Chapter 8 The Art of lies
Aria's POV
Aria's hand froze halfway to the study door, her knuckles white, breath caught somewhere between her lungs and throat.
Moretti.
Her father had just said Moretti.
The hallway seemed to tilt, the expensive marble beneath her feet suddenly unsteady. It had to be a coincidence. Rome was full of Morettis. Common name. Could be anyone. Could be nothing.
But her father's voice hadn't sounded like it was nothing.
"Twenty years is a long time," Bruno was saying, his tone tight in a way Aria had never heard before. "People forget. Grudges fade." A pause. "Besides, the boy died. We made sure of it."
The boy died.
Something cold and terrible slithered down Aria's spine. Her medical training kicked in automatically, noting the physical symptoms of her own distress. Elevated heart rate. Shallow breathing. Hands trembling. Classic fight-or-flight response.
She should leave. Turn around, walk away, pretend she hadn't heard anything.
Instead, she pressed closer to the doorframe, straining to hear more.
"Gavino is handling it," Bruno said. "If Dante Moretti is sniffing around my business, we'll deal with it the same way we dealt with his family. Quietly. Permanently." Another pause, longer this time. "No, I don't want Aria involved in any of this. She knows nothing, and that's how it stays. My daughter is off-limits. Make sure everyone understands that."
Aria's vision swam. The hallway, with its tasteful artwork and soft lighting, suddenly felt like a trap. Like she'd walked into something she couldn't walk out of.
Dante Moretti.
His family.
Deal with it the same way we dealt with—
"Signorina Aria?"
Aria spun around so fast she nearly lost her balance. Maria stood at the other end of the hallway, carrying a tray of wine glasses, her expression concerned.
"Are you all right? You look pale."
"I'm fine." The lie tasted like metal in her mouth. "Just tired from work."
Maria's eyes flicked to the study door, then back to Aria. Something passed across her face, something that looked almost like pity. "Your father will be ready for dinner soon. Perhaps you should wait in the sitting room? I'll bring you some water."
It wasn't a suggestion.
Aria nodded, her legs moving on autopilot as she followed Maria away from the study. Away from her father's voice. Away from words that were rearranging everything she thought she knew about her life.
The sitting room was decorated in warm tones, comfortable furniture arranged around a fireplace that crackled with orange flames. Family photos lined the mantle. Aria as a child, gap-toothed and laughing. Her mother, beautiful and smiling, holding infant Aria in her arms. Bruno with his arm around both of them, looking like the perfect family man.
Looking like a lie.
Aria sank onto the couch, her mind racing. She was a surgeon. She dealt with facts, with evidence, with things she could see and touch and verify. But right now, all she had were fragments of a conversation that might mean everything or nothing.
"Dante Moretti is sniffing around my business."
Her father knew who Dante was. Knew enough to be worried about him. Knew enough to discuss "dealing with it."
We dealt with his family.
Past tense. His family was dead. And her father had just implied what? That he was involved? That he'd killed them?
No. That was insane. Her father was an art dealer. A businessman. He donated to charities, attended gallery openings, raised her alone after her mother died. He wasn't a killer.
But then why did he have security guards who looked like they could break someone in half? Why did certain men treat him with the kind of respect that looked more like fear? Why was he on the phone discussing how to "handle" Dante Moretti?
And why, after saving Dante's life, after promising herself she'd stay away, had she agreed to meet him for coffee tomorrow morning?
The universe was either laughing at her or testing her. Maybe both.
"Aria, tesoro."
She looked up to find her father standing in the doorway, his expression warm and open. Bruno Salvini at fifty-eight was still handsome, graying at the temples in a distinguished way, wearing an expensive sweater and tailored slacks like he'd stepped out of a catalog. He looked nothing like a man who'd just been discussing murder on the phone.
He looked like her father.
"Papa." She stood, accepting his embrace, breathing in his familiar cologne. Trying to reconcile this man with the voice she'd heard in the study.
"I'm so glad you're here. It's been too long." He pulled back, studying her face with concern. "Maria said you looked pale. Are you feeling all right?"
"Just tired. Long week at the hospital."
"You work too hard. Always have." He guided her toward the dining room, his hand warm on her shoulder. "Come. Dinner is ready, and Maria has outdone herself."
The dining room was set for two, candles flickering in crystal holders, wine already poured. Everything looked perfect. Safe. Normal.
Aria sat down, her stomach churning despite the delicious smell of osso buco filling the air.
Bruno settled across from her, raising his glass. "To my brilliant daughter. The finest surgeon in Rome."
She clinked her glass against his, the sound sharp in the quiet room. "You're biased."
