Whispers: A game of Lies & Deceit

Moretti Mansion

Through my closed eyes I felt the cold sea breeze ripple, unfold and flirt with the sheer tulle separating my bedroom from the open door. Large raindrops fell, hitting the floor and furniture on the balcony, spreading moisture throughout the room I'd lived in for the past year.

Alessandro's father had started the hotel business (the hotel where Costa had put me up when I arrived in Naples was his father's legacy) and years later I decided to build my own in Amalfi.

It seemed a promising idea because the coast was very popular with tourists who wanted to wake up with a view of the sea, walk up the stairs carved into the rock, visit the roof gardens — the town itself is quite small, so my job was to do my best to ensure that visitors not only stayed as long as possible, but returned again and again.

In my hotel, I have combined classical architecture, which allows people to enjoy the picturesque views while having a cup of coffee at breakfast or dinner, expensive furniture made of high quality materials and decorated with harmonious details, with the Italian spirit, which means passion for life, love of beauty, art and food; every millimetre of this building was the embodiment of the uniqueness of language and music, cinema and fashion, design and cooking.

My father once created his oasis in London to make exiled people feel at home. I wanted people to see Amalfi as I see it — quiet, free, vibrant, alive.

I opened my eyes slowly, sinking into the familiar greyness of the past few days. My hotel room was large, or rather, it was a combination of several rooms — a bedroom, a bathroom, and an office.

My body was pinned to the bed with a plaid, as I had been too tired last night to spread the blanket and remove the decorative pillows; leaving the door to the balcony fully open, I fell asleep to the sounds of rain and crashing waves, I think I even heard seagulls.

I closed my eyes again, listening to the steady beat of the drops, so unremarkable but significant — the overcast weather had not left Amalfi since my arrival.

I threw off my thick blanket and got out of the soft bed, heading barefoot to the balcony, where the cold wind instantly blew my hair; my silk pyjamas were immediately wet, making large stains, but I continued to breathe deeply of the sea air, watching the city from high above, as I could see it.

The streets were empty.

Tourists preferred not to leave the confines of the hotel in this weather, and the locals stayed in their homes, only the rough raindrops cutting through the stones.

Six hours ago, just as I was about to fall asleep, Vito had sent me a message saying that Rafaele and Lynette had left for Naples. I couldn't stop worrying about my brother's safety; the week I'd spent away from him had kept me guessing about Weber's next move, and even though my deputy was keeping me updated not only on the situation at Silvio's house but also on business, I felt uncomfortable, out of place, not in complete control of what was going on.

Ashton hadn't turned up: not a single trace, not a single clue — apart from the dead mercenary's words, I had nothing; he'd disappeared as suddenly as he'd appeared, which sometimes made me doubt that the man had ever been involved in a shooting or arson. But Vito had managed to locate Salvatore Rossi, the man who had organised the attack on the castle; he was in Thailand, and all that remained was to get the exact address, after which I would be able to catch the man and get Weber through him.

I exhaled noisily and took a few steps back, walking back to the warm room and closing the balcony door tightly. I knew where Rafaele was going. I needed to get ready.

I didn't tell my brother about Weber's return. Vito did. My deputy was able to structure all the hunches into a coherent sense and relay them to Rafaele, from Ashton's first appearance in London to the attempts to burn down the casino and shoot up the castle.