Victoria Lane sat down at the grand piano in the middle of the Moretti family engagement reception and started playing a short melody.

Dante stared at the underside of the piano bench. The dark, viscous stain was small—no larger than a coin—but under the bright overhead chandeliers, it possessed a subtle, damp sheen against the royal blue velvet.

"Maria," Dante said, his voice dropping an octave, deadly quiet. "What are you looking at?"

Victoria tried to yank her arm free from Adrian’s grip, but Adrian held her fast, his eyes wild as he stared at Dante. "Dante, let it go! You're making a scene in front of the board members! Victoria made a mistake—she probably heard Clara humming it years ago!"

"Clara vanished three years ago, Adrian," Dante said, stepping closer to his stepbrother, his chest heaving as he kept Lily pressed securely against his shoulder. "Victoria didn't enter our social circle until six months ago. She never met my wife. She never stepped foot in this house while Clara was alive."

Lily buried her face in Dante’s neck, her tiny fingers clutching the lapel of his tailored tuxedo jacket. "Daddy... the bench is cold," she whimpered softly. "Mommy put her papers in the bench."

Victoria let out a high-pitched, breathless laugh. "Dante, please! You're listening to a toddler! I played a random arrangement of chords! It was an improvisation! I have no idea who your dead wife was or what she wrote!"

"Then why are you shaking, Victoria?" Dante asked, his eyes narrowing into cold slits of obsidian.

He didn't wait for an answer. Dante shifted Lily into his left arm, stepped up onto the carpeted riser, and reached out his right hand toward the brass latches of the piano bench.

"Don't touch that!" Adrian shouted, lunging forward to grab Dante’s forearm.

Dante didn't hesitate. He pivoted on his heel and drove his elbow hard into Adrian’s chest. The impact knocked the breath out of the younger man, sending Adrian stumbling back into a towering pyramid of crystal champagne glasses. The glass crashed to the floor in a deafening cascade, red wine and golden alcohol splashing across the white marble like blood.

The crowd of guests gasped in horror, several women crying out as security guards rushed toward the stage.

"Nobody moves!" Dante roared, pointing a finger at the head of his personal security team, Marcus. "Marcus, lock the doors! Nobody leaves this ballroom! Not a single guest, not a single servant!"

"Yes, Mr. Moretti," Marcus replied, pulling his jacket aside to rest his hand on his sidearm as he signaled his men to seal the heavy mahogany exit doors.

Victoria looked like she was about to faint. She leaned heavily against the piano, her manicured nails digging into the polished mahogany finish, leaving faint smudges on the lacquer.

Dario ignored her panic. He crouched beside the piano bench. The antique piece had been custom-built in Milan for Clara when they were married. It featured a dual-lever key lock system—a lock to which only two keys existed. One hung on Dante's key ring. The other had been around Clara's neck the night she vanished.

Dante reached into his pocket, pulled out his heavy brass keyring, and inserted the tiny skeleton key into the right-hand latch.

It clicked softly.

He looked down at the left latch. It was already unlocked.

Dante's heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. Someone had opened this bench recently. Someone had unlocked the left latch and forgotten to re-secure it.

With steady, deliberate fingers, Dante lifted the heavy velvet lid.

A sharp, metallic odor immediately drifted into the air—the unmistakably sweet, sickening smell of dried blood, aged paper, and stale perfume.

Inside the lined compartment lay a thick, leather-bound journal, its pages yellowed and water-damaged. Resting directly on top of the journal was a thin, delicate platinum chain holding a key—Clara’s key. And painted across the inside cover of the journal, written in Clara’s swift, unmistakable cursive handwriting, was a short musical score titled: Lullaby for Lily.

Beside the book sat an encrypted USB drive, stained with the exact same dark fluid that had seeped through the velvet cushion.

Dante felt the floor beneath him tilt. He picked up the leather journal with trembling fingers, opening to the final entry, dated October 14th, three years ago—the night Clara disappeared.

The entry was short, written in jagged, hurried strokes:

If I do not wake up tomorrow, check the Moretti offshore ledger. Adrian knows about the missing funds. Victoria is helping him transfer the titles. They think I'm asleep. God help my baby girl.