Chapter 6 - The Night Emma Disappeared
The river apartment was empty.
Alessandro knew before he entered.
The silence told him.
The front door hung slightly open.
A lamp had fallen beside the sofa.
One security guard lay unconscious near the kitchen.
Another was missing.
Sophia’s overnight bag remained on the chair.
Emma’s coat was gone.
So were Sophia and Emma.
Marco crouched beside the unconscious guard.
“Pulse is strong.”
Alessandro walked through the apartment.
No blood.
No bullet holes.
No sign of a prolonged struggle.
That should have comforted him.
It didn’t.
On the dining table sat a glass of milk.
Half-finished.
Beside it was a drawing.
Emma had used a blue crayon.
Three stick figures stood beneath a crooked roof.
One had long brown hair.
MOM.
One was tiny.
ME.
The third wore a black suit.
MR. MORETTI.
Alessandro stared at it.
Underneath, Emma had written in uneven letters:
HE SAID MOM CAN STAY HOME SICK.
Marco entered.
“Boss.”
Alessandro folded the drawing carefully and put it inside his coat.
“What happened?”
“Guard was hit from behind.”
“Camera?”
“Looped.”
“Second guard?”
“Gone.”
“Name?”
“Kevin Mills.”
“How long with us?”
“Fourteen months.”
“Family?”
“Wife in Queens.”
“Find her.”
“Already moving.”
Alessandro entered the bedroom.
Emma’s green treasure box sat open on the bed.
Empty except for the seashell.
Santoro had taken nothing valuable.
He had taken the people.
Alessandro’s phone rang.
Unknown number.
He answered immediately.
“Where are they?”
A woman screamed.
Sophia.
Then silence.
Alessandro’s control nearly broke.
Santoro spoke.
“She’s alive.”
“Let me hear Emma.”
“No.”
“Vittorio.”
“You still give orders as though everyone belongs to you.”
“Let me hear the child.”
A pause.
Then Emma’s voice.
“Mr. Moretti?”
Alessandro shut his eyes.
“I’m here.”
“Mom says I shouldn’t be scared.”
Sophia shouted somewhere in the background.
“Emma, don’t tell him anything!”
Santoro laughed.
Emma whispered, “But I am.”
Something inside Alessandro cracked.
“I know.”
“Are you coming?”
“Yes.”
“You promised not to lie.”
“I remember.”
Silence.
Then Emma asked, “Can you bring Buttons?”
Alessandro looked around.
The stuffed rabbit was not there.
“Your rabbit is being fixed.”
“His ear?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
Santoro returned.
“Touching.”
“What do you want?”
“Your father took something from my family.”
“My father is dead.”
“So is my brother.”
“This is between us.”
“Everything is between families.”
“No.”
Alessandro’s voice lowered.
“Not children.”
Santoro laughed.
“That rule existed when your father was alive too. It didn’t save my nephew.”
Alessandro frowned.
“What nephew?”
Santoro went quiet.
There was history here Alessandro did not know.
“What are you talking about?”
“You really don’t know?”
“Know what?”
“Ask Renato Bellandi.”
The call ended.
Alessandro turned to Marco.
“Bring Bellandi to the mansion.”
“He needs a hospital.”
“He can have a doctor there.”
“Boss—”
“Now.”
Renato Bellandi looked twenty years older than he had the day before.
His face was swollen.
One eye nearly closed.
A doctor had bandaged his ribs and stitched the cut above his eyebrow.
He sat in Alessandro’s study.
The same room Emma had cleaned.
The windows still carried the faint circular marks of her small cloth.
Alessandro stood in front of him.
Rosa sat near the fireplace.
She had insisted on being present.
Bellandi saw her.
Shame entered his face.
“Rosa.”
“Don’t.”
He looked down.
Marco closed the study door.
Alessandro placed both hands on the desk.
“Santoro has Sophia and Emma.”
Bellandi’s face changed.
“No.”
