Chapter 2: The Man Who Knew My Grandmother
The first thing I noticed about Vincent Moretti after he ended the phone call was that he looked older.
Not physically.
The man standing in front of me was still the same person everyone feared. The same expensive suit. The same sharp eyes. The same presence that made an entire restaurant fall silent.
But something behind his face had changed.
For twenty-five years, he had carried a question.
And somehow, my grandmother’s name had become the answer he never expected to find.
“Where is Rosa Bellandi?”” Vincent asked again.
This time, there was no anger in his voice.
Only desperation.
I had never imagined a man like him could sound desperate.
I glanced at the silver charm sitting on the table between us.
“I don’t know if I should tell you.””
His eyes moved toward mine.
“Why?””
“Because she was afraid.””
The room became quiet.
“Afraid of me?””
I wanted to say yes.
Because that would have been easier.
Instead, I shook my head.
“No.””
Vincent looked confused.
“Then who?””
I thought about my grandmother sitting by the kitchen window every evening, rolling dough slowly while old Italian songs played from the radio.
I remembered how she always checked the front door twice before going to sleep.
How she never talked about the years before I was born.
How she always turned the bracelet on her wrist whenever someone mentioned powerful families.
“She never told me.””
Vincent stepped closer.
“Luca.””
The way he said my name made me freeze.
Not because it was threatening.
Because it sounded like he was asking me for help.
“My mother’s name was Elena Moretti,” he said quietly.
“Everyone thinks she died.””
I frowned.
“You said she disappeared.””
“They are not the same thing.””
His words hung in the air.
I looked at the charm again.
“What happened to her?””
Vincent walked back to his chair but didn’t sit.
For the first time, he looked like someone remembering a wound.
“She was the only person in my family who cared about what happened to other people.””
He touched the edge of the table.
“My father built his empire through fear. My uncles built theirs through loyalty bought with money. My mother hated all of it.””
The restaurant outside continued operating, but inside that room, it felt like the world had stopped.
“She wanted me to leave,” Vincent continued.
“She wanted me to have a normal life.””
I studied his face.
“And you didn’t?””
A faint, bitter smile appeared.
“No.””
The answer came too quickly.
“I stayed.””
“Why?””
“Because I thought I could change things.””
He looked down.
“I was seventeen.””
There was something strange about hearing Vincent Moretti talk about being seventeen.
People like him seemed like they had always existed.
Like they were born wearing suits and carrying secrets.
But once, he had been just a son.
A boy waiting for his mother to come home.
“What happened the night she disappeared?”” I asked.
His jaw tightened.
“I don’t know.””
The honesty surprised me.
“I was supposed to meet her at midnight. She told me she had something important to tell me.””
He paused.
“She never arrived.””
“What did your family say?””
“That she left.””
“Did you believe them?””
His eyes lifted.
“No.””
The answer was immediate.
“Because my mother would never leave without saying goodbye.””
A silence followed.
Then Vincent picked up the silver charm.
“Where did your grandmother get this?””
“I don’t know.””
“Ask her.””
I looked at him.
“You think she’ll tell me?””
“I think she has been waiting for this moment.””
I almost laughed.
“My grandmother is seventy-eight years old. She spends most of her days arguing with her garden tomatoes.””
Vincent didn’t smile.
“She survived twenty-five years carrying a secret about my family.””
His fingers closed around the charm.
“She knew this day would come.””
Before I could answer, the private room door opened.
One of Vincent’s men stepped inside.
“Boss.””
Vincent looked up.
“What?””
The man glanced at me before speaking.
“We found him.””
Something changed instantly.
The softness disappeared.
The businessman returned.
“Where?””
“At the estate.””
Vincent’s expression hardened.
“Is he alone?””
“No.””
A pause.
“He has guards.””
Of course he did.
People like Vincent Moretti did not have family gatherings.
They had negotiations.
“Take me there,” Vincent said.
The man nodded.
Then Vincent looked at me.
“You’re coming.””
I blinked.
“What?””
“You heard me.””
“I’m a chef.””
“You’re the grandson of the woman who knows what happened to my mother.””
