Chapter 2 - Isabella Moretti Did Not Die Naturally
Three years earlier, I had watched Isabella Moretti die twice.
The first time happened in a Manhattan townhouse at 4:20 in the morning.
The second happened in Alessandro’s face when he arrived twenty minutes later.
Officially, Isabella died from sudden cardiac failure.
She was sixty-three.
Healthy enough to walk four miles every morning.
Stubborn enough to refuse elevators below the tenth floor.
And wealthy enough that every specialist in New York had examined her heart at least once.
Her death shocked everyone.
But money creates convincing explanations.
A rare rhythm disorder.
Stress.
Family history.
Unfortunate timing.
The Moretti physician signed the papers.
The funeral happened four days later.
Alessandro never questioned it.
Now, sitting beside my hospital bed, he stared at a hidden photograph of his dead mother.
“What am I looking for?”
Marco enlarged a digital scan.
The original film had already been photographed and sealed.
“Her hand.”
I looked.
Isabella’s left hand rested beside her body.
Near her wrist was a faint dark mark.
Alessandro frowned.
“Bruise?”
“No.”
Marco zoomed again.
Two tiny punctures.
Not enough to prove anything.
Enough to ask questions.
“Who took the photograph?”
I asked.
Marco shook his head.
“No metadata.”
“It was film.”
“Exactly.”
“Why hide it inside the score?”
Alessandro looked at me.
“Because whoever sent it knew you would give it to me.”
“The dealer?”
“Maybe.”
I thought of Palermo.
The man I dealt with called himself Arturo Vescari.
Polite.
Old-fashioned.
Insisted on speaking by telephone rather than email.
Had supposedly found the score in the estate of a retired conductor.
“What if the score wasn’t the gift?”
Marco looked toward me.
“What?”
“The film was.”
Alessandro understood immediately.
“Someone wanted me to see this.”
“Yes.”
“But why now?”
“Because someone knew there would be another attempt.”
The silence became heavy.
Marco’s phone buzzed.
He checked it.
“What?”
Alessandro asked.
“Bianca is gone.”
Of course she was.
“Where?”
“Her apartment was empty.”
“Studio?”
“Closed.”
“Phones?”
“Off.”
“When was she last seen?”
“Yesterday morning.”
I stared.
Before I woke.
Before Alessandro learned I remembered Bianca asking about my clothes.
“She knew.”
I said it quietly.
Alessandro’s jaw hardened.
“Maybe.”
“She left before being questioned.”
“She could have heard about the footage.”
“From whom?”
That was the more dangerous question.
Il Cielo’s evidence had been restricted.
Alessandro’s security.
Restaurant management.
The police detective assigned after my poisoning.
Hospital investigators.
Someone had warned Bianca.
Someone close enough to know Alessandro was looking.
Marco seemed to reach the same conclusion.
“We have a leak.”
Alessandro’s eyes moved toward him.
The room changed.
Marco noticed.
“If you think it’s me, say it.”
“I don’t.”
“Good.”
“But until we know who it is, nobody receives complete information.”
Marco nodded.
“No objection.”
That was why Alessandro trusted him.
Loyal people do not always become offended when security tightens.
Often they help tighten it.
I looked at the film again.
“Who signed Isabella’s death certificate?”
Alessandro answered immediately.
“Dr. Gabriel Santoro.”
I knew him.
Everyone did.
Family physician.
Sixty-two.
Impeccable suits.
Quiet hands.
He had treated Alessandro since childhood.
He was also the first doctor at Il Cielo after I collapsed.
My eyes moved toward Alessandro.
He understood.
“Santoro helped save you.”
“He also declared your mother’s death natural.”
“I know.”
“Did he know which dessert I ate?”
“Yes.”
“Was he alone with me?”
“No.”
“Did he administer anything before the ambulance?”
“Standard resuscitation drugs.”
“Verified?”
Marco nodded.
“Hospital reviewed everything.”
That gave me some relief.
Not much.
“Where is Santoro now?”
Alessandro asked.
Marco checked his phone.
“Moretti Medical Center.”
“Bring him.”
“Ask him.”
I interrupted.
Both men looked at me.
“Don’t drag your family physician into a car like a kidnapping.”
“He’ll know we suspect him.”
“He already knows I was poisoned.”
“Ask him to come discuss your mother.”
“If he refuses, then worry.”
Alessandro stared.
“You have a remarkable amount of patience for someone whose heart stopped.”
“I used all my panic during cardiac arrest.”
Marco almost smiled.
Alessandro did not.
An hour later, Gabriel Santoro walked into my hospital room.
No argument.
No lawyer.
No attempt to flee.
That either meant innocence or confidence.
He greeted me first.