“You’re going to tell me where he took them.”
“I don’t know.”
“Wrong answer.”
“I swear.”
Alessandro moved closer.
“What nephew?”
Bellandi froze.
Rosa looked between them.
“What nephew?”
Alessandro repeated.
“Santoro told me to ask you about his nephew.”
Bellandi shut his eyes.
“Renato.”
Rosa’s voice was quiet.
“Tell him.”
Bellandi looked at her.
“I was trying to protect this family.”
Rosa stood.
“You stole from women who scrub our floors.”
“It wasn’t supposed to become that.”
“You threatened a child.”
“I never threatened Emma.”
“You sent the note.”
“I sent the first line.”
Alessandro’s eyes narrowed.
“What?”
Bellandi looked at him.
“I told Sophia to keep cleaning and forget what she saw. I never wrote anything about Emma.”
“Who did?”
“Gabriel.”
Rosa recoiled.
“No.”
Bellandi shook his head.
“Gabriel was scared.”
Rosa’s eyes filled.
“Where is my son?”
“I don’t know.”
“Stop saying that!”
Her voice cracked across the room.
Everyone froze.
Rosa Bellini almost never raised her voice.
She walked toward Bellandi.
“You came into this house when Gabriel was nineteen.”
Bellandi looked away.
“You ate at my table.”
“Rosa—”
“You held my husband’s coffin.”
“I know.”
“You stood beside me when he died.”
“I know.”
“And then you taught my son to steal?”
Bellandi’s face broke.
“I taught him to survive.”
“No.”
Rosa slapped him.
The sound echoed.
“You taught him to become you.”
Bellandi bowed his head.
Rosa began crying.
Not loudly.
Alessandro had almost never seen it.
He took her arm.
She pulled away.
“No.”
Then she looked at Bellandi.
“What nephew?”
Bellandi breathed heavily.
“1998.”
Alessandro frowned.
“I was fourteen.”
“Your father was expanding into Queens.”
“I know.”
“The Santoros controlled several unions.”
“I know.”
“There was a bombing.”
Alessandro remembered hearing about it years later.
A car bomb outside a social club.
Three Santoro men died.
“My father ordered it?”
“No.”
Bellandi swallowed.
“I did.”
Silence.
Alessandro stared.
“What?”
“Your father told me to scare Carlo Santoro.”
“You planted the bomb?”
“I hired someone.”
“Three people died.”
“One was seventeen.”
Rosa covered her mouth.
Bellandi continued.
“Carlo’s nephew.”
“Vittorio’s son?”
“His sister’s boy.”
Alessandro’s face hardened.
“And my father?”
“Never knew.”
“You lied to him?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because it worked.”
Bellandi laughed bitterly.
“The Santoros backed away. Your father praised me. I became useful.”
Alessandro understood.
One unauthorized act.
One lie.
Rewarded.
A man learns what power forgives.
Then repeats it.
“Vittorio found out.”
Bellandi nodded.
“Years later.”
“And he blamed my family.”
“Yes.”
“Why help him?”
Bellandi stared at the floor.
“I didn’t at first.”
“Then?”
“He approached Gabriel.”
Rosa became still.
“Why Gabriel?”
“Debt.”
Her face changed.
“What debt?”
Bellandi looked at her reluctantly.
“Gambling.”
Rosa sank into the chair.
Alessandro had not known.
Neither had Marco.
“How much?” Rosa whispered.
“Eight hundred thousand.”
She closed her eyes.
Bellandi continued.
“Santoro paid it.”
“In exchange for access,” Alessandro said.
“Yes.”
“And you joined them.”
“I tried to keep Gabriel alive.”
“By stealing from employees?”
“The small deductions hid the larger transfers.”
Alessandro’s voice became dangerous.
“Do not explain theft to me as accounting.”
Bellandi nodded.
“You’re right.”
“What was Santoro’s plan?”
“To enter the mansion.”
“And kill me?”
“Yes.”
“Why wait?”
