Chapter Four: Echoes and Embers

The Moretti estate was quiet, as it always was in the early hours before sunrise. But quiet in this house didn't mean peace—it meant something was about to break.

Ronnie stood at the window of her father's office, staring at the city skyline beyond the estate walls. She traced her fingers over the dark mahogany desk, still dusted with the scent of his cologne. Beside her sat the black notebook—her inheritance more than any property or title. Each page was a breadcrumb, and this morning, she planned to follow the trail.

Luca walked in without knocking, holding a cup of coffee and a thin manila file. He set both down gently beside her.

"Tommy's clean on paper," he said. "But that's exactly the problem. He's too clean. Too polished. A guy that deep in the family doesn't get through without stains."

"You think he's hiding something?"

"I think your dad thought he was."

She didn't reply, instead opening the file. Bank statements. Travel logs. A series of coded messages they hadn't cracked yet. At the bottom, a surveillance photo—a grainy image of Tommy speaking to a tall, wiry man outside a butcher shop in Queens. The man's face was turned, but something about the posture felt familiar.

"Who's the guy?"

Luca shrugged. "No ID yet. I've got Sparks working on it."

Ronnie tapped the photo. "I want to find him. Before Tommy knows we're looking."

---

Flashback

It was a Sunday afternoon, five years ago. Ronnie sat barefoot on the marble floor of the estate library, a stack of old records beside her. She had just turned twenty-three and had no idea what she wanted—only what she was supposed to be.

Tommy strolled in, two sodas in hand.

"Still hiding from the party?"

"They'll survive without me for an hour."

He sat beside her, handing her a can. "You ever think about just... walking away?"

"All the time."

"Then why don't you?"

She looked up at the stained-glass ceiling. "Because I was born with a target on my back. If I walk, it just makes it easier for them to shoot."

Tommy watched her for a long moment. "Then maybe we should find a way to erase the target. Together."

She'd almost believed him.

---

Back in the present, Ronnie crossed the garden path behind the estate. The stone benches were damp with morning dew, the grass trimmed perfectly, the roses just starting to bloom. She remembered planting them with her father when she was seven, his large hands guiding hers.

Now, those hands were buried six feet under.

A rustle behind her.

"You shouldn't be out alone," Luca said.

"I'm not. You're here."

He smiled faintly. "You know I meant it differently."

"I know."

He handed her a slip of paper. A name.

"The man in the photo?"

"Yeah. Name's Domenico Arlotti. He used to be your father's cleaner. Disappeared three years ago. Everyone assumed he was dead."

"But he's not."

"No. He's just hiding."

Ronnie tucked the paper into her pocket. "Then let's go pull him into the light."

---

The apartment building in Brooklyn was crumbling, covered in graffiti and vines. The kind of place you could disappear in without a trace. Ronnie and Luca approached cautiously, each step silent.

They found Domenico in 3B—older, thinner, but with eyes just as sharp.

He didn't seem surprised to see them.

"You look just like your father," he said to Ronnie.

"Then you know why I'm here."

Domenico nodded. "He left something with me. In case he didn't make it. Said you'd come eventually."

He opened a drawer, pulling out a red envelope. Inside was a letter in her father's handwriting and a single phrase underlined twice:

"The blood isn't in the streets—it's in the house."

Ronnie stared at it. Her throat tightened.

"He knew it was family," she whispered. "Someone close."

Domenico looked at her. "He didn't trust the council. And he didn't trust his own blood. That should tell you something."

Luca asked, "Do you know who he meant?"

Domenico shook his head. "He never said. But he was scared. More scared than I'd ever seen him."

Ronnie folded the letter carefully. "Then we find the truth. We tear out the rot, root and stem. And when we do, we burn what's left."

---

That night, back at the estate, Ronnie stood in her father's old study once more. She set the letter beside the notebook and looked at the two words scrawled across the bottom of the page: "Start within."

She didn't sleep. Didn't blink.

Because now, she knew.

The betrayal hadn't come from outside.

It had started right at the heart.