“I don’t know anything.””
“But she does.””
I stepped back.
“I can’t just leave.””
Vincent stared at me.
“You can.””
I looked toward the kitchen.
Toward Belladonna.
Toward the life I understood.
Cooking was simple.
Ingredients.
Heat.
Time.
People were not.
“You don’t understand,” I said.
His expression didn’t change.
“Actually, Luca, I understand better than anyone.””
The way he said it made me stop.
Because maybe he did.
Maybe he understood what it felt like to spend years searching for someone who might never return.
Before I could answer, Marco rushed into the room.
His face was pale.
“Luca.””
I turned.
“What happened?””
He looked at Vincent.
Then back at me.
“There are people outside asking for you.””
My stomach tightened.
“Who?””
Marco swallowed.
“They didn’t say.””
Vincent’s eyes narrowed.
“How many?””
“Four.””
“Armed?””
Marco hesitated.
“Yes.””
The room went silent.
Vincent looked toward his security team.
“Lock the exits.””
I stared at him.
“Why would they be here for me?””
Nobody answered.
That was the answer.
Someone knew.
Someone knew about the dish.
Someone knew about the charm.
And someone knew Rosa Bellandi’s secret had been discovered.
A few minutes later, the restaurant lights flickered.
The guests were quietly moved away from the main dining area.
The elegant atmosphere of Belladonna disappeared.
The place that usually smelled like wine and fresh bread now smelled like fear.
I stood near the kitchen entrance as Vincent watched the front door.
“Who are they?”” I whispered.
He didn’t look at me.
“I don’t know.””
That scared me more than anything.
A man like Vincent Moretti always knew.
A knock came from the front entrance.
Three slow knocks.
Everyone froze.
Then a voice called from the other side.
“Vincent.””
The sound of the name made Vincent’s expression change.
Not fear.
Recognition.
The door opened.
An older man walked inside.
Gray hair.
Perfect suit.
Cold smile.
Behind him stood two guards.
Vincent’s hand tightened.
“Uncle Antonio.””
I felt the room become colder.
Because I already knew that name.
Not from Vincent.
From my grandmother.
Years ago, when I was a child, I had once asked her why she hated family gatherings.
She had been silent for a long time.
Then she said one sentence.
“Some families bury their secrets with the dead.””
I had asked her who she meant.
She had looked at me with fear in her eyes.
“Antonio Moretti.””
The older man stepped closer.
His eyes moved around the restaurant.
Then they stopped on me.
The smile disappeared.
“So,” Antonio said softly.
“The boy finally found the recipe.””
Vincent moved between us.
“You know him?””
Antonio ignored him.
He stared directly at me.
“Your grandmother should have destroyed that notebook.””
My blood ran cold.
“What notebook?””
Antonio smiled.
The same smile that made the entire room feel unsafe.
“The one she used to hide the truth.””
Vincent’s voice became dangerous.
“What truth?””
Antonio looked at him.
For a moment, the two men simply stared at each other.
Then Antonio reached inside his coat.
Everyone moved.
But he didn’t pull out a weapon.
He pulled out an old photograph.
He placed it on the table.
Vincent looked down.
And all the color left his face.
I stepped closer.
The photograph showed a young woman standing beside my grandmother.
A woman I had never seen before.
But Vincent recognized her immediately.
Because he whispered her name.
“Mother.””
Antonio leaned forward.
“You wanted to know where Elena went?””
Vincent didn’t speak.
Antonio smiled.
“She didn’t disappear.””
The room held its breath.
“She ran.””
Vincent’s eyes darkened.
“From who?””
Antonio looked at the silver charm on the table.
Then at me.
Then back at Vincent.
“From your father.””
A silence followed.
Then Antonio said the words that changed everything.
“And she didn’t run alone.””
He pointed at the photograph.
“Rosa helped her.””
Vincent stared at the picture.
“What are you saying?””
Antonio’s smile faded.
“I’m saying your mother left you because she was protecting someone.””
“Who?””
Antonio looked directly at me.
May you like
And my heart stopped.
“Your brother.””
