Carlo's POV
After the door closed, I looked down at my chest.
Blood had soaked through the handkerchief. The wound wasn't deep—it would scab over by tomorrow. Compared to the old scar across my back, this injury didn't even qualify as an itch.
I tossed the handkerchief into the wastebasket and sat back down in the chair.
The photograph on the desk had been turned over by Serena, Ricardo's handwriting facing up. I stared at it for a few seconds before flipping it face-down.
Serena Belmont.
Six years.
Serena's face was covered in heavy makeup, her hair dyed a different color. Even her voice and gait had changed completely. But when she carried that tray, her pinky finger lifted slightly upward.
That gesture was identical to the way she'd handed me bread when she was seventeen.
2018, Bellavista.
Back then I went by another name: Luca Conti. I lived on one of the rundown streets in the East District and attended St. Andrew's High School as a senior. Everyone at school knew I was from the orphanage. My uniform was secondhand, my backpack held together with a safety pin where the zipper had broken.
Kids from the orphanage usually ate only half a sandwich for lunch. The punks at school made me their regular target—to them, it was casual entertainment.
That day they cornered me behind the gymnasium. Matthew and his crew tore up two of my textbooks and stuffed a used piece of gum into my jacket pocket.
"Get back to your trash heap, filthy rat."
I kept my head down.
Matthew's father was a district councilman. Fighting back would mean expulsion. The scholarship was my only source of income—without it, I had no way to survive.
So I endured it.
After they left, I crouched down to gather the torn textbooks. One had been stomped into a puddle.
"Are you okay?"
The voice came from above.
I didn't respond. St. Andrew's was full of fake do-gooders. Last time a girl came over to check on me, she turned around and posted the whole thing as a joke on social media.
"Do they corner you like this every time?" she asked again.
Only then did I look up.
Serena Belmont stood in front of me, grass clinging to the hem of her school skirt—she'd probably just run over from the field. Serena frowned as she surveyed the mess before her.
"What's your name?"
"...None of your business."
Serena didn't leave. Instead, she crouched down and fished the notebook paper out of the puddle, shook off the water, and handed it to me.
"The ink's smeared, but you can still read it once it dries," she said. "Economics? You're taking Professor Robbins' class too?"
I took the paper without answering.
She stood up and brushed off her knees. "The cafeteria just started serving a decent pasta dish. Want to grab lunch together? I'm so bored eating alone."
She'd phrased it as "grab lunch together."
From her tone, she was asking a friend to keep her company.
Her eyes were hazel-green, and that afternoon's light caught in them, making the color appear lighter. Serena's brow was still furrowed, but the corners of her mouth had turned up.
I went with her.
The pasta was mediocre, but I've remembered it ever since.
Later, the experimental building on the east side of campus caught fire. By the time I learned Serena was trapped on the third floor and found my way there, black smoke was already pouring from the windows and fire trucks were stuck two blocks away.
I rushed into the building. Heat and smoke filled every space. When I found Serena, she was huddled under the lectern, holding her wet uniform over her nose and mouth, already half-conscious.
I picked her up and headed for the window.
A beam overhead let out a muffled crack—the sound of it breaking was loud. I shoved her forward just as the beam came crashing down directly onto my back.
The charred wood pressed against me, instantly burning away all sensation, leaving nothing but the smell of scorched flesh in my nostrils.
Serena was coughing violently, half her body limp in my arms. I passed her through the window to the teacher waiting outside.
A large section of skin had burned off my back. I collapsed at the hospital and remained unconscious for four days.
When I woke, three strangers in black suits were sitting in my hospital room. They said something absurd.
"Young master, we've finally found you."
Morandi.
My real surname.
The old man's bastard son. After my mother fled to Bellavista with me, she died, and I was sent to the orphanage. The old man had been searching for me for seventeen years, finally tracking me down through hospital admission records—my blood type and the location of a birthmark.
They transferred me to a private medical facility that same day. The admission records at St. Andrew's Hospital were erased. The official story became that Luca Conti had gone missing after the fire, presumably having fled after his illegal immigrant status was exposed.
A poor student from the orphanage had disappeared. No one asked questions.
