Chapter 3 - The Locker No One Was Supposed to Open

The masquerade ball ended early.

Not officially.

But when Alessandro Vale walked through the ballroom holding his mother’s hand, nobody kept dancing.

Victor had already left.

That worried me more than if he had stayed.

Alessandro ordered the gates closed.

Then he looked at me.

“Lily.”

“Yes?”

“You saw who entered the service hall tonight.”

“Yes.”

“Did Victor leave through the front?”

“No.”

His eyes sharpened.

“Where?”

“East corridor.”

Thomas Quinn turned.

“That leads to the old garage.”

Alessandro looked at Henry.

“How far is the station?”

“Twenty minutes.”

“Victor has a head start.”

Isabella shook her head.

“He doesn’t know the locker room.”

Henry answered:

“He knows me.”

Silence.

Alessandro understood.

“If he finds your old club records, he finds 214.”

Henry nodded.

We left through the garage.

Alessandro drove.

Isabella sat beside him.

Henry, Rosalie, Thomas, and I followed in a second car.

Nobody spoke until the mansion disappeared behind us.

Rosalie finally whispered:

“My father worked for Victor.”

Thomas stared out the window.

“Yes.”

“You helped my mother lie to Alessandro.”

“I helped Isabella disappear.”

“That is not the same thing.”

“No.”

Rosalie’s voice broke.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because Victor knew I had a daughter.”

She went quiet.

At the station, the old east wing was dark.

Closed for twelve years.

Henry had a key.

Of course he did.

Photographers kept strange things.

Keys.

Negatives.

Receipts.

Memories nobody else wanted.

We entered through a side door.

The corridor smelled like dust and rain.

Locker 214 was in the basement.

Alessandro reached it first.

The silver key turned.

Inside was a metal case.

Nothing else.

Isabella exhaled.

“It’s still here.”

Alessandro pulled it out.

Then stopped.

The latch had scratches around it.

Fresh.

Henry leaned closer.

“Someone tried to open it.”

Thomas looked behind us.

“Victor.”

Alessandro set the case on a bench.

The silver key opened that too.

Inside were folders.

Bank statements.

Photographs.

Three notebooks.

And one sealed envelope.

Across the front, in faded handwriting:

FOR ALESSANDRO — WHEN HE IS OLD ENOUGH TO CHOOSE

He froze.

“That’s my father’s handwriting.”

Isabella nodded.

“He wrote it the night we separated.”

Alessandro opened the envelope.

One page.

He read silently.

Then again.

Rosalie moved closer.

“What does it say?”

He looked at Isabella.

“You tell me.”

Her face changed.

“Alessandro—”

“You knew this existed?”

“Yes.”

“And you never gave it to me.”

“I couldn’t.”

He held up the page.

“My father says Victor threatened to kill you.”

Thomas closed his eyes.

Alessandro continued.

“He says Victor also threatened to frame you for stealing the missing money.”

Isabella nodded.

“That was the plan.”

“He says he was going back to collect me.”

“Yes.”

“He says once he had me, he would meet you in Prague.”

Rosalie looked confused.

“But he never did.”

Isabella shook her head.

“No.”

Alessandro stared at the letter.

“Why?”

Thomas answered.

“Because Victor was waiting.”

Alessandro looked at him.

“Where?”

“At the mansion.”

“You were there?”

“Yes.”

“What happened?”

Thomas swallowed.

“Your father came back.”

“And?”

“He went upstairs.”

“To my room?”

“Yes.”

Alessandro waited.

Thomas looked ashamed.

“Victor stopped him.”

“How?”

“With two men.”

Isabella whispered:

“Thomas.”

But Alessandro had already understood.

“My father didn’t choose to leave me with Victor.”

“No.”

“He was forced.”

“Yes.”

Alessandro looked at the letter again.

“Then why was I told he returned alone and angry?”

Thomas said nothing.

Alessandro stepped closer.

“Why?”

Thomas finally answered.

“Because by morning, your father was repeating Victor’s story.”

Rosalie frowned.

“What did Victor do to him?”

Thomas looked at Isabella.

She answered.

“He showed Matteo a photograph.”

Alessandro’s eyes lifted.

“Of what?”

“Of you.”

“Asleep?”

“No.”

Isabella’s voice almost disappeared.

“You were in a car.”

Silence.

“Victor had taken you out of the house.”

Alessandro stared.

“He kidnapped me?”

“For three hours.”

“I don’t remember.”

“You were told you had been sick.”

He remembered.

I saw it on his face.

A piece of childhood moving into place.

“I woke up at a clinic.”

Isabella nodded.

“Victor told Matteo that next time, the car would not come back.”

Alessandro looked down.

The anger in him became very quiet.

That was worse.

Rosalie picked up one of the notebooks.

“Alessandro.”

He turned.

She had opened to the final page.

A list of company names.

Dates.

Transfers.

And beside one transfer was a signature.

Not Victor’s.

Matteo Vale’s.

Alessandro’s father.

Rosalie looked at Isabella.

“You said Matteo discovered the theft.”

“He did.”

“Then why is his signature here?”

Isabella took the notebook.

Her face drained.

“That signature is forged.”

Thomas stepped closer.

“How do you know?”

“Because Matteo broke his right hand that week.”

Henry looked at the date.

“I remember that.”

Alessandro frowned.

“Who could copy his signature?”

No one answered.

Then Henry lifted one of the photographs from the case.

It showed Victor at a desk.

Beside him stood a younger man.

Thomas Quinn.

And on the desk lay a page covered in repeated versions of Matteo Vale’s name.

Rosalie stared at her father.

“No.”

Thomas went pale.

Alessandro took the photograph.

“You practiced my father’s signature.”

Thomas whispered:

“Yes.”

Rosalie stepped back.

“Dad.”

“I can explain.”

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Alessandro’s voice was cold.

“You’re going to.”