Chapter 2: The Rabbit Hole

Elara's phone wouldn't stop buzzing.

She'd fallen asleep at her laptop sometime around dawn, her cheek pressed against the keyboard, Eterno still clutched in her arms like a shield. Now, six hours later, she was jolted awake by the relentless notification sounds echoing through The Last Chapter.

"What the hell?" she mumbled, peeling her face off the keys and wincing at the indent pattern on her cheek. Her blog dashboard was exploding with activity—comments, shares, reposts cascading down the screen faster than she could process.

672 comments. 3,847 shares. 15,231 views.

Her modest book blog had never seen numbers like this. Her usual posts about hidden literary gems and vintage book restoration tips averaged maybe fifty views and a handful of comments from her small but devoted readership. This was... this was viral.

Elara scrolled through the comments, her heart racing as she read response after response:

BookishBabe47: HOLY SHIT. I thought I was going crazy! I reread my favorite scene from Eterno last month and it felt completely different. I blamed it on nostalgia goggles but YOU'RE RIGHT.

RomanceReader2010: This is terrifying. What other books have been changed? How would we even know?

VintageVixen: I've been collecting first editions for twenty years and this is EXACTLY why. They can't change what's already in print. Digital books are not books—they're just permission to read until someone decides you can't.

LiteraryDetective: @EllaReads I'm a librarian and I'm looking into this. The copyright dates don't match up either. Something fishy is definitely happening.

The validation felt like a drug. For twelve years, she'd been the girl who lived too much in books, who couldn't find real love because she was chasing fictional standards. Her friends teased her about her "book boyfriend addiction," her parents worried she'd end up alone with her cats and her novels. But here were hundreds of readers who understood, who felt the same betrayal she did.

She was about to reply to some of the comments when a new notification popped up—a private message. Her blood chilled as she read the sender: Anonymous User.

Some stories should stay buried.

You're digging in a graveyard, Miss Vance. The dead don't like to be disturbed. Neither do the living who put them there.

Stop now, while you still can.

Elara's hands shook as she read the message again. Someone knew her real name. Someone was watching her closely enough to know exactly what she'd posted and when. The timestamp showed the message had been sent just twenty minutes ago, which meant whoever sent it was actively monitoring her blog's response.

She screenshotted the message and immediately forwarded it to Kate with a text: Call me. NOW.

Her phone rang within seconds.

"Elara, what the fuck is this? Are you being threatened?"

"I think so." Elara's voice came out smaller than she intended. "Kate, my blog post about Eterno went viral overnight. Hundreds of people are saying the same thing happened to other books they loved. But someone doesn't want me talking about it."

"Okay, slow down. Start from the beginning."

Elara filled Kate in on everything—the discovery, the blog post, the explosive response, and now the anonymous threat. As she talked, she found herself pacing the narrow aisles of her bookstore, running her fingers along the spines of physical books that couldn't be altered with the click of a button.

"So what are you going to do?" Kate asked when she finished.

"I'm going to keep digging."

"Elara—"

"No, listen to me. This isn't just about one book anymore. Look at these comments—people are talking about dozens of books that have been changed without notice. Classic literature, contemporary fiction, romance novels. Someone is systematically sanitizing our stories, and they're doing it quietly, counting on the fact that most people don't keep physical copies anymore."

She pulled up another forum tab she'd been monitoring. The discussion had spread beyond her blog to Reddit, Twitter, and specialized book communities. Someone had started a spreadsheet documenting altered books. Another person had created a hashtag: #SaveOurStories.

"This is bigger than me now, Kate. If I stop, who's going to keep asking questions? Who's going to make sure people know what's happening?"

Kate sighed. "You know I support you, but that message sounds serious. Maybe you should call the police?"

"And tell them what? Someone sent me a vague email telling me to stop blogging about books? They'll think I'm crazy."

Elara refreshed her blog comments and froze. A new comment had appeared, different from the others:

C_Moretti: You're asking the right questions, but you're looking in the wrong places. The truth isn't in the books—it's in the people who wrote them. J.D. Harrow wasn't just a pen name. It was a promise.

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. C_Moretti. The name felt significant somehow, like a key turning in a lock she didn't know existed.

"Kate, I have to go. Someone just left a comment that might be a lead."

"Elara, please be careful. I'm coming over after work, okay? Don't do anything stupid before I get there."

After Kate hung up, Elara stared at the screen. C_Moretti. She opened a new browser window and began typing, her research skills—honed by years of tracking down rare books and obscure literary connections—kicking into high gear.

Moretti New York brought up dozens of results. Moretti Construction, Moretti Catering, Moretti & Associates Legal Services. But one result made her breath catch: Moretti Enterprises - International Security and Logistics.

The company's website was sleek and professional, all clean lines and corporate speak about "comprehensive security solutions" and "global logistics management." But it was the photo on the leadership page that made her heart skip.

Julian Moretti, CEO and Chairman. Dark hair, sharp jawline, eyes that seemed to stare right through the camera lens. He looked like he'd stepped off the cover of a romance novel—specifically, he looked like her mental image of Carmine Rossini.

Elara's hands were shaking again, but this time from excitement rather than fear. She pulled up every search result she could find about Julian Moretti. Business journal profiles, charity event photos, a few brief interviews about his company's expansion into international markets. He was thirty-two, unmarried, had taken over the family business from his father five years ago. The company had been founded in the 1950s by his grandfather, Carlo Moretti.

Carlo. Not Carmine, but close enough to make her pulse race.

She dug deeper, following link after link down the internet rabbit hole. Old newspaper articles about the Moretti family's rise in New York business circles. Society page photos from decades past. And then, buried in a 1960s wedding announcement, she found it:

Carlo Moretti, son of Vincent Moretti, wed Miss Helena Rosso in a private ceremony at St. Patrick's Cathedral...

Helena. Not Isabella, but another Italian name starting with the same letter. Elara's heart was pounding now. The parallels were too close to be coincidental.

She grabbed her copy of Eterno and flipped to the dedication page: "For H., who taught me that some loves are worth dying for."

H for Helena.

"Holy shit," she whispered to the empty bookstore.

Her phone buzzed with another anonymous message: Last warning.

This time, instead of fear, Elara felt a fierce surge of determination. Someone was scared of what she might discover. Someone powerful enough to alter published books, wealthy enough to hire lawyers and send threatening messages. But they'd made a mistake—they'd threatened her, and that only made her more stubborn.

She looked up Moretti Enterprises' address. Midtown Manhattan, not far from Grand Central. A quick train ride from her little bookstore in Brooklyn.

Elara glanced at the clock. 2:30 PM. If she left now, she could be there by 4:00. She could walk into Julian Moretti's office and ask him directly about the connection between his family and J.D. Harrow.

It was probably stupid. It was definitely impulsive. Kate would kill her.

But as she looked around her bookstore—her sanctuary built on the belief that stories mattered—she knew she didn't have a choice. Someone was erasing the story that had shaped her life, and she was going to find out why.

She grabbed her purse, locked up the store, and headed for the subway. Behind her, Eterno lay open on her desk, Carmine's passionate words still burning on the page like a promise waiting to be kept.

The anonymous messages had been meant to scare her away. Instead, they'd confirmed what she'd suspected: she was onto something big, something someone desperately wanted to keep buried.

Well, Elara Vance had built her life around digging up buried stories. And she was just getting started.