The key is heavier than it looks.
Not just in weight—but in consequence.
I turn it over in my hand as Alessio leads me down the east corridor of the estate. It's still dark outside. The world asleep, unaware that everything I've ever believed is beginning to come undone.
"She said it was hidden in the black book," I say. "But she didn't say what it opens."
Alessio's jaw tightens. "There are old parts of the estate even I haven't touched. Some sealed before I was born. My father said they were cursed."
"Cursed?"
His lips twitch in something almost like a smirk. "That was his way of saying dangerous enough to leave alone."
We stop at the end of the hallway, in front of an old door covered in layers of peeling paint. It's small—almost hidden in the wall—and if I hadn't been looking for it, I would've thought it was just a decorative panel.
Alessio kneels, running his fingers along the edge.
"There," he mutters.
A small, rusted keyhole.
I kneel beside him and insert the key.
It fits.
I hesitate.
He places his hand over mine.
"We open it together," he says.
So we do.
The door creaks open with a groan that sounds like the house itself is warning us. Dust swirls in the stale air as we step into the darkness.
A staircase spirals down into shadow.
No lights.
No sound.
Only the echo of our footsteps and the thick silence of secrets buried too deep.
"Stay behind me," Alessio says, pulling a pistol from his waistband.
I don't argue.
We descend.
The air grows colder with every step. The walls narrow. The space feels ancient—older than anything above it, like the house was built on top of this place to keep it hidden.
At the bottom, we reach a small chamber.
Stone walls.
No windows.
Only a single lantern hanging from a hook.
Alessio lights it with a flick of his lighter. The flame throws shadows across the room, and I gasp.
The walls are covered in names.
Hundreds of them.
Carved into the stone by hand.
"What is this?" I whisper.
Alessio steps closer, tracing one of the names with his fingers. "These are the original families. The founding bloodlines of the Syndicate. The people who built the Romanos and Morettis from the ground up."
My eyes scan the names. I don't recognize most of them.
But then I see it.
Valentina Romano.
My mother's name.
Beneath it—something newer. Scratched into the stone less neatly, as if done in a hurry.
He knew. Don't trust him.
My blood runs cold.
"Alessio…"
He's already reading it. His eyes are locked on the warning, his face a mask of unreadable steel.
"She left this for you," he says finally. "She must've known you'd find it eventually."
"What does it mean? Who is 'him'?"
"I don't know."
But something in his voice tells me he's lying.
Or maybe… hiding.
I step toward the center of the room. There's a wooden chest, sealed with a metal clasp. No lock this time—just time-worn hinges and the weight of forgotten years.
I open it.
Inside are folders. Photos. Letters. Files stamped with symbols I don't understand.
And on top—a photograph.
It's of my mother.
Younger than I've ever seen her. Smiling. Her arm around a man I don't recognize.
And behind them…
Alessio's father.
What the hell?
I hand the photo to him.
He stares at it, his expression unreadable.
"I didn't know they knew each other," I say.
"They didn't," he answers too quickly. "At least… not like that."
"You sure about that?"
Silence.
I sift through the papers.
There are documents showing offshore accounts—money funneled into shell companies in her name. Messages encoded in shorthand I can't decipher. And one torn letter with only a few legible lines.
If you go through with it, there's no turning back.
You betray the Syndicate. You betray blood.
You won't be safe. Neither will she.
I look up at him. "My mother betrayed them."
"She tried to leave," he says. "Maybe she saw what the rest of us never did."
"Or maybe she saw too much."
He looks at me then—really looks. "Elena, if this gets out… if people find out what your mother did, they'll come for you."
I nod. "Let them. I deserve the truth."
He shakes his head. "No. You deserve peace. A life outside this."
"You said it yourself," I whisper. "That life doesn't exist."
A pause.
Then—
"I'll burn every name on these walls if that's what it takes to keep them from touching you."
His voice is raw. Real.
And terrifying.
Because I believe him.
All of him.
Even the parts I shouldn't.
Especially those.