“Elena.”
“You look much better alive.”
“I’m becoming attached to it.”
Then he turned toward Alessandro.
“You said Isabella.”
Alessandro held up the photograph.
Santoro’s face emptied.
Not fear.
Recognition.
“You’ve seen this before.”
Alessandro’s voice became dangerous.
Santoro sat slowly.
“Not that photograph.”
“But the marks.”
Santoro closed his eyes.
“When your mother died, I noticed two punctures near the wrist.”
Alessandro went perfectly still.
“And you said nothing.”
“I ordered toxicology.”
“What?”
I looked between them.
“You ordered a toxicology screen?”
Santoro nodded.
“Privately.”
“Why privately?”
“Because Isabella had been frightened for weeks.”
“Of what?”
“She wouldn’t say.”
Alessandro’s expression changed.
“My mother told you someone was threatening her?”
“She said someone inside the family had become dangerous.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“She made me promise.”
Alessandro slammed his palm against the window ledge.
“You kept that promise after she was dead?”
Santoro flinched.
“No.”
“I broke it.”
“What do you mean?”
“I tried to reach you the morning after the funeral.”
“I received no call.”
“I left a message with your office.”
Alessandro looked toward Marco.
Marco’s face hardened.
“Who controlled the office line then?”
“Vittorio.”
A name I hadn’t heard in years.
Vittorio Rinaldi.
Alessandro’s former consigliere.
He died in a car crash eighteen months after Isabella.
“Convenient.”
I said it before anyone else.
Santoro continued.
“The toxicology returned inconclusive.”
“Meaning?”
“There were traces of a cardiotoxic compound, but the sample chain had been compromised.”
“How?”
“The blood tube disappeared.”
Silence.
“From a hospital?”
“Yes.”
“Who had access?”
“Half a dozen people.”
“Names.”
Santoro looked exhausted.
“I gave them to Vittorio.”
Alessandro’s eyes darkened.
“And then?”
“Nothing.”
“Why didn’t you come directly to me?”
“Because two days later my son was followed home from school.”
The room became silent.
Santoro swallowed.
“I received a photograph.”
“Of your son.”
“Yes.”
“With a black lily drawn across his face.”
There it was again.
The symbol.
Not mourning.
A warning.
“What did you do?”
I asked.
“I became a coward.”
Santoro looked at Alessandro.
“I signed the final certificate.”
“Natural cardiac death.”
Alessandro’s voice contained no emotion.
“Yes.”
“And watched me bury her.”
“Yes.”
Alessandro walked toward him.
Marco moved once.
Not between them.
Near enough.
Santoro did not stand.
“If you want to hit me, do it.”
Alessandro stopped.
“My mother trusted you.”
“I know.”
“So did I.”
“I know.”
“And you let whoever killed her remain beside me.”
Santoro’s eyes filled.
“I was protecting my child.”
The words changed something.
Because Alessandro understood children.
Threats to parents.
Impossible choices.
It did not make the betrayal disappear.
It made it human.
Alessandro stepped back.
“Who knew about the toxicology?”
“Me.”
“The lab director.”
“Vittorio.”
“And Isabella’s sister.”
I stared.
“Caterina?”
Santoro nodded.
“She was at the hospital when I ordered it.”
Alessandro’s face changed.
“What did she say?”
“She told me grief was making me suspicious.”
“Anything else?”
Santoro hesitated.
“Doctor.”
Alessandro’s voice sharpened.
“She said Isabella had always been dramatic.”
I thought of Caterina.
Perfect posture.
Silver hair.
Calm voice.
The woman who chose her sister’s funeral invitations.
And apparently Alessandro’s coffin.
“When did she choose the coffin?”
I asked.
Santoro looked confused.
“What coffin?”
Alessandro explained.
Santoro’s face slowly drained.
Then he said:
“That isn’t possible.”
“Why?”
“Because six months before Isabella died, she told me Caterina was trying to convince her to revise the family succession.”
Alessandro froze.
“In whose favor?”
Santoro stared at him.
“Bianca.”
Not a son.
Not another Moretti man.
Bianca.
Caterina’s daughter.
The woman who had asked exactly what I planned to wear.
The woman Emma thought she saw near the kitchen.
And before any of us could speak again, a nurse rushed into the room.
“Mr. Moretti?”
Marco moved immediately.
“What?”
“There’s a child downstairs asking for Elena.”
My heart jumped.
“Emma?”
The nurse shook her head.
“No.”
“A boy.”
“How old?”
“Maybe nine.”
“What does he want?”
The nurse looked frightened.
“He says Emma Bellini is lying.”
Alessandro’s eyes sharpened.
“About what?”
May you like
The nurse swallowed.
“Everything.”
