Chapter 8: An Unwanted Audience

The door to Helena's study opened with deliberate slowness, and Vincent Moretti stepped inside like he owned the world—which, Elara was beginning to realize, he probably did. He was older than Julian, maybe in his late fifties, with silver threading through dark hair and the kind of cold, calculating eyes that suggested he'd seen everything and been impressed by none of it.

He was also exactly the kind of man Helena would have written as a villain.

"Uncle Vincent." Julian's voice was carefully neutral, but Elara could see the tension in his shoulders, the way he positioned himself between her and the door. "I wasn't expecting you."

"Clearly." Vincent's gaze swept over the scattered letters, the open journal, and finally settled on Elara with the kind of attention that made her skin crawl. "Ms. Vance, I presume. You're smaller than I expected."

"Sorry to disappoint," Elara managed, proud that her voice came out steady despite the fact that her heart was hammering against her ribs.

Vincent smiled, and it was the most terrifying expression she'd ever seen—polite, cultured, and absolutely devoid of warmth. "Oh, you haven't disappointed me at all. In fact, you've exceeded my expectations in every possible way."

He moved further into the room, his expensive shoes silent on the Persian carpet. Everything about him screamed old money and older violence—the kind of man who could order someone's death over lunch and still make his afternoon tea time.

"I have to admit, I'm impressed by your thoroughness," Vincent continued, picking up one of Helena's letters with casual familiarity. "Most people would have been satisfied with the sanitized version of my sister-in-law's little romance novel. But you just couldn't let sleeping dogs lie, could you?"

"The public has a right to know when their books are being altered without consent," Elara said, lifting her chin despite the fear coursing through her veins.

Vincent laughed, and the sound was like glass breaking. "The public has a right to live in blissful ignorance, my dear. Some stories are too dangerous for general consumption."

"Says who?"

"Says the man who's spent thirty years cleaning up the messes left by people who think the truth is more important than survival." Vincent set the letter down with deliberate care. "Helena was a brilliant woman, but she was also naive. She thought love conquered all, that passion could overcome pragmatism. She was wrong."

Julian moved slightly, and Elara caught the subtle shift in his posture that suggested he was preparing for violence. "Helena understood exactly what she was risking. That's what made her brave."

"Helena got herself killed because she couldn't understand that some secrets are meant to stay buried." Vincent's voice hardened. "Just like Ms. Vance is going to get herself killed if she continues down this path."

The threat was delivered with the same polite tone he might use to comment on the weather, which somehow made it even more chilling.

"Is that what happened to Helena?" Elara asked, surprised by her own boldness. "Did she refuse to keep your secrets buried?"

The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. Vincent's pleasant expression didn't change, but something predatory flickered behind his eyes.

"Helena died in a tragic accident," he said carefully. "Brake failure is so unpredictable in older vehicles."

"Especially when someone has tampered with the brake lines."

Julian shot Elara a warning look, but she was past caring about caution. The letters she'd just read had painted a picture of a woman who'd faced down killers and crime bosses with nothing but her love for her husband and her determination to tell their story. The least Elara could do was refuse to be intimidated by the man who'd probably ordered her death.

Vincent studied her for a long moment, like a cat deciding whether a mouse was worth the effort of catching.

"You know," he said conversationally, "I actually liked Helena. She was intelligent, loyal to the family, and she understood the importance of discretion. Right up until the end, anyway."

"What changed?" Julian asked, though from his tone, Elara suspected he already knew the answer.

"She started asking questions. About the book, about why certain passages had been removed from later editions, about what would happen to her original manuscript after she was gone." Vincent moved to Helena's desk, running his fingers over the scattered papers like he was reading braille. "She even had the audacity to threaten to go public with the real story if I didn't stop editing her work."

The casual admission hung in the air like smoke from a gun. Vincent had just confessed to murdering Helena, and he'd done it with the same tone someone might use to discuss stock options.

"So you had her killed," Elara breathed.

"I protected the family," Vincent corrected. "Helena's romantic notions about preserving their 'great love story' would have destroyed everything Carlo built. The sanitized version of Eterno keeps people satisfied while protecting our privacy. Everyone wins."

"Except Helena."

"Helena made her choice when she married into this family. She knew the rules."

Julian's hands were clenched into fists now, and Elara could practically feel the violence radiating off him in waves. "She was family. She was under our protection."