"I'm proud. There's a difference." He took a sip, then set down his glass, his expression growing serious. "I wanted to talk to you about something."
Here it was. Whatever he'd meant on the phone about having "things to discuss."
"All right."
"I've been hearing rumors. About the hospital. About a patient you treated recently." Bruno's tone was casual, but his eyes were sharp. "A man with gunshot wounds. Brought in by armed associates."
Aria's heart kicked against her ribs. She kept her face neutral, her surgeon's mask firmly in place. "We treat a lot of patients, Papa. I can't discuss specific cases. Patient confidentiality."
"Of course, of course. I'm not asking for details." He cut into his meat, the knife scraping against the plate. "I just want to make sure you're being careful. Men like those involved in Rome's underworld they're dangerous. I don't want you getting caught up in something that could hurt you."
"I'm a surgeon. I save lives. That's all."
"I know, tesoro. But sometimes saving a life creates complications. Obligations. Expectations." He looked up, meeting her eyes. "If this man or his associates try to contact you, I want you to tell me immediately. Let me handle it."
The room felt smaller suddenly. Warmer. Like the air had been sucked out.
"Why would they contact me?"
"They might not. But these men remember debts. And they have ways of repaying them that aren't always... appropriate." Bruno's expression softened. "I'm just trying to protect you. Like I always have."
Like he always had. By keeping her in the dark. By building walls between her and whatever world he actually lived in. By raising her to be good and innocent while he did things she was only now beginning to suspect.
"I'll be careful," she said.
"Good." He smiled, the tension breaking. "Now, enough serious talk. Tell me about this conference in Florence. Are you presenting?"
They fell into easier conversation. Medical cases she could discuss. Research she was excited about. Sienna's boyfriend and his awkward attempts to impress Sienna's parents. Normal things. Safe things.
But underneath it all, Aria's mind kept circling back to what she'd overheard.
"Dante Moretti is sniffing around my business."
"We dealt with his family."
"The boy died. We made sure of it."
By the time dinner ended, Aria felt like she was going to shatter. She pleaded exhaustion, refusing Bruno's offer of coffee and dessert, accepting his embrace at the door.
"I love you, tesoro," he said, holding her gently. "More than anything in this world. Everything I've ever done has been to protect you. Remember that."
The words felt like a warning.
Aria drove home in a daze, her hands gripping the steering wheel too tight, her mind a chaos of questions she didn't know how to answer.
When she finally made it back to her apartment, she locked the door behind her and leaned against it, breathing hard.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket.
A message from DM: Looking forward to tomorrow. Sleep well, dottoressa.
Aria stared at the message for a long moment. Then she scrolled up to their earlier conversation, rereading the texts that had led to her agreeing to coffee.
Just as two people who keep thinking about each other.
Her father had said Dante was "sniffing around his business." Had implied he was dangerous. Had practically ordered her to stay away from him.
But her father had also implied he'd killed Dante's family. Had talked about "dealing with" Dante the same way.
Which one of them was the threat?
Or were they both?
Aria's fingers moved before her brain could stop them: You too.
She set down the phone and walked to the window, looking out over Rome's glittering lights. Somewhere out there was the truth. About her father. About Dante. About whatever connection existed between them that had pulled her into the middle of something she didn't understand.
Tomorrow morning, she'd meet Dante for coffee. And maybe, finally, she'd start getting answers.
Or maybe she'd just dig herself deeper into whatever this was.
Either way, she was done pretending she could walk away.
Her phone rang, shattering the silence.
Unknown number.
Aria's hand hesitated over the screen. Every instinct screamed to ignore it. But curiosity or maybe something darker made her answer.
"Hello?"
Silence. Then a voice male, unfamiliar, with a thick Roman accent.
"Dr. Salvini. I apologize for calling so late."
Her chest tightened. "Who is this?"
"A friend. Someone who wants to make sure you understand what you're walking into tomorrow morning." The voice was calm, almost gentle. Which somehow made it more terrifying. "Dante Moretti isn't who you think he is."
Aria's blood turned to ice. "How do you know—"
"He's using you. To get to your father. Everything he's done, everything he will do it's all part of a plan that started the night you saved his life."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Yes, you do. You heard your father tonight. You know there's history between them." A pause. "What you don't know is that Dante survived the massacre that killed his family. He was fifteen years old when your father's men murdered his parents and his eight-year-old sister."
Aria sank onto her couch, legs unable to support her.
The voice continued, relentless. "He's spent twenty years building an empire, gathering power, waiting for the perfect opportunity for revenge. And then you saved his life. Bruno Salvini's daughter. The universe handed him the perfect weapon."
