Chapter 7: Helena's Letters

The Moretti family estate sat behind iron gates in the hills of Westchester, a sprawling stone mansion that looked like it had been transplanted directly from the Italian countryside. As Julian's black sedan wound up the long driveway, Elara pressed her face to the window, taking in manicured gardens, marble fountains, and enough security cameras to monitor a small country.

"This is where Helena lived after they married," Julian said, following her gaze. "Carlo bought it for her in 1963, after the restaurant business became... more complicated."

The euphemism wasn't lost on Elara. After reading Helena's journal entries from the restaurant, she was beginning to understand that the Moretti family's transition from legitimate business to something darker had been gradual but inevitable. Each entry revealed another layer of the world Helena had chosen to inhabit—dinner parties where business rivals disappeared permanently, late-night phone calls that sent Carlo racing into the city with a gun, charity events that were really negotiations between competing crime families.

And through it all, Helena had loved him with a fierce devotion that both thrilled and terrified Elara.

"She was happy here," Julian continued as they pulled up to the main entrance. "Or as happy as someone could be while constantly looking over their shoulder."

The interior of the house was breathtaking—soaring ceilings, original artwork, antique furniture that belonged in museums. But it was also clearly a fortress, with steel-reinforced doors, bulletproof windows, and sight lines that allowed surveillance of every approach. Helena might have lived in luxury, but she'd also lived in a beautiful prison.

Julian led her through corridors lined with family photographs, past a living room that looked like it had been staged for Architectural Digest, to a heavy wooden door at the end of a quiet hallway.

"This was her private study," he said, producing an old-fashioned skeleton key. "No one's been inside since she died except for me."

The door opened with a soft creak, and Elara stepped into what felt like a shrine to the written word. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined three walls, filled with everything from classic literature to contemporary romance novels. A massive oak desk sat positioned to catch the afternoon light streaming through tall windows, and scattered across its surface were papers, photographs, and what looked like correspondence dating back decades.

But it was the fourth wall that made Elara's breath catch. It was covered entirely with photographs—not the formal family portraits that graced the rest of the house, but candid shots that told a story of passionate, complicated love. Carlo laughing at something off-camera. Helena in a wedding dress that was simpler and more elegant than anything in the fashion magazines. The two of them dancing at what looked like a family celebration, lost in each other despite the crowd around them.

"She kept everything," Julian said softly, moving to the desk and opening the top drawer. "Every letter, every photograph, every scrap of paper that meant something to their story."

He pulled out a wooden box that looked ancient, its surface worn smooth by countless hands. When he opened it, Elara could see it was filled with envelopes, some yellowed with age, others more recent.

"These are the letters Carlo wrote to her whenever business took him away from home. Some of them are from when they were courting, before they married. Others..." Julian's expression grew darker. "Others are from later, when the separations became longer and more dangerous."

Elara approached the box like it contained explosives. In a way, it did—these letters represented the raw, unfiltered emotions that had inspired Eterno, the real conversations between two people navigating love in impossible circumstances.

"May I?"

Julian nodded, settling into the chair behind Helena's desk. "Read whatever you want. But understand that once you know these details, you'll be carrying secrets that people have killed to protect."

The first letter Elara pulled from the box was dated March 1961, barely a year after Carlo and Helena had met:

My dearest Helena,

I know I have no right to ask you to wait for me, but I cannot help myself. This business in Philadelphia will take longer than expected, and every day away from you feels like a year. I dream of your laugh, of the way you tilt your head when you're thinking, of how you fit perfectly against my side when we dance.

There are things happening here that I cannot write about, choices I'm making that will change everything between us. When I return, I will have to tell you truths about myself and my family that may frighten you. I pray that your love is strong enough to survive what I've become.

Until I hold you again, Carlo

Elara's hands were shaking as she set the letter aside. Even in this early correspondence, the shadow of the family business was already falling across their relationship. She could imagine Helena receiving this letter, reading between the lines, understanding that the man she loved was walking a path that would take him further and further from the light.

The next letter was dated six months later:

Helena,

I cannot sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I see your face when I told you about Chicago. You looked at me like I was a stranger, and perhaps I am. Perhaps the man you fell in love with never existed at all.

But I need you to understand—everything I do, every choice I make, is to protect the people I love. My father built something from nothing, and men are trying to take it away through violence and intimidation. I will not let that happen. I cannot.

If you choose to walk away, I will understand. But if you stay, you must know that there will be no going back. My world is not safe, and it is not clean, and loving me means accepting that darkness as part of our life together.

