Chapter 8 - IsabellaThe call lasted nineteen seconds.
That was enough to destroy everything we thought we knew.
Ricardo ordered every gate sealed.
No one left.
No one entered.
But the real danger had already entered the house.
Elena sat at the dining table, staring at nothing.
“She knows where I am.”
Ricardo stood across from her.
“Tell me everything.”
“She was always supposed to stay hidden.”
“Who?”
“Elena already told you.”
“Isabella.”
Silence.
Elena finally nodded.
“Sofia never believed Isabella died.”
“Why did she tell everyone she did?”
“To protect the others.”
“From whom?”
Elena looked at Ricardo.
“From him.”
Ricardo's expression hardened.
“Who?”
“Vittorio.”
She explained.
Twenty-four years ago, Vittorio had built the Moretti family's power through bribery, extortion, and murder.
Sofia had discovered that three girls had been born.
Vittorio wanted one of them used as leverage.
So Daniel Vance took Clara.
Another branch of the family took Elena.
And Isabella was hidden completely.
But something went wrong.
Vittorio discovered where Isabella was.
A fire was staged.
A death certificate was created.
Everyone believed she was dead.
Except Sofia.
Sofia continued searching.
That was why she had been targeted.
I stared at Elena.
“Why does Isabella hate me?”
“She doesn't.”
“How do you know?”
“Because you were the one she was ordered to find.”
“By whom?”
Elena didn't answer.
A crash came from the second floor.
Ricardo's guards rushed upstairs.
Then silence.
He drew his weapon.
“Stay here.”
“No.”
He looked at me.
“You're not trained.”
“You have no idea what I'm capable of.”
He almost smiled.
Then the lights returned.
A phone rang on the table.
Not Elena's.
Mine.
I stared at it.
I hadn't given the number to Ricardo.
I hadn't even charged the phone.
Yet it was ringing.
I answered.
A distorted voice said:
“Do you remember your father's last words?”
My blood froze.
“You killed him?”
“No.”
“Then who did?”
“You did.”
I couldn't breathe.
“What?”
“You were there.”
The line went dead.
I dropped the phone.
Ricardo grabbed it.
A text message appeared.
A video.
He opened it.
The screen showed a younger version of me.
Twelve years old.
Standing beside my father.
We were outside a warehouse.
Someone was filming from a distance.
My father was shouting at someone.
Then he turned toward me.
“Clara, run!”
The video ended.
I looked at Ricardo.
“That never happened.”
“It did.”
“I don't remember.”
Ricardo watched me.
“Your memory was altered.”
My stomach turned.
“By who?”
Before he could answer, the front door opened.
A woman entered.
No guards stopped her.
No one raised a gun.
She walked calmly into the mansion.
She looked exactly like me.
But there was something different in her eyes.
Cold.
Controlled.
Older than twenty-four.
She stopped ten feet away.
“I’m Isabella.”
Nobody moved.
She looked at me.
Then at Leo.
Then Ricardo.
And smiled.
“I'm not here to kill anyone.”
Ricardo raised his gun.
“Then why are you here?”
Isabella looked at me.
“Because your daughter has something that belongs to me.”
“What?”
She pointed at my chest.
“The memory.”
I touched my forehead.
“What memory?”
Isabella smiled.
“The one you forgot the night your father died.”
Then she whispered:
“You were there when Sofia Moretti was shot.”
Ricardo went completely still.
Because if Isabella was telling the truth, then I hadn't merely known Sofia.
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I had witnessed her murder.
And possibly helped cause it.
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