Chapter 9 - The Fourth KeyDante had the photograph examined immediately.
The image was more than twenty years old. Its edges had yellowed, and the surface was scratched in several places, but the faces remained clear enough to identify.
Dante's father stood in the center.
To his left was Rafael Alvarez, younger and clean-shaven. To his right stood Carlo Bellini.
Silas Vane occupied the far end.
The fourth man remained obscured by shadow.
A fifth figure stood behind them, his face partially hidden by a curtain.
Dante studied the image for nearly an hour.
Then he recognized the fifth man.
His own father-in-law had once worked as an accountant for the Moretti organization. The man had died of a heart attack when Dante was a teenager.
But the fourth figure remained unknown.
Dante enlarged the image on his computer.
The man's hand rested on a wooden table. A silver ring glittered on his little finger.
Three marks around a black stone.
The same ring.
Dante called Rossi.
“Get every photograph taken at the estate between twenty and thirty years ago. Family gatherings, business meetings, weddings, funerals. Everything.”
“Looking for someone?”
“I'm looking for a ghost.”
Rossi didn't question him.
Dante returned to the photograph.
The fourth key.
Whoever the man was, Rafael had known about him. Carlo and Silas had known about him too.
And if the photograph had been hidden with Rafael's belongings, someone wanted the secret to survive.
Dante looked at the wall clock.
The party had been underway for twenty minutes.
He needed the guests to believe he was distracted by Silas's arrival. He needed Carlo to believe he was still unsure about the recording.
Most importantly, he needed to discover who the fourth man was before the hidden archive was opened.
A knock came at the door.
Three taps.
Dante's hand moved toward his pistol.
He waited.
A fourth tap followed.
Then a small voice whispered, “Mr. Dante? It's me.”
He opened the door.
Sophie stood outside, holding Bruno's leash. Elena was behind her, speaking urgently to a guard.
“You shouldn't be here,” Dante said.
“I heard the knocking.”
His expression changed.
“Where?”
“Behind my new bedroom wall.”
Dante looked at Rossi.
The guard immediately checked the corridor.
“It's coming from the old room,” Sophie said. “The one with the big wardrobe.”
Dante crouched in front of her.
“What did you hear?”
“Three knocks. Then somebody said a name.”
“What name?”
She swallowed.
“Matteo.”
Dante went completely still.
Matteo Moretti had been his younger brother.
The official records said Matteo had died abroad at seventeen after a boating accident. No body had been recovered, but Carlo had insisted there was no reason to search.
Dante had spent years believing his brother was gone.
Sophie stared at his face.
“Do you know him?”
Dante forced himself to breathe.
“Where did you hear that name?”
“Behind the wall. The man said, ‘Matteo, the door is open.’”
Bruno suddenly began growling.
His body angled toward the servants' corridor.
Dante stood and called Rossi.
“Take Sophie to the secure room. Nobody lets her out without me.”
“Boss, what about the party?”
“Lock the old servants' wing.”
He started toward the corridor, then stopped.
Sophie had caught his sleeve.
“Mr. Dante?”
“Yes?”
“Is Matteo a bad man?”
Dante looked down at her.
“I don't know anymore.”
He left her with Rossi and followed Bruno toward the servants' wing.
The hidden passage stood open.
Someone had already removed the wardrobe.
Beyond the panel, a narrow flashlight beam moved through the darkness.
Dante raised his pistol.
“Stop where you are!”
The beam vanished.
Footsteps rushed away.
Dante entered the passage with two guards behind him. Bruno moved ahead, barking sharply, his nails scraping against the stone.
The corridor ended at the sealed archive door.
It was no longer sealed.
The lock had been broken, and fresh marks crossed the wood.
On the floor lay a silver ring.
Dante picked it up.
The black stone had been split in half.
Beneath it, engraved in tiny letters, were two initials.
M.M.
Matteo Moretti.
His brother's ring.
Dante stared at it, unable to move.
A sound came from the darkness behind the archive door.
Three knocks.
Then a voice he hadn't heard in twenty years whispered his name.
“Dante?”
The pistol trembled in his hand.
It was a man's voice.
Older than Dante remembered.
But unmistakably familiar.
“Dante,” the voice repeated. “Open the door.”
Dante stepped toward the archive.
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And for the first time since his father died, the possibility that his brother had survived was no longer a rumor.
It was standing on the other side of a door.
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