Chapter 2 Traces of Fire

I couldn't sleep.

I just kept staring at that message.

Stop asking questions, Ethan. Or you'll end up just like her.

The words glowed on my phone like a threat etched in fire. My aunt, Eleanor. The woman who disappeared from our family history like a shadow erased. And now Rossy-this quiet cleaner who somehow carried a piece of her.

None of this made sense. But I knew one thing:

It wasn't a warning. It was a challenge.

By morning, I was already in the office-early. Earlier than anyone else. I barely noticed the Milan skyline anymore. All I could see was that photograph burning in my head. Rossy's young smile, Eleanor's soft hand on her shoulder, and the building that no longer existed.

My phone buzzed. Luca.

"Boss," he said. "I think you should see this in person."

I met him in the basement archive-one of the few places in the building that still smelled like old paper and dust. He handed me a folder marked Internal Reports – Confidential.

"Where did you get this?" I asked.

"I had to pull strings. Big ones. It's a scanned file from the foundation division before the fire."

I flipped through it, heart racing. My fingers paused on a page titled Special Beneficiary Approval – R.M.

"Rossy Moretti," Luca confirmed.

I looked up sharply. "She was officially listed?"

"Yes. Under a program started by your aunt Eleanor. She wasn't just a donor-she was managing the orphanage herself. Quietly. Off the books. That's why no one in the family talked about it."

I clenched the folder tighter. "So why the fire?"

Luca hesitated. "That's the strange part. Two weeks before the incident, all the program records were pulled, the account frozen, and then the fire happened. And your cousin Dario signed the closure forms."

I swore under my breath.

Dario again.

"How long do you think he's known about Rossy?" I asked.

Luca shrugged. "Maybe always. Maybe not. But if she's who we think she is..."

"She's not just a girl with a mop," I muttered. "She's blood."

Luca didn't respond, but I could see the worry on his face.

I was digging into something deeper than I expected.

Later that day, I waited again.

Rossy came in right on time-7:12 p.m., mop cart rolling silently across the marble.

She saw me this time, standing near the elevators.

She stopped.

I walked over, calm but deliberate.

"We need to talk," I said.

Her hand tightened around the mop handle. "About what?"

"You know what."

She sighed. "You saw the photo."

I nodded. "And now I've seen more. Records. Reports. Your name is in them."

She looked down. "So you know."

"No," I said. "I don't. I know pieces. I need the rest."

She hesitated for a long moment. Then said, "Not here."

We went to the staff lounge, a place I hadn't been in since I was a teenager visiting my father at work. It smelled like coffee and files. Rossy sat next to me, still wearing her uniform, but her eyes looked older than twenty-five. Eyes that had seen too much.

"I don't remember everything," she began. "Only flashes."

"Start with what you do remember."

"There was a fire," she said quietly. "Late at night. I remember being woken up by shouting. I smelled smoke. Someone carried me out. I think it was a man. I never saw his face."

"Do you remember Eleanor?"

She nodded. "She was kind. She used to visit. She'd bring books. She'd read to us, even though we were just kids in a broken home. But one day, she stopped coming. The staff said she died in a car crash. Then the mood changed. The donations stopped. Then the fire."

I leaned in. "You were what-six? Seven?"

"Six."

"And after the fire?"

"I was taken to another shelter. Different city. Different name. I didn't know why until I found the photo a few years ago, hidden in my old things. I knew that face. I searched for her name. And I ended up here."

"You came to Edmond Group on purpose."

She nodded once. "I needed answers. But I didn't want to draw attention. I needed to be invisible."

I let that sink in.

"What if I told you someone's trying to erase you again?" I asked.

She went pale. "What do you mean?"

I pulled the envelope from my coat and laid it on the table.

She opened it with shaking hands.

The fire photo.

She swallowed hard. "Who gave you this?"

"I don't know. But someone's watching. And they don't want us talking."

She leaned back, the picture trembling in her hand. "Then we stop. You walk away. This isn't your fight."

"You're wrong," I said. "It became my fight the moment my family's name appeared in those files. The moment you dropped that photo."

Her voice souded ike a whisper. "You don't understand. They'll do anything to protect the legacy. Anything."

"I know."

And I meant it.

Because I grew up inside the machine that taught me legacy mattered more than truth, love, or life.

But this time?

I wasn't going to play their game.

The next morning, I entered the boardroom for the weekly strategy meeting.

Dario was already there, flashing his polished smile, sipping espresso like nothing could touch him.

"Morning, cousin," he said. "You look tired."

"Didn't sleep well," I said, sitting opposite him. "Strange dreams."

He smirked. "Work stress, no doubt."

I watched him over the rim of my coffee cup. Every inch of him oozed control. Confidence. But I was starting to see the cracks.

The fire.

The sealed records.

The anonymous warning.

Dario wasn't just a player in this story.

He was the one pulling the strings.

And now, I needed to pull back the curtain.

That night, I waited again for Rossy. But she didn't come.

I called Luca. "Is Rossy clocked in?"

"She never showed up," he said.

My stomach sank. "Find her."

"I'll check the staff logs. Maybe she called in."

"No," I cut in. "I don't think this is a coincidence."

I hung up.

Rushed to the security office.

"Pull the footage from the west exit," I barked at the guard. "Between six and seven p.m."

He hesitated, but I flashed my ID.

The footage loaded.

6:42 p.m. Rossy stepping out the side door.

Then, a black car pulls up. No plates.

She stopped.

Someone opened the door from the inside.

She turned to run,

But someone grabbed her.

The feed was cut to static.

My blood froze.

As I stared at the screen, my fists clenched.

Rossy was gone.

And now I knew: this wasn't just about family history anymore.

This was a cover-up.

And someone was willing to destroy her to keep it buried