Chapter 3
St. Matthew’s chapel sat at the edge of the Valenti estate.
Small.
Private.
Older than the main house.
My grandfather built it after the war and then used the basement for everything except prayer.
I brought Rafe.
Marco.
Camilla.
No Livia.
She stayed with my sister upstairs.
I would not drag my daughter deeper into the reason someone hit her.
The lower cabinet sat behind a wooden panel beneath the old sacristy stairs.
The brass key turned once.
Then stuck.
Rafe forced it gently.
Inside were six black signet rings.
Not Valenti rings.
Each carried the same symbol.
A small table with two legs visible beneath it.
I stared.
Marco looked away.
Camilla whispered:
“Close it.”
I ignored her.
Behind the rings lay an old photograph.
My father.
Vittorio Serra.
Marco.
Three men standing beside a restaurant I recognized.
Closed twenty years ago.
On Marco’s hand—
one of the black rings.
I looked at him.
“How old were you?”
“Twenty-three.”
“Why were you standing with Serra?”
He hesitated.
Camilla answered for him.
“Because your father asked him to.”
Marco turned sharply.
Too late.
I looked at her.
“My father asked Marco to meet our enemy?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Silence.
Rafe pulled a small cassette recorder from the cabinet.
My father labeled it himself.
SECOND TABLE.
There it was.
The mark on the key.
Not II.
A reference.
I pressed play.
My father’s voice filled the basement.
“If Domenico hears this, the first table failed.”
Marco closed his eyes.
“The first table is the family everyone knows. The second exists because some men believe the head of Valenti should never be allowed to lead alone.”
I looked at Camilla.
My father continued.
“They call themselves protectors.”
A pause.
“They are not.”
Then:
“Marco is one of them.”
No one moved.
May you like
My cousin’s husband had apparently belonged to a hidden council built to constrain whoever eventually took my father’s place.
Me.
