Vienna’s grandeur felt like a painted backdrop for a play hurtling towards its finale. The ghosts were no longer whispering; they were screaming, and Isabella and Alessandro had chosen to scream back.
Elise released the journal online at dawn.
It was a digital earthquake. Antonio Rossi’s meticulous notes were a damning ledger of Vittorio Moretti’s rise, detailing forged “Old Masters” that had fooled museums and funded a criminal empire. The Moretti name was being dragged through the mud of history.
In their hotel suite, Alessandro silenced his erupting phone. “The vultures are circling. The board is demanding my resignation.”
Isabella stood clutching her own phone, her knuckles white. Online, she was being painted as the “Heiress of Lies.”
“They’re calling me the‘Heiress of Lies,’” sh
