Chapter 10 - The ConfessionThey brought Matteo back to the estate in silence.
Not because he deserved mercy.
Because Allessandro wanted answers before consequences.
Isabella was placed in the west study under guard. Caterina Vale remained in the front salon, drinking tea as though attempted murder had been an inconvenience in her schedule.
Emma and Lucia were taken upstairs, wrapped in blankets, given warm food, and guarded by two men Allessandro trusted with his life.
Still, Emma refused to sleep until Rosie was stitched closed.
So Lucia sat beside the child’s bed with needle and thread while the storm beat against the windows.
Downstairs, Matteo sat in a chair in the old library, one hand bandaged, face bruised, pride bleeding faster than his wound.
Allessandro stood before him.
“Who else?”
Matteo laughed weakly.
“You still think this is a list.”
“It is always a list.”
“Not this time.”
Allessandro waited.
Matteo looked around the library—the leather books, the dark wood, the portrait of Allessandro’s father above the fireplace.
“He hated me,” Matteo said.
“My father?”
“He saw me. Really saw me. That was worse.”
Allessandro said nothing.
“He knew I wanted more. He knew I hated standing behind you. One night he told me, ‘A hungry man is useful. A starving one becomes dangerous.’ Then he laughed.”
Allessandro remembered his father’s laugh.
He had never liked it.
“Is that why you betrayed me?”
“No.” Matteo looked up. “I betrayed you because after he died, you still kept me behind you.”
“I made you head of port operations.”
“You gave me work. Not trust.”
“You had access to accounts, crews, routes—”
“But not decisions.”
Allessandro’s voice hardened.
“Because you confused control with respect.”
“And you confuse mercy with leadership.”
A silence.
Then Matteo leaned forward.
“Do you know why Isabella chose the butter?”
Allessandro’s eyes narrowed.
“Talk.”
“Because you eat alone when you’re worried. Coffee changes. Wine changes. But breakfast? Bread, butter, fig preserves. Every morning since your mother died.”
Allessandro felt the hit land deep.
“My mother has nothing to do with this.”
“She has everything to do with it. Your routines are graves you keep visiting.”
Allessandro stepped closer.
“Careful.”
Matteo smiled through blood.
“There he is.”
“Who else helped?”
Matteo looked toward the window.
“Someone who knows your house. Someone older than both of us.”
Allessandro’s pulse slowed.
“Caterina?”
Matteo shook his head.
“She wanted the wedding. Isabella wanted the money. I wanted the seat.”
“And the fourth?”
Matteo’s smile faded.
“The fourth wanted revenge.”
Before Allessandro could ask more, a scream came from upstairs.
Lucia.
Allessandro ran.
He reached the second floor with Marco behind him and burst into Emma’s room.
Lucia stood near the bed, shaking.
Emma was safe, sitting upright.
But Rosie lay open on the blanket.
Inside the doll, beneath the place where the recorder had been hidden, was another object.
A tiny silver key.
And a folded note yellowed with age.
Allessandro picked it up.
The handwriting was his mother’s.
His breath caught.
The note contained only seven words.
If I die, do not trust Dominic.
May you like
Father Dominic appeared in the doorway behind him.
And the old priest’s face told Allessandro everything.
