Chapter 9 - THE VOICE FROM THE GRAVE
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Luca pressed the heavy black play button on the vintage cassette recorder with the tip of his index finger.
A low mechanical hiss filled the quiet office, followed by the sound of heavy, labored breathing.
Then, a raspy, commanding voice echoed through the room, making Vanessa freeze in mid-step.
It was the voice of Don Lorenzo Moretti, recorded with undeniable clarity.
“If you are listening to this tape, Luca, it means my suspicions were correct and my heart has stopped beating.”
Vanessa stepped backward, her face losing every drop of color until she looked like a walking corpse.
“Turn it off!” she hissed, lunging toward the desk to snatch the machine.
Luca didn't even draw his weapon; he simply raised his forearm and shoved her back so hard she stumbled against the velvet armchair.
“Listen to my father,” Luca growled, standing tall behind the desk like an avenging demon.
The old don’s voice continued from the speaker, steady despite the ragged breath behind his words.
“I discovered the digitalis in my tea three days ago, son,” Lorenzo said, coughing weakly into the microphone.
“I had Dr. Rossi test the cup in secret.”
“Vanessa thinks she is a master strategist, but she is far too reckless to operate alone.”
“A serpent like her always needs a bigger dog to hold the leash.”
The room fell into an absolute, suffocating silence as the tape hissed softly.
“Look into Sirena Holdings, Luca,” the dead man instructed from beyond the grave.
“You will find that half of the skimmed revenue was routed through corporate accounts belonging to my own brother.”
“Victor has wanted my chair since we were boys in Little Italy.”
“He promised the girl thirty percent of our northern docks if she helped clear his path to the throne.”
“Do not show mercy to traitors, son, even if they share our blood.”
The tape ended with a soft metallic click, leaving only the sound of Vanessa’s ragged, terrified panting.
Arthur looked up from the floor, his hazel eyes wide with shock and heartbreak.
“Victor,” Arthur whispered, shaking his head.
“Lorenzo raised that boy after their parents died in the winter of fifty-six.”
Luca’s expression was terrifyingly vacant, the kind of stillness that precedes an apocalyptic storm.
“My uncle,” Luca murmured, his voice barely audible.
“He came to my father’s funeral and wept on my shoulder like a grieving brother.”
Before anyone could speak another word, the heavy walnut doors of the office swung slowly inward.
Standing on the threshold in a tailored charcoal overcoat was Victor Moretti himself.
He held a silver-topped walking cane in his right hand, a concerned frown plastered across his aging face.
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“I saw the security lights flashing from across the estate, Luca,” Victor said smoothly, stepping into the room.
“What on earth is happening up here in Lorenzo’s private quarters?”
