Chapter 2 - The Ghost's Handwriting
My grip on Elena Rossi’s wrist tightened until my knuckles turned white. My body was coiled like a spring, ready to crush anyone who dared play a cruel psychological game with my dying son. But Elena didn’t blink. Her dark, steady eyes met mine with a terrifying calmness that unnerved me more than a drawn weapon ever could.
"Let go of me, Luca," she said, her voice quiet, steady, and entirely devoid of fear. "Every second you waste threatening the only person holding a lifeline for your son is a second closer to burying him beside his mother."
The words hit me like a physical blow. I loosened my grip, though I didn't step back. My chest heaved as I stared down at the small envelope in her hand.
"That safe," I growled, my voice dropping into a dangerous, gravelly whisper, "has a biometric lock. It requires my fingerprint, my retina scan, and a six-digit code known only to me. The recipe inside that cake is handwritten by Sofia on custom stationery that hasn't been printed in five years. Explain to me how a stray maid from the agency gets her hands on both within four days of my son's terminal diagnosis."
Elena pulled her arm away, smoothing the fabric of her black dress with deliberate slowness. She didn't look flustered; she looked like a prosecutor preparing to present a closing argument.
"You think power is about walls, Luca," she said, walking past me toward Matteo’s bedside. "You think armed guards, steel safes, and politicians whispering your name keep you safe. But power is about trust. And you trusted the wrong people the night Sofia died—just like you trusted the wrong men to guard your secrets."
Inside the bed, Matteo took another small, hesitant bite of the red velvet cake. A faint flush of color seemed to touch his pale, translucent cheeks. For weeks, his skin had been the color of old paper. Now, a spark of life flickered in his dark eyes, mirroring the fierce determination of his mother.
"It tastes like Mommy," Matteo murmured again, clutching the edge of the blanket. He looked up at Elena with absolute adoration. "Are you an angel?"
"No, sweetheart," Elena replied softly, brushing a stray curl from his forehead with a tenderness that made a knot form in my throat. "I'm just a friend of your mother's. And I'm here to make sure you finish your cake."
I stepped forward, my shadow falling across the bed. "Elena. Talk. Now."
She turned her head slowly, looking up at me. "The letter isn't for you, Luca. It’s for Matteo. But if you want to know how I got it, you need to understand that Sofia wasn't killed by a random street thug or a rival syndicate hit. She was betrayed from within. And the person who gave the order is sitting right in your dining room, sipping your scotch and waiting for your empire to collapse."
The temperature in the room seemed to drop twenty degrees.
"Name him," I demanded, my hand sliding instinctively toward the heavy Smith & Wesson hidden beneath my jacket.
"Not yet," Elena said, standing up and blocking my view of Matteo just enough to protect the boy from the violence radiating off me. "Let the boy eat. Let him gain an ounce of strength. Because when you find out who killed his mother and poisoned his future, you're going to need every ounce of focus you possess."
May you like
I stared at her for a long, agonizing moment, weighing the risk of throwing her out against the desperate, irrational hope that she was telling the truth. The monitor beside Matteo beeped—a slow, steady, rhythmic sound. For the first time in fourteen days, the pitch didn't sound like a countdown to a funeral.
It sounded like a fight.
