“Pack Your Things,” the Mafia Boss Snarled—By Midnight, His Wife Had Vanished Without a Trace
Chapter 6
Isabella Rossi grabbed her daughter and pulled her into the car.
Elena couldn’t speak.
She stared at the woman sitting beside her.
Older.
Thinner.
But unmistakably her mother.
“You’re alive.”
Isabella’s eyes filled with tears.
“I had to be.”
“Why did you leave me?”
“Because they threatened to kill you.”
“You let me believe you were dead.”
“I know.”
Elena’s voice broke.
“I mourned you.”
Isabella closed her eyes.
“I mourned you every day.”
The driver accelerated.
Elena looked back.
The warehouse was burning.
“Where are we going?”
“Somewhere safe.”
“Matteo is looking for me.”
“I know.”
“Did you call him?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because we don’t know who we can trust.”
Elena stared.
“You knew Matteo sent me away?”
Isabella nodded.
“He finally understood.”
“Understood what?”
“That keeping you beside him was no longer protection.”
Elena remembered his words.
Pack your things.
By midnight, leave.
The silver key.
The empty drawer.
The wedding ring.
“He knew you were alive?”
“For two years.”
Elena looked at her.
“And he never told me.”
“He wanted to tell you.”
“Then why didn’t he?”
“Because every time he came close, someone tried to kill you.”
Elena’s anger softened.
“What is in the ledger?”
Isabella looked out the window.
“The names of everyone who destroyed our family.”
She handed Elena a photograph.
It showed Robert Belladonna, Isabella, and a third man.
Elena recognized him.
Michael Moretti.
Her uncle.
Her mother’s brother.
She stared.
“He was part of it?”
Isabella nodded.
“He betrayed us.”
Elena’s stomach twisted.
“Why?”
“Money.”
The car turned toward the old church.
Elena looked at her mother.
“Why are we going there?”
“Because your mother left something there.”
“You mean the ledger?”
Isabella shook her head.
“No.”
“Then what?”
“The person who knows where it is.”
The car stopped.
Isabella stepped out.
Elena followed.
The church had been abandoned for decades.
Inside, dust covered the pews.
Candles had long since melted into stone.
Isabella walked toward the altar.
She pressed her hand against a cracked statue.
A hidden door opened.
Elena stared.
Inside was a narrow chamber.
On the wall were dozens of photographs.
People.
Dates.
Locations.
Deaths.
At the center was a photograph of Matteo.
Beside it was one of Elena.
And beneath both:
THE LAST TWO.
Elena’s blood ran cold.
“Who wrote that?”
Isabella whispered:
“Your uncle.”
