The city seemed unnaturally quiet that morning. The hum of Milan's streets was subdued, as though the world itself had paused to watch what would happen next. I drove with both hands gripping the wheel, my mind still caught on the note:
"Stop digging, or you'll find something you can't bury."
I replayed the words over and over, as though dissecting them might offer some new meaning. The calm precision of the man's voice, the warning laced with subtle menace—it wasn't a threat meant to scare me off. It was a promise, one that lingered like smoke in the back of my mind.
I should have been afraid. A part of me was. But the larger part, the one that refused to let anyone dictate my choices, burned with anger. If they thought they could intimidate me into silence, they didn't know me at all.
By late morning, I was buried in files at Caruso & Associates. The records room was cold and quiet, the kind of place that swallowed sound. I'd told no one where I was going or what I was looking for, but I knew what I needed.
I wanted Lorenzo Santini's past. Not the sanitized version in the police files, but the deeper truths hidden in the cracks of his story.
Every report, every scrap of information about Lorenzo pointed to one thing: his loyalty. For all his notoriety, for all the accusations of violence and corruption, there wasn't a single betrayal on his record. No underlings sold out, no allies abandoned. He ruled through power, yes, but also through trust.
It was a rare thing in his world, where alliances crumbled as quickly as they were built. And it made him dangerous.
One name kept coming up as I sifted through the files: Villa Santini.
The villa had once been the heart of the Santini family, a sprawling estate on the outskirts of Milan that served as both a home and a stronghold. Two decades ago, it had been the site of a bloody shootout that left several members of the family dead. The reports were vague about the details, but one thing was clear: it had been a turning point for Lorenzo.
He'd been there that night.
I stared at the file, the faded photograph of the villa staring back at me. Its arched windows and ivy-covered walls had once been a symbol of power. Now, they were a tombstone for a family that had nearly been destroyed.
If I wanted to understand Lorenzo, I needed to see it for myself.
The road out of Milan was long and winding, the city's sharp edges fading into rolling fields and clusters of ancient trees. As the miles passed, the air grew colder, the horizon darker.
I hadn't told anyone where I was going. Not Sofia, not Caruso, not even myself, if I was being honest.
When the villa came into view, it rose like a specter against the gray sky.
The iron gates were bent and rusted, ivy winding its way through the bars like it was trying to drag them back into the earth. Beyond them, the villa itself loomed—a once-grand structure reduced to a hollowed-out shell.
I parked the car just outside the gates and stepped out, gravel crunching beneath my boots. The air was thick and damp, heavy with the smell of wet leaves and rusted metal.
The gates groaned as I pushed them open, the sound cutting through the stillness like a scream.
Inside, the villa felt like a world trapped in time.
The grand entry hall was vast, its high ceilings scarred by years of neglect. Broken tiles littered the floor, and the remains of a chandelier hung crookedly from the ceiling, its crystals coated in grime. Dust motes floated lazily in the pale light streaming through the shattered windows.
I moved carefully through the space, my footsteps echoing softly against the cracked marble. The air smelled of decay and damp stone, each breath heavy with the weight of the past.
Every room I passed told the same story.
The dining room, where a massive oak table stood rotting in the center, its edges gnawed away by time. The kitchen, its once-polished counters now covered in a layer of grime so thick it seemed to absorb the light.
But it was the living room that stopped me.
The walls were lined with faded wallpaper, its intricate patterns peeling in long, curling strips. A fireplace dominated one wall, its hearth blackened with soot. The floor was littered with broken furniture, shards of glass, and something else—a picture frame lying facedown in the dust.
I knelt and picked it up, wiping the grime from the glass.
It was a photograph, taken long before this house had fallen to ruin.
Lorenzo stood in the center, a boy of maybe fourteen. His dark hair was slightly messy, his expression far too serious for someone his age. Beside him was a man I recognized immediately: Antonio Santini.
Lorenzo's father.
The resemblance was unmistakable, though Antonio's features were harder, his posture more rigid. But it was the woman in the photo who caught my attention.
She stood on the other side of Lorenzo, her hand resting protectively on his shoulder. Her smile was warm, her eyes soft, but there was something haunting about her presence. She seemed out of place, like a piece of a different world, one untouched by violence.
The date written in the corner of the photograph made my stomach tighten.
September 12, 2002.
The photograph had been taken just weeks before the shootout that had left the villa abandoned.
I was halfway back to my car when I heard it.
The sound was faint at first, a soft rustling in the underbrush that could have been the wind.
But it wasn't.
I froze, my heart pounding as the rustling grew louder, closer.
"Hello?" I called out, my voice breaking the stillness.
No answer.
I took a step forward, my hand gripping the strap of my bag like it was a lifeline. The air felt heavier now, charged with something I couldn't name.
And then I saw him.
He stepped out from the shadows of the trees, his posture calm but deliberate. He was tall, dressed in dark clothing that blended into the fading light.
"Ms. Moretti," he said, his voice low and even.
I swallowed hard, forcing myself to stand still. "Who are you?"
He didn't answer. Instead, he took a step closer, his face still obscured by the shadows.
"You shouldn't be here," he said, his tone sharp but measured. "This place… it's not safe."
I felt a chill run down my spine. "If you're trying to scare me"
"I'm not trying," he interrupted. "I'm warning you. Walk away. Leave this case behind. It's not worth what it will cost you."
My pulse quickened, but I refused to back down. "What does that mean?"
"You'll find out soon enough," he said, his voice dropping to a near whisper.
And then, just as suddenly as he'd appeared, he turned and disappeared into the trees, his footsteps silent against the soft earth.
I stood there, the silence pressing in around me like a weight. My breath came shallow and fast, my heart pounding in my ears.
Who was he? And how had he known I was here?
I glanced back at the villa, its shadow stretching long across the ground. Whatever secrets it held, they weren't buried as deeply as I'd thought.
But one thing was certain: someone didn't want me to uncover them.