"You're lying."
"Am I? Then why hasn't he told you his last name? Why does he text from a burner phone? Why did he give you that card with just a number, no name, no context?" The voice softened. "He's not falling for you, Dr. Salvini. He's recruiting you."
"Who are you?"
"Someone who's been watching Dante for a long time. Someone who knows what he's capable of." A pause. "Don't go tomorrow. For your own safety. Whatever he's planning, it ends with your father dead and you destroyed. Walk away while you still can."
The line went dead.
Aria sat frozen, phone pressed to her ear, the dial tone buzzing like an insect trapped in her skull.
Her work phone buzzed on the coffee table.
She reached for it with shaking hands.
A text from an unknown number. Not Dante's.
A photo.
Aria's breath stopped.
The image showed a young family. A man, a woman, two children a teenage boy and a little girl with dark curls and a gap-toothed smile. They were at a park, laughing, the boy holding his sister on his shoulders. Happy. Normal. Alive.
The kind of family photo you'd frame and put on a mantle.
Except this family was dead.
The message beneath read: The Moretti family. Twenty years ago. Before your father ordered their execution.
Another photo loaded.
This one made Aria's stomach turn.
Crime scene. Blood spray on white walls. Small bodies covered with sheets. Police tape. A chalk outline of a child no bigger than a doll.
His parents. His eight-year-old sister Angelina. Murdered in their home while the boy hid and watched.
Another image. A teenage boy being led away by police, his face blank with shock, blood spattered on his clothes. Dark eyes that looked hollow.
Dante Moretti. Age 15. The only survivor.
The final message appeared: 8 AM tomorrow. Signora Lucia's café. He'll be charming. He'll make you feel special. He'll make you trust him. And then he'll use you to destroy everything you love.
The only question is: will you let him?
Aria dropped the phone like it had burned her.
She sat in her dark apartment, surrounded by unanswered questions and terrifying possibilities, staring at the photos that had just rewritten her entire reality.
That little girl in the first photo laughing, innocent, loved had been murdered. And her father had given the order.
That teenage boy with the hollow eyes had grown into the man she'd saved. The man she'd been texting. The man she'd agreed to meet for coffee.
We dealt with his family. The boy died. We made sure of it.
Except the boy hadn't died.
He'd survived. Grown up. Built an empire.
And now he was waiting for her, probably counting on her being too naive, too trusting, too desperate for answers to see the trap closing around her.
Aria stood on shaking legs and walked to her bedroom. She pulled out clothes for tomorrow. Dark jeans. A sweater. Boots she could run in if necessary.
She was going to that coffee date.
Not because she trusted Dante.
Not because she didn't believe what the anonymous caller had said.
But because she needed to look him in the eyes and really know if the man she'd saved was using her as a weapon against her own father.
And if he was?
Then God helped them both.
Because Aria Salvini might be a surgeon dedicated to saving lives.
But she was also Bruno Salvini's daughter.
And if someone thought they could use her without consequences, they were about to learn a very painful lesson.
Her phone buzzed again. Another unknown number.
Your father knows about tomorrow's meeting. He's sending Gavino to follow you.
Aria's blood ran cold. Gavino, her father's head of security. The man who made even hardened criminals nervous.
Another message: Whatever happens at that café, you won't be doing it alone.
A third message, different number: And neither will Dante. He's bringing Rocco. His right-hand man.
A fourth: 8 AM is going to be very interesting, Dr. Salvini. Try not to get caught in the crossfire.
Aria stared at her phone, at the cascade of messages from people who clearly knew more about her life than she did.
Tomorrow morning wasn't a coffee date.
It was an ambush. With multiple players. Multiple agendas.
And she was walking straight into the middle of it.
She should cancel. Should text Dante and make an excuse. Should stay as far away from this disaster as possible.
Instead, she set her alarm for 6 AM and climbed into bed fully clothed, knowing she wouldn't sleep.
Seven hours until coffee.
Seven hours until she confronted the man who might be using her for revenge.
Seven hours until she learned whether her father was a murderer or whether someone was playing an elaborate game with all of them.
Aria closed her eyes, seeing that little girl's face. Angelina Moretti. Eight years old. Murdered.
If her father had really done that if he'd really ordered the death of a child then everything she thought she knew about him was a lie.
And if Dante was using her for revenge against that monster?
Maybe he had the right.
Her phone buzzed one final time.
Unknown number: Wear something you don't mind getting blood on. Just in case.
Aria's eyes snapped open.
She stared at the ceiling, heart pounding, and realized that tomorrow morning, one way or another, her life was about to change forever.
The only question was whether she'd survive it.