The cemetery was beginning to empty.
People closed their black umbrellas. Engines rumbled to life. Voices dropped. The bells had stopped, but their echo stayed with Lorenzo, a slow ache in his mind.
He stood by the open back door of his car, one hand on the roof, the other clenched at his side. His guards made a loose barrier, their faces blank but eyes alert. Cameras waited in the distance, hoping for one last shot.
Lorenzo leaned forward, about to step inside, when his phone vibrated in his palm.
Unknown number. Here it is. A clue.
He hesitated for a heartbeat before answering.
"Speak," he said.
The voice on the other end was low and steady, changed just enough to hide who it was.
"I'm sorry for your loss, Signor (Sir) Moretti."
Lorenzo's grip tightened.
"Get to the point."
A pause.
"The accident wasn't an accident."
Lorenzo felt the world shift.
He was right after all.
"What are you saying?" Lorenzo asked, keeping his voice calm even as a cold feeling spread in his chest.
"Isabella was marked days before the crash," the voice continued. "Routes studied. Timing planned. The driver was paid. Someone wanted her gone."
Silence.
Hearing her name hurt more than he thought it would.
Isabella.
He saw her smile. Heard her voice. Felt her hand in his.
"Who?" he demanded.
Another pause. Longer this time.
"That information doesn't come cheap," the voice said. "But know this, her death benefited more than one person."
The call ended.
Lorenzo stared at the dark screen.
For a moment, the cemetery disappeared.
Grief was still there, raw and aching, but underneath it, something colder began to rise.
Isabella hadn't died by chance.
She had been taken.
"Boss?"
Roberto's voice broke through the moment.
Lorenzo turned slowly. Roberto stood a few steps away, his face hard to read but clearly alert. He had been with Lorenzo long enough to notice when something changed. He was his personal driver and errand man. The only man Lorenzo trusts.
Lorenzo slipped the phone into his pocket.
"What you saw today," he said quietly, "what you sensed, you take to the grave."
Roberto nodded. No questions. No hesitation.
"I want you in the meditation room tonight, and I'd send a number to you. You need to find out everything you can," Lorenzo continued. "Ten o'clock. Not a minute late."
Roberto lowered his head slightly. "Understood."
Lorenzo got into the car. His reflection looked back at him in the tinted glass, his eyes darker than ever before.
The car had barely moved when a sharp knock landed against the window.
Lorenzo looked up.
Antonio.
He pressed the button, and the glass slid down smoothly.
"Boss says you're not going alone," Antonio said. "You're following him home."
Lorenzo held his gaze.
"And if I don't?" he asked calmly.
Antonio's jaw tightened. "Then I wouldn't be standing here asking."
The window rolled up.
The convoy shifted. Lorenzo's car fell into line behind his father's.
So they were tightening their hold on him, he thought.
Fine.
Throughout the ride, his mind raced.
Who would benefit from Isabella's death? Every name, every motive, weighed heavily.
Luca, his stepbrother, was two months older and the son of his father's second wife, whom his father adopted. His father got married to Serena, his stepmother, after his mother's death. It was a business marriage, and Luca came with the package. Marco had set the rule: whoever married first would run the company for two years to prove they could lead. Lorenzo chose Isabella, a regular girl from a middle-class family. Luca picked a rich heiress from a wine family, smart and well-connected.
His stepmother seemed warm and caring, but she was always present, planning every move. Could she have helped her son get the power she wanted for him?
Could Luca have done something to get ahead? Could Serena have helped her son? Could she have helped her son get the power she wanted for him?
The mansion was alive again by the time they arrived.
Lights on. Doors open. Orders being carried out.
Marco Moretti walked in first, stride steady, expression untouched by the day's events. Lorenzo followed, face sealed once more behind control.
His stepmother, Serena, hurried over with a practiced warmth and gave him a gentle hug. "Lorenzo, you must be exhausted," she said. Her voice was soft and almost sweet, but Lorenzo tensed. He let her words pass, but he still felt suspicious.
Luca stood nearby and gave a short nod. His smile was polite but hard to read. Lorenzo answered with a cold, careful look. Every move felt planned, every look a test.
Marco, noticing the interaction, didn't speak.
"Antonio," Marco said without turning, "bring the files to the study."
"Yes, sir."
They gathered in the study.
A few moments later, Antonio returned, carrying thick folders and tablets. He set them on the table: photos, family trees, company overviews, and details about each family's wealth.
Marco gestured toward them.
"Brief him."
Antonio cleared his throat. "These are the most eligible families. Strong alliances. Clean money. Strategic value.
Lorenzo looked at the faces in the photos, women smiling politely, posed as if they were investments.
"This one," Antonio continued, tapping a file, "controls major shipping routes. This family owns banks. This one has political influence."
Lorenzo said nothing.
Marco watched him closely.
"The wedding will happen," Marco said. "We adapt. We move forward."
Lorenzo finally lifted his gaze.
"Isabella just got buried," he said quietly, voice low but firm.
"And still," Marco replied evenly, "life continues."
Lorenzo left after the meeting for his house.
He refused the dinner Serena offered. He wasn't in the mood.
That night, Lorenzo stood alone in the meditation room.
The house was silent.
At ten o'clock sharp, there was a knock.
"Enter," Lorenzo said.
Roberto stepped inside and closed the door behind him.
Lorenzo turned slowly, face calm, voice steady.
"Someone planned Isabella's death," he said.
Roberto stiffened.
"And while my father plans weddings," Lorenzo continued, eyes hardening, "I plan to find who did this."
He stepped closer.
"From this moment on, we move quietly. No one knows what we're looking for. Not even my father."
Roberto nodded once.
Lorenzo sank into the leather sofa, hands clasped together, mind racing faster than any engine he'd ever driven.
Who would benefit from Isabella's death?
Every name and motive felt heavy.
He stood up and paced the room, his steps steady, as if a battle had already started.
Outside, the mansion slept.
Inside, Lorenzo's mind was already at war.