"She was a liability," Vincent said dismissively. "Just like Ms. Vance is becoming a liability now."

The words were barely out of his mouth before Julian moved, but Vincent was ready for him. The older man's hand went to something inside his jacket, and suddenly the scholarly atmosphere of Helena's study was charged with the immediate threat of death.

"Now, now," Vincent said mildly, his hand resting on what was obviously a gun. "Let's not make this more complicated than it needs to be."

Julian froze, his dark eyes locked on his uncle with an expression of pure hatred. "If you hurt her—"

"I'm not going to hurt anyone, nephew. I'm simply going to make Ms. Vance an offer she can't refuse." Vincent's attention returned to Elara, and she forced herself not to shrink back under his predatory stare. "You're going to delete your blog posts, issue a public apology for spreading false information, and disappear back to your little bookstore. In return, you get to keep breathing."

"And if I refuse?"

Vincent's smile was sharper than any blade. "Then you'll discover that brake failure isn't the only kind of accident that can befall a curious young woman in New York City."

The silence that followed was deafening. Elara could hear her own heartbeat, could feel Julian's barely contained rage, could sense the weight of forty years of family secrets pressing down on all of them.

She thought about Helena, sitting in this very room, writing letters that revealed her growing understanding of the world she'd married into. Helena, who'd faced down threats and intimidation with nothing but her love for Carlo and her determination to preserve their story. Helena, who'd died because she refused to let her truth be sanitized and forgotten.

"No," Elara said quietly.

Vincent raised an eyebrow. "I beg your pardon?"

"I said no." Elara stood up, her legs shaking but her voice steady. "Helena's story deserves to be told. The real story, not the sanitized version you've been peddling for thirty years. People have a right to know what happened to her."

"People have a right to mind their own business and live peaceful lives," Vincent countered. "You're throwing that away for what? A dead woman's romance novel?"

"I'm fighting for the truth. Helena died because she refused to let you bury her story. I'm not going to let her sacrifice be for nothing."

Vincent studied her for another long moment, then slowly shook his head. "You really are just like her, aren't you? Stubborn, idealistic, completely incapable of understanding when you're outmatched."

His hand moved inside his jacket, and Elara realized with crystal clarity that she was about to die in Helena Moretti's study, surrounded by love letters and family photographs, just like the woman whose story had brought her here.

But then Julian stepped forward, placing himself directly between Vincent's gun and Elara's chest.

"You want to get to her, you go through me," Julian said quietly.

Vincent's expression didn't change, but something flickered in his eyes that might have been surprise. "You're willing to die for a woman you met three days ago?"

"I'm willing to die for what she represents. For the idea that some things are worth more than survival." Julian's voice was steady, certain. "Helena believed that. She died for it. And maybe it's time someone in this family honored that sacrifice."

The standoff stretched between them, uncle and nephew, old guard and new, two different philosophies of what it meant to be a Moretti. Elara held her breath, waiting for the sound of gunfire, for the moment when everything would end in blood and violence.

Instead, Vincent slowly removed his hand from his jacket, empty.

"This isn't over," he said, his cultured voice carrying the promise of future retribution. "Ms. Vance may have won this round, but the game is far from finished."

He moved toward the door, then paused to look back at them. "Helena thought love was stronger than fear, stronger than violence, stronger than the family business. She was wrong then, and you're wrong now. Love doesn't conquer all, Julian. It just makes the fall that much more painful."

After he left, the silence in Helena's study was deafening. Elara sank back into her chair, her entire body shaking with delayed reaction.

"He's going to try to kill me," she whispered.

Julian nodded grimly. "Yes. But not today, and not while I'm protecting you."

"Why?" Elara looked up at him, this dangerous, complicated man who'd just risked his life for hers. "Why are you doing this?"

Julian was quiet for a long moment, his gaze fixed on one of the photographs on Helena's wall—the wedding picture, where she looked up at Carlo with such complete trust and adoration.

"Because thirty years ago, a woman died for refusing to let her love story be forgotten," he said finally. "And maybe it's time someone made sure her death meant something."

As he spoke, Elara realized that somewhere between the restaurant and the family estate, between Helena's letters and Vincent's threats, the nature of their arrangement had fundamentally changed. This wasn't just about uncovering the truth anymore.

It was about survival. It was about justice. And it was about two people who were discovering that some stories were worth dying for.