I am not a good man, Helena. But I am yours, completely and forever, if you'll have me.

Carlo

"This was written the night after he told her about his first kill," Julian said quietly, watching Elara's face as she read. "Three men had tried to extort money from the restaurant. When they escalated to threats against Helena, Carlo... handled the situation permanently."

Elara set the letter down with hands that weren't quite steady. The romantic hero of Eterno had been passionate and dangerous, but he'd also been sanitized for fiction. The real Carlo Moretti had been something darker, more complicated. A man capable of terrible violence in service of those he loved.

"She stayed," Elara whispered.

"She did more than stay. Look at the next one."

Helena's response was written in her careful script on cream-colored stationary:

My darling Carlo,

You are wrong about so many things. You are wrong when you say you're not a good man—I have seen your kindness, your loyalty, your willingness to sacrifice everything for the people you love. You are wrong when you say I might not understand—I understand perfectly that you are trying to protect me from choices you've already made.

But you are most wrong when you suggest I might walk away. I fell in love with your soul, not your circumstances. I see the man you are underneath the roles you have to play, and that man is worth any risk.

I will not pretend that I'm not frightened. I will not pretend that I don't sometimes lie awake wondering what kind of life we're building together. But I choose this, Carlo. I choose you, and I choose us, and I choose to believe that love can exist even in darkness.

Whatever comes next, we face it together.

Forever yours, Helena

Tears blurred Elara's vision as she finished reading. This was the woman who had written Eterno—not some naive romantic, but someone who had looked directly into the heart of darkness and chosen love anyway. Someone who had understood exactly what she was getting into and embraced it with both hands.

"There are dozens more," Julian said. "Letters from business trips that turned dangerous, from times when Carlo had to disappear for weeks while rival families made moves against him. Helena's responses show her growing from a frightened young woman into someone who could pack a gun in her purse and smile at dinner parties with people who wanted her husband dead."

Elara moved to another section of the box, pulling out letters from later years. These were different—less romantic, more practical, but somehow even more intimate:

C - The Torrino situation is handled. Lucia knows to keep her mouth shut about what she saw. The cleanup crew you recommended was thorough and professional. No one will connect this back to us.

H - Thank you for trusting me with this. I know it goes against your instincts to involve me in business matters, but I'm not the same woman you married. I can't pretend I don't see what's happening around us.

H - Vincent called again about the book. He's getting more insistent about having it pulled from circulation. I told him we'd discussed it and agreed to let sleeping dogs lie, but I don't think he believed me.

C - Your brother worries too much. The book is fiction, and you were careful to change enough details. Anyone who tries to connect it to our family will find themselves chasing shadows.

H - I hope you're right. But if something happens to me, if Vincent or anyone else tries to silence me, promise me you'll make sure the real story survives. Promise me that what we have won't be forgotten.

Elara's blood ran cold as she read the final exchange. Vincent—Julian's uncle, the man who had ordered the cease and desist letter, who had been sanitizing Helena's book for years. He'd been trying to bury the story since its original publication.

"When was this written?" she asked.

Julian leaned over to check the date. "1987. Two years before Helena died."

"How did she die?"

The silence that followed was answer enough. Julian's jaw tightened, and for a moment he looked exactly like the dangerous men whose photographs lined Helena's wall.

"Car accident," he said finally. "Brake failure on a mountain road in upstate New York. Very tragic. Very convenient."

The implication hit Elara like a physical blow. "Vincent had her killed."

"Vincent had her silenced. There's a difference, though I'm not sure Helena would have appreciated the distinction."

Elara sank into a chair beside the desk, overwhelmed by the weight of what she was learning. Helena Moretti hadn't just written a romance novel—she'd written a confession, a memoir, a testament to a love that had cost her everything, including eventually her life.

"This is why you're showing me all of this," she said. "This is why you agreed to help me. It's not about honoring Helena's memory—it's about making sure Vincent doesn't get away with murdering her."

Julian's smile was sharp and completely without warmth. "My grandmother deserved better than a sanitized love story and an unmarked grave. And Vincent deserves exactly what's coming to him."

As if summoned by his name, footsteps echoed in the hallway outside the study. Julian immediately moved to block the door, his hand moving instinctively toward what Elara now realized was probably a concealed weapon.

"Julian?" A voice called through the door—cultured, authoritative, and chillingly familiar from the threatening phone calls Elara had received. "I know you're in there, and I know you're not alone."

Vincent Moretti had found them.