Chapter 3 - THE ROOM UNDER THE RESTAURANT
The alarm came from beneath the kitchen.
Marcel looked terrified.
“That room hasn't been opened in years.”
Vincent turned toward him.
“What room?”
Marcel hesitated.
Vincent's voice became dangerously quiet.
“Marcel.”
“The basement archive.”
Elena frowned.
“Archive?”
Marcel nodded.
“Your mother used to keep records there.”
Salvatore stepped forward.
“Not records.”
He looked at Vincent.
“Evidence.”
Vincent immediately ordered his men downstairs.
Elena followed.
The basement smelled of dust, old wood, and damp stone.
At the end of a narrow hallway stood a steel door.
A faded number had been painted across it.
17.
Elena's skin prickled.
Vincent inserted a key.
The lock opened.
Inside were dozens of boxes.
Photographs.
Bank statements.
Restaurant ledgers.
Old newspaper clippings.
And dozens of cassette tapes.
Elena picked one up.
A handwritten label read:
SEPTEMBER 17 — 11:40 P.M.
Vincent took the tape.
“Where's the player?”
Marcel pointed toward an old cabinet.
They found one.
Vincent pressed PLAY.
Static filled the room.
Then a woman's voice.
Rosa.
Elena covered her mouth.
Her mother sounded frightened.
“If anything happens to me, Elena must never know who her father is.”
Salvatore closed his eyes.
Then another voice appeared.
A man's voice.
Older.
Angrier.
“You should have stayed out of this.”
Rosa answered:
“You killed him.”
Elena looked at Vincent.
The voice continued.
“He was going to expose us.”
“What were they doing?” Elena whispered.
The tape crackled.
Rosa spoke again.
“Vincent was only seventeen. He saw everything.”
Then came a loud crash.
A gunshot.
Elena screamed.
Vincent grabbed the recorder.
The tape continued.
Footsteps.
Someone breathing heavily.
Then Rosa whispered:
“Run, Vincent. Take the number 17 key. Don't trust anyone.”
The recording ended.
No one moved.
Vincent stared at the floor.
“I remember.”
Elena turned toward him.
“You remembered?”
“I remembered the gunshot.”
His voice broke.
“But I didn't remember your mother.”
Salvatore looked at him.
“She erased herself from your memory.”
Elena frowned.
“Why would she do that?”
“Because the people responsible were still alive.”
Vincent suddenly looked at Marcel.
“You knew.”
Marcel shook his head.
“I knew pieces.”
“Who else knew?”
Marcel's eyes shifted toward the staircase.
Then a woman's voice echoed from above.
“I did.”
Everyone looked up.
A woman stood at the top of the stairs.
Elegant.
Calm.
Wearing a black coat.
Elena recognized her.
Rosie Moretti.
Vincent's older sister.
May you like
She smiled faintly.
“It's time you learned what your mother really did.”