“He wanted more.”
“What?”
“To destroy everything attached to the Moretti name.”
Bellandi looked at Rosa.
“Businesses. Political relationships. Accounts. Trust.”
Then he looked at Alessandro.
“He said killing you would be mercy.”
Marco shifted.
Alessandro remained calm.
“Where would he take Sophia and Emma?”
“I don’t know.”
“Think.”
Bellandi closed his eyes.
“Santoro owns nothing in his name.”
“You met him.”
“Warehouses.”
“Which?”
“Different every time.”
“Recent.”
“A meatpacking property in Red Hook.”
Marco was already moving.
“Address.”
Bellandi gave it.
Alessandro headed toward the door.
Bellandi called after him.
“Alessandro.”
He stopped.
“There’s something else.”
“What?”
“Santoro doesn’t want money.”
“I know.”
“He doesn’t even want you dead anymore.”
Alessandro turned.
“What does he want?”
Bellandi looked terrified.
“He wants you to choose.”
“Choose what?”
“The same thing Carlo had to choose after the bombing.”
Alessandro’s stomach tightened.
Bellandi whispered, “Family or empire.”
The warehouse in Red Hook was empty.
But there were signs Sophia and Emma had been there.
A child’s wet sneaker print.
Sophia’s broken hair clip.
A paper cup with fresh coffee.
They had missed them by less than twenty minutes.
Marco kicked a metal chair.
Alessandro walked farther into the darkness.
A projector suddenly turned on.
Everyone raised weapons.
An image appeared on the white concrete wall.
Live video.
Sophia sat tied to a chair.
Emma beside her.
Both alive.
Santoro walked into frame.
“Hello, Alessandro.”
Marco searched for the camera source.
“It’s a feed.”
Santoro smiled into the lens.
“You came faster than your father would have.”
Alessandro stared.
“What do you want?”
Santoro held up a document.
“I want the Moretti empire.”
“Be specific.”
“Every legitimate company.”
Alessandro understood immediately.
Impossible.
Not because he valued the money.
Because thousands of employees, partners, and pension accounts depended on those companies.
“You want ownership?”
“No.”
Santoro smiled.
“I want destruction.”
Sophia looked toward the camera.
“Don’t do it.”
Santoro grabbed her chair.
Emma shouted.
“Leave Mom alone!”
Alessandro stepped toward the screen.
“Touch her again and—”
“And what?”
Santoro laughed.
“You still think threats are currency.”
He crouched beside Emma.
The child glared at him.
Santoro looked almost amused.
“Brave girl.”
Emma whispered, “Mr. Moretti is coming.”
Santoro’s smile faded.
“No, sweetheart.”
He looked into the camera.
“Mr. Moretti has a decision to make.”
A timer appeared on the screen.
01:00:00.
One hour.
Santoro held up a flash drive.
“On this drive are instructions that will transfer controlling interests, release confidential files, and collapse several Moretti companies before markets open.”
Alessandro’s eyes narrowed.
“And if I refuse?”
Santoro looked at Emma.
Sophia screamed, “Don’t you dare!”
The screen went black.
A message appeared.
CHOOSE WHAT YOUR FATHER CHOSE.
POWER OR A CHILD.
The timer kept counting.
59:42.
59:41.
59:40.
Marco looked at Alessandro.
“Boss.”
Alessandro stared at the screen.
Then he took out his phone.
“Get my attorneys.”
Marco froze.
“You’re not seriously—”
“Now.”
“Alessandro, this could destroy—”
“I know.”
Thousands of jobs.
Decades of wealth.
A business empire.
Political protection.
Everything his father built.
He looked at Emma’s tiny sneaker print on the concrete floor.
Then he remembered her question.
Do you own her?
No one owns your mother.
Alessandro turned to Marco.
May you like
“There is no empire worth more than that child.”
And for the first time since Marco Rizzi had known him, Alessandro Moretti prepared to destroy his own kingdom willingly.
