sprinted down the short hallway into Frank’s dark, dusty office. I found the painting of the coast and ripped it off the wall.
The metal safe was cold against my fingers.
0-4-1-2-4-8.
The heavy metal door clicked open.
I reached inside.
My hand brushed against the cold steel of a revolver. I pulled it out, checking the chamber exactly how my uncle had taught me years ago. It was loaded.
But beneath the gun was a thick manila folder.
I pulled it out.
The folder was labeled with one word.
EXCHANGE.
I didn’t have time to open it.
A loud, violent kick smashed against the apartment door.
“Mom! Open the door!” Michael yelled from the hallway.
Teresa screamed, jumping up from the sofa. “Michael? What’s happening?”
“Don’t open it, Teresa!” George shouted, standing in front of her.
Another kick. The wood splintered.
I ran out of the office, holding the gun behind my back, clutching the file to my chest.
“Michael, please!” Teresa cried. “You’re scaring me!”
The door burst open.
Michael stumbled into the apartment, breathing heavily, the suppressed pistol raised.
He looked at George. Then at me. Finally, his eyes landed on his mother.
“I need the ledger, Mom,” Michael demanded, his voice cracking. “Where did Dad hide it?”
Teresa stared at the gun in her son’s hand.
“Michael… why do you have a gun?” she whispered, completely heartbroken.
“Where is it?!” Michael screamed, pointing the weapon directly at George.
George didn’t flinch.
He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the small black diary.
“You mean this?” George asked.
Michael’s eyes widened. “Give it to me.”
“This isn’t Frank’s ledger,” George said, holding it up. “It’s Sofia’s diary.”
Michael froze.
“Sofia’s dead,” Michael said, his voice shaking.
“Is she?” George asked.
He threw the diary onto the coffee table.
“Read it, Michael. Read what your sister wrote sixteen years ago.”
Michael didn’t lower his gun. But he slowly walked forward and picked up the small black book.
He opened it to a marked page.
He read in silence.
Then, his face went completely, terrifyingly pale.
He looked up at his mother.
“Mom,” Michael whispered, his voice completely hollow. “Is this true?”
Teresa looked confused. “Is what true, Michael?”
Michael dropped the diary.
He looked at the gun in his hand, then at George, his eyes filled with absolute horror.
“The child in the car…” Michael breathed.
He slowly raised the gun again.
But this time, he didn’t point it at George.
May you like
He turned and pointed it directly at Teresa.
“You knew,” Michael choked out, tears spilling down his face. “You knew who was in that car, didn’t you?”
