Chapter 8
The recorder was inside the bridal suite.
That was Evelyn’s secret.
Not beneath it.
Inside it.
She had hidden it before anyone seized her.
“Where?”
She looked toward the dressing mirror.
I stared.
The old antique mirror still stood against the wall.
Heavy carved frame.
I remembered smashing a champagne glass against it the night she disappeared.
Never replaced.
Evelyn smiled faintly.
“Behind the top carving.”
I climbed onto a chair.
Pressed the rose-shaped wood.
A small panel clicked.
Inside sat a recorder wrapped in white ribbon.
Three years.
Above my head.
While I slept under the same roof.
I almost laughed at the cruelty.
I played it alone first.
My father’s voice.
Weak.
Breathing hard.
But unmistakable.
“Raffaele, if you hear this, I ran out of time.”
I closed my eyes.
He named Matteo.
Samuel.
Henry.
Not Damian.
Interesting.
Damian joined later.
My father warned that the group believed succession should be controlled by senior bloodlines, not chosen by one boss.
He also said something else.
“Bianca knows more than she admits. Do not confuse her love for you with loyalty to your authority.”
That hurt.
Because both could be true.
Bianca loved me.
I knew it.
She also believed I should be controlled.
The recording ended with one sentence.
“If they ever make you choose between family and truth, understand they already stopped behaving like family.”
I sat alone in the bridal suite for a long time.
Then Ethan wandered in with Anna.
He saw the veil.
“Daddy, is the lady okay?”
Three years old.
Simple question.
“Yes.”
“Is she staying?”
I looked at Evelyn’s room down the hall.
“I don’t know.”
He nodded.
Children accept uncertainty better than adults.
Then he asked:
“Why was she under floor?”
I looked at him.
Because people loved power.
Because adults were afraid.
Because family lied.
None of that belonged in his hands.
“Some grown-ups did something very wrong.”
He thought.
“Are they sorry?”
I looked toward the council wing.
May you like
“No.”
Not yet.