After returning to Valdoro Island, I systematically dealt with four relatives around my age. The first cousin died at his own birthday party. The fourth one knelt before me and begged for twenty minutes. I finished a cigarette before nodding for my men to proceed.
It took two years before I claimed the position of family head, and I got plenty of blood on my hands in the process.
Once I'd finished handling these matters, I immediately sent people to Bellavista to find Serena.
But she had already completed her engagement ceremony with Luca Falcone.
I heard that Luca told a story at the engagement party. He claimed that during his student days, he'd rescued Serena from a fire and had a scar on his back to prove it.
Serena had been half-unconscious from smoke inhalation at the time and hadn't seen her rescuer's face clearly. She only remembered someone calling out "Luca, you're hurt" before losing consciousness completely.
Falcone's scar was real. I investigated later—he'd gotten it at fifteen in a kitchen accident. He simply changed the time and place, transforming it into a heroic rescue story.
I sat behind this oak desk listening to the report and crushed the crystal glass in my hand.
Shattered glass embedded itself in my palm, blood spreading across the desk. My deputy stood nearby, not daring to speak.
"Sir? Should I—"
"Get out."
The corner of my mouth twitched as I spoke those two words.
Luca Falcone. The youngest son of the Falcone family, whose operation in Bellavista dealt in arms brokerage—a marginal player at best.
He'd stolen my story and used it to win Serena's favor.
Interesting.
My people discovered that Serena had agreed to the engagement with Luca Falcone willingly. She seemed quite happy about it.
I sat in front of the surveillance footage for a long time before ordering the screen turned off. She was living well now. There was no need to disrupt that.
I returned to Valdoro Island.
I thought distance would help me turn the page. But at night, after finishing paperwork, I'd habitually open that encrypted photo album, scroll to the last picture, then close it.
I never broke that habit.
I kept people watching Luca Falcone continuously after that.
Luca Falcone proved unreliable. While he was with Serena, he maintained ambiguous relationships with other women on the side. He apparently considered this "selecting a better partner."
By the time I received the third surveillance report—Falcone had checked into a hotel in Bellavista with a model—I began arranging personnel to teach him a lesson.
Right around then, Ricardo Belmont came to my estate.
He was Serena's father.
Belmont sat across from me and said, "Mr. Morandi, someone's targeting me. I probably won't survive the month."
I looked at him without speaking.
He continued, "I know you were the one who saved my daughter from that fire. So I trust that you'll protect her."
I stared at him for a long time.
Belmont was a smart man. He hadn't asked for help directly—he'd deliberately used the word "trust." This phrasing positioned him as an elder entrusting his daughter to someone.
"Mr. Belmont," I leaned back in my chair, "do I look like someone who hands out charity?"
He smiled and placed an envelope on my desk.
"No," he said, "but you look like someone who's been waiting for my daughter for a very long time."
I didn't respond.
After Belmont left, I opened the envelope.
Inside was a stack of photographs of Serena in Bellavista, spanning from high school through college—five years' worth. The angles were all taken from a distance, basically the perspective of a private investigator's surveillance shots.
This father had known all along that I was keeping tabs on Serena.
At the bottom of the stack was a note:
"She doesn't know who you are, but someday she will. When that time comes, please tell her I was proud of her."
Now Serena had figured out part of the situation.
She understood I wasn't the one who killed him, though she remained unclear about everything else.
I pulled open my shirt and glanced at the fresh shallow wound on my chest. Next to the knife mark was an old scar. The burn marks from my back had extended around to my side—six years of growth, permanent now.
Footsteps sounded from upstairs. Third floor, east wing—Serena had entered the guest room.
Antonio waited at the door. I said to him, "Have Mario reassigned to watch the third floor. If she needs anything, don't ask me—just provide it."
"Yes, sir."
"One more thing." I paused. "Don't include hot chocolate at tomorrow's breakfast. She doesn't like it."
Antonio didn't ask questions, simply noted it in his memo before turning to leave.
I switched off the desk lamp. The study went dark.
Tomorrow I'd need to show Serena the evidence. It was the last package Ricardo had sent—records documenting the flow of assets Vera had been secretly transferring.
