Chapter 12 - The Ghost of Vittorio
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The study terminal hummed to life as I plugged in the encrypted flash drive.
Marco stood behind my chair, his gun unholstered and held at his side, while Bellini watched the monitors connected to our villa’s outer security cameras.
A single video file appeared on the screen.
I clicked play.
The footage was timestamped from just four days ago. The camera was zoomed in from a high distance, looking into a sunlit courtyard of a grand private estate overlooking Lake Geneva.
Sitting in a wheelchair near a marble fountain was an elderly man with silver hair, wearing an expensive wool shawl over his shoulders.
He lifted a pair of binoculars, looking directly toward the camera lens—and smiled.
Even with eleven years of age added to his face, there was no mistaking those sharp, ruthless blue eyes.
Vittorio Rossi. My father.
A second later, a voice recording began playing through the computer speakers. His voice was older, gravelly, but possessed the same chilling authority that had terrified me throughout my childhood.
“Hello, Adrian,” Vittorio’s voice rasped. “You’ve done quite well in my absence. You cleared out your mother’s foolish greed. You disposed of Sophia’s pathetic madness. You even managed to secure a blood heir with the Moretti girl.”
I gripped the edge of the desk so hard the wood creaked under my fingers.
“You were always my finest creation, my son,” Vittorio continued. “A perfect balance of strength and sentiment. But the game isn't over. The Rossi name does not belong to charity funds. It belongs to the crown I built.”
May you like
The recording paused for a beat, followed by the soft sound of him pouring liquid into a glass.
“Bring my grandson to Geneva by the end of the month, Adrian. Or I will come back to Italy to collect him myself.”
