Chapter 3 - Room Eight Had No Bed

We left before midnight.

Nico refused the convoy.

Too obvious.

Two cars.

Four guards.

Simon.

Vincent.

Alessandra.

Me.

I did not ask why I was coming.

Nico had already said:

“You heard everything.”

Apparently that made me part of the problem.

The Belluno house sat behind a line of cypress trees.

No lights.

No neighbors.

Old stone.

Three floors.

Vincent unlocked the front door.

Alessandra looked around.

“I came here as a child.”

Vincent froze.

“When?”

“With Mom.”

He looked confused.

“She hated this house.”

“I remember the blue kitchen.”

Vincent looked toward the dark hallway.

“The kitchen was blue until 2012.”

Alessandra stared.

“So?”

“Your mother told me she never brought you here.”

Silence.

Nico noticed.

“That matters.”

Vincent nodded slowly.

“I don’t know why yet.”

We climbed to the second floor.

Room Eight was at the end.

Nico used the brass key.

The door opened.

No bed.

No closet.

No furniture.

Only shelves.

Hundreds of books.

One desk.

One chair.

And a framed photograph.

Nico stopped.

His father stood beside him in the picture.

Nico was eighteen.

Graduation.

He touched the frame.

“I thought this was taken by my uncle.”

Simon stepped closer.

“It was.”

Nico turned.

“You were there?”

“No.”

“Then how did my father get it?”

Vincent answered.

“I gave it to him.”

Nico stared.

“You were sending him photographs of me.”

“For seven years.”

“How many?”

“Hundreds.”

Alessandra whispered:

“So he watched Nico grow up.”

Vincent nodded.

Nico’s jaw tightened.

“And never contacted me.”

Simon said:

“He wrote.”

Nico turned.

“What?”

Simon pointed toward the shelves.

Between two books was a narrow wooden box.

Nico opened it.

Letters.

Dozens.

Every envelope had his name.

Dates from 2014 to 2021.

None had been mailed.

Nico picked one up.

“Why?”

Vincent looked at Simon.

Simon answered.

“I told him not to send them.”

Nico stared.

“You?”

“Yes.”

“You judged seven years of letters too dangerous?”

“The first years.”

“And later?”

Simon looked away.

Nico understood.

“You got used to the lie.”

Simon’s voice was quiet.

“Yes.”

Nico opened one letter.

Then another.

He read silently.

Alessandra watched him.

I saw his face change.

Not anger.

Something worse.

Grief arriving late.

He opened a letter from 2018.

His father had written:

I SAW YOUR FIRST BOARD SPEECH.

Vincent whispered:

“I sent him the recording.”

Nico looked up.

Another line.

YOU SOUND LIKE YOUR MOTHER WHEN YOU ARE ANGRY.

Nico froze.

“My mother died when I was twelve.”

Vincent nodded.

“Your father kept every recording of her.”

“Where?”

Vincent looked toward the desk.

Bottom drawer.

Nico opened it.

Inside was a digital recorder.

And a black notebook.

He reached for the notebook first.

Every page contained names.

Dates.

Amounts.

Initials.

Some had check marks.

Some had red circles.

Simon went pale.

“That is it.”

Nico looked at him.

“The payment ledger?”

“Yes.”

“The one my uncle tried to kill him over?”

“Yes.”

Nico flipped pages.

Then stopped.

A familiar surname.

BELL.

He looked at Vincent.

“How much did you take?”

Alessandra turned.

“What?”

Vincent’s face drained.

Nico held up the page.

“2015. Bell Legal Holdings. Three million.”

Alessandra stared at her father.

Vincent whispered:

“That was not payment.”

“What was it?”

“Protection money.”

“From whom?”

“Your father.”

Nico frowned.

“You charged him three million to hide him?”

“No.”

Vincent stepped forward.

“He transferred it into my company because he needed money that could not be traced back to Romano accounts.”

“And where did it go?”

“To safe houses. Doctors. Security. Documents.”

Simon nodded.

“That part is true.”

Nico looked at the ledger again.

Then stopped.

Another Bell entry.

2019.

Eight million.

No explanation.

Alessandra whispered:

“Dad?”

Vincent said nothing.

Nico’s voice became cold.

“What was eight million for?”

Vincent looked at his daughter.

Then at Nico.

“That was mine.”

Silence.

“You stole from him.”

“Yes.”

Alessandra stepped back.

“Dad.”

Vincent closed his eyes.

“I told myself he owed me.”

Nico almost laughed.

“For keeping him alive?”

“Yes.”

“And away from me.”

“Yes.”

Vincent’s shoulders dropped.

“I became angry.”

“At him?”

“At the risk. At the fear. At seven years of living inside another family’s war.”

“So you took eight million.”

“Yes.”

Nico looked at Alessandra.

She was crying.

He did not blame her.

Not yet.

Then I noticed something under the desk.

A square of dust was missing.

Something had been there recently.

I pointed.

“Nico.”

He crouched.

Fresh scratches.

On the floor.

Vincent whispered:

“A safe.”

Nico looked at him.

“You knew?”

“No.”

Simon checked behind the desk.

A metal plate.

A code panel.

Alessandra stepped closer.

On the wall above it was a photograph.

Her.

Age eight.

Standing in the blue kitchen.

Vincent stared.

“That picture should not exist.”

Alessandra looked at him.

“Why?”

He touched the frame.

Then his face changed.

“Your mother took this.”

“So?”

Vincent looked at Nico.

“My wife knew his father was alive.”

Silence.

Alessandra whispered:

“My mother died in 2018.”

Vincent nodded.

“She knew for at least six years.”

Nico looked at the safe.

“What was her birthday?”

Vincent answered.

“September fourth.”

Nico typed 0904.

Nothing.

Alessandra looked at the photograph.

“I was eight here.”

“What date?”

She thought.

“My birthday.”

Nico typed her birth date.

The safe clicked.

Inside was one envelope.

One photograph.

And a USB drive.

Across the envelope:

FOR ALESSANDRA BELL.

Her father’s handwriting was not on it.

Nico recognized the writing.

“My father.”

Alessandra stared.

“Nico…”

He handed it to her.

“No.”

She looked at him.

“It has your name.”

Her hands trembled as she opened it.

She read the first line.

Then sat down.

“What?”

Nico asked.

Alessandra looked up.

“Your father knew me.”

Silence.

“How?”

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Her voice broke.

“He met me when I was eight.”