Serena's POV

I lay in bed tossing and turning, unable to sleep. To make matters worse, my phone screen had broken at some point and stayed black.

All I could do was stare at the ceiling all night.

The photo of Father with his hand on Carlo's shoulder kept replaying in my mind. That kind of body language only came from deep trust.

When the dagger plunged toward Carlo's chest, he didn't even dodge. He even taught me how to kill, not taking me seriously at all.

This could only prove one thing: Vera had indeed lied to me.

And I had almost killed someone Father trusted. This realization terrified me.

The sunrise here came earlier than in Bellavista. Sunlight filtered through the blinds, falling onto the floor.

I washed my face and changed into the clothes the butler had prepared. The shirt and pants fit perfectly.

But this was standard for a high-end butler. I didn't think much of it.

At 6:58, I went downstairs.

The dining room was on the west side of the first floor. The long table could seat twelve people, but only two place settings were laid out, one at each end.

Carlo was already seated at one end of the table.

He had changed into a gray shirt with sleeves rolled to his forearms. His chest showed no abnormality. Last night's stab wound had left no trace.

"Sit," Carlo said, focused on cutting his ham.

I sat at the other end, picked up the orange juice, and took a sip. I glanced at the table. Several beverages were set out, but no hot chocolate.

I didn't like it anyway. Better this way.

The silence lasted two minutes. Carlo put down his knife and fork, picked up a kraft paper envelope from beside his chair, and pushed it across.

The envelope was old, its wax seal stamped with the Belmonte family's unique crest.

I set down my glass. My fingers trembled slightly. I suppressed the tremor, quickly broke the seal, and pulled out the documents inside.

The first was a bank transfer record.

Eight million euros, split into three transfers from the Belmonte family's main account to a BVI offshore company.

The recipient company name was a meaningless string of letters and numbers—a typical shell company.

The transfer date was one week ago.

My fingers stopped on the paper, my fingertips turning white.

The second was a photograph.

A man's back, standing at a university podium, posture upright, left hand resting on the edge of the lectern. The shield-shaped emblem on the background wall intertwined olive branches with a torch. I recognized it—the University of Ashford's symbol.

I flipped the photo over. On the back was Father's handwriting with a name: James Adams.

Professor Adams, an authority in criminal psychology, had published four books. I'd read them all. Because of him, I'd chosen to take criminal psychology.

He knew Vera. Every Christmas, Adams would send cards to the house with his blessings. But whenever Father suggested inviting Professor Adams to visit, Vera would find excuses to refuse.

I'd never thought this was suspicious.

Until now.

"What does this mean?"

"Your father's investigation stopped here before his accident," Carlo said only this.

No elaboration, no explanation of what relationship existed between Adams and Vera, no mention of where the eight million had gone, and no explanation of why Father had been watching this professor.

"Why do you have these things? What's the relationship between Adams and Vera?" I couldn't help but press.

Carlo picked up his coffee cup. "This was the last package your father sent me. He said only you could open it. As for the specific contents, I don't know."

I immediately calmed down.

Right. The one who died was my father. He had no reason to investigate these matters.

I stuffed the evidence back into the envelope.

"Thank you, Mr. Morandi."

Carlo set down his cup. The porcelain clinked against the saucer with a soft sound.

The next second, he looked at me.

"Serena, your father wanted you to live well. If you need anything, I'm willing to help you."

"No." I heard that he wanted me to ask for help voluntarily, but I was unwilling. "I'm very grateful that you're honoring your promise to safeguard this evidence for my father. As for the rest, I'll handle it myself."

I had nothing now. I couldn't afford to owe any favors.

But Carlo said, "I promised your father I would take care of you."

"I really don't need it," I insisted on refusing.

The atmosphere at the table grew cold.

I could feel his gaze, but I didn't dare look up.

I changed the subject. "I want to attend the University of Ashford where Professor Adams teaches. Can you help me with the transfer procedures?"

Carlo looked at me deeply, then pointed at the school crest in the photo's background.

"The transfer procedures are being processed. You can start next week."

He took out a folded paper from beside him and pushed it over.

It was an acceptance letter.

My name was printed on it.

One week?

This meant I'd have to stay under this roof for another week, accepting everything he arranged.

My pride and wariness made me resist this, but reason told me I had no choice.

"Can it be faster?"

"One week isn't long," Carlo said flatly. "If you really can't tolerate it, you can leave anytime. But you'd better think clearly—do you have any other way to arrange a transfer?"

I fell silent.

My bank account could be frozen by Vera at any moment. Belmont's old contacts were unreachable. Lucaye had blocked me.

I had no other choice.

"Mr. Morandi, I can stay, but I..."

"Call me Carlo," he interrupted.

I froze. I'd only known him for a day. This form of address wasn't quite appropriate.

But I could only comply.

"Carlo, I want to see all of my father's belongings, and you need to tell me everything you know."

When Carlo heard the first part, he nodded.

For the second part, he didn't respond.

"When will you tell me?" I pressed again, unwilling to give up.

"When I have time." He stood up. "I have things to do. If you need anything, ask the butler."

Carlo left.

I was alone in the dining room.

I reopened the transfer records.

Eight million euros, emptied within a week. Father couldn't have been unaware unless he deliberately didn't stop it, or was powerless to stop it.

Given Father's position in Bellavista, who could make him so wary?

I had no way of knowing. I could only wait until I saw Vera or Professor Adams.

I put all the documents back into the kraft envelope and returned to the third-floor guest room.

Halfway there, the butler stopped me.

"Miss Belmont, your phone."

I didn't reach for it, looking at him with surprise and suspicion.

The butler explained, "Last night its screen broke. I had it repaired for you. Nothing inside was touched—everything's still there."

I reached out to take it. "Thank you."

Back in my room, I inspected it carefully. Aside from the replaced outer screen, I couldn't see any other traces.

Just as I was thinking, the phone screen suddenly lit up.

A new message popped up. The sender was a capital letter C.

[This is my number. Save it.]

I was puzzled. Who was he?

Immediately, the next message came in.

[I'm Carlo.]

When I saw this message, I inexplicably had a premonition.

From this moment on, my fate would be tied to Carlo's.

I wasn't sure if this was a trap or an escape route.