IZABELLA
It came in an envelope.
No return address. No sender’s name.
Just my full name written in black ink across the front in a handwriting I didn’t recognize.
I found it that morning on the breakfast table, right beside a pot of coffee and a folded napkin. I glanced around the kitchen, expecting Violet or one of the staff to emerge and explain where it came from—but no one did.
A warning bell sounded in my chest. I carried the envelope to my room, closed the door, and opened it with careful fingers.
Inside were photographs and newspaper clippings—dozens of them, some yellowing at the edges, others grainy and black-and-white. A few were printed recently, torn cleanly from modern archives.
The images stopped me cold.
Fabrizio Narducci by name or picture appeared in almost all
