Chapter 54 – In the Shadow of the Orchard
Chapter 54 – In the Shadow of the Orchard
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Damp air hung thick in the underground vault. Aurora rubbed her arms as goosebumps prickled her skin, though it wasn’t from the cold. It was the silence. The kind that seeped under doors, the kind that remembered everything.
Damon moved first.
He crossed the room toward the projector, brushing dust from the film reels. His fingers paused over one labeled in red ink: C. Moretti – Final Session.
Silas hovered near the shelves stacked with faded documents, some labeled in Cyrillic, others with strange symbols resembling old occult glyphs.
“This isn’t just a study,” he muttered. “It’s a vault. A confession box.”
Aurora picked up a thick ledger, flipping through its pages. Receipts. Shipping manifests. Names. Each one crossed out in red. “These aren’t just business records,” she said. “They’re… eliminations.”
Caleb leaned against the doorframe, listening for movement beyond the room. “If this was Christian’s personal archive, then what the hell did the rest of the family know?”
Damon inserted the reel.
The projector buzzed to life, casting a jittery light against the cracked wall. Silence gave way to static… and then the figure appeared.
Christian Moretti. Or someone wearing his face.
He sat stiffly in a leather chair, speaking directly to the camera.
“If you’re seeing this, then either I’m dead… or you’ve discovered what I buried.”
The man’s voice was calm. Calculated. He didn’t blink.
“The family name means nothing. Not without fear. We were never building an empire. We were hiding one.”
Damon’s hands curled into fists.
“If my sons are watching this—know that you were never meant to follow this path. But if you do… then you’ll need to understand that your inheritance is stained. Not by money. By blood.”
The tape flickered. Another cut. The man leaned closer.
“You think the danger is over. It isn’t. The Revenant is still out there. And if I fail to kill him, he will finish what I started… by turning it all against you.”
The tape ended in a blur of static and sudden black.
Aurora stared at the empty wall. “Did he say… ‘if I fail to kill him’?”
“Revenant,” Damon said flatly. “Not a title. A person.”
“And Christian tried to kill him?” Luca asked, stepping into the doorway with a confused frown. “Then who is it?”
Silas walked to the wall behind the projector. A faded map was pinned there—locations marked with pins and strings. One name stood out at the center.
“Elijah Voss.”
---
Hours later, back at the safehouse, the mood had shifted from shock to strategy. The name was new—but it wasn’t a ghost.
It was a clue.
“Who the hell is Elijah Voss?” Aurora asked, pacing.
Damon answered, voice low. “Someone who got close to me recently. Harmless. Friendly. Too convenient.”
“You think he’s the Revenant?” Luca asked.
“No,” Damon said. “I think he’s the face of something older. A deeper game.”
Caleb nodded. “He might be the puppet. But we need the puppeteer.”
“Christian Moretti,” Aurora whispered. “If he’s still alive—”
“He’s not,” Damon said firmly. “We buried him.”
Silas shook his head. “We buried someone.”
Celeste, who had been silent most of the meeting, finally spoke. “So what now? We chase a ghost using a dead man’s map?”
“No,” Damon replied. “We draw him out.”
---
That night, an invitation was sent.
A fundraiser. Hosted by the Luciano Foundation. Elegant. High-profile. Open to the press.
But the real message was hidden in the invite’s footer, an encrypted code Caleb embedded in the metadata.
To the man behind the mask: I know you’re watching. Come find me. D.M.
---
Three nights later, the event unfolded at the Grand Tivoli Estate.
Glass chandeliers. Live orchestra. Fashion bleeding into politics and philanthropy. The perfect cover for a war disguised as champagne.
Aurora stood by the entrance in a deep wine-red gown that shimmered like danger. Her hair pinned up, her lips bold, her smile—weaponized.
Luca was at her side, charming the arriving guests, watching every corner.
Celeste lingered near the garden exit, eyes scanning the crowd for any strange movements. And Silas, with a borrowed tux and a cane, stood by the bar, pretending to nurse a drink while memorizing exits.
Damon arrived last.
A tailored black suit. Crisp white shirt. No tie. He moved like a blade honed over fire.
When he entered, conversations paused for a second. People noticed.
And someone else did too.
At the far end of the room, a man with salt-and-pepper hair and an accent that slid like silk approached.
“You must be Mr. Moretti,” he said, extending a hand.
Damon clasped it. Firm. Unreadable. “And you are?”
“Elijah Voss. We met at the Milan gala. Briefly.”
Damon smiled slightly. “Of course.”
The two men stood for a moment, like old friends reintroduced.
But beneath Damon’s skin, instincts burned.
There it was—the hint of something rehearsed in Elijah’s eyes. Politeness laced with performance.
“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” Damon said.
“I go where the intrigue is,” Elijah replied.
Damon’s smile sharpened. “Then you’ll enjoy tonight.”
As Elijah stepped into the mingling crowd, Aurora appeared at Damon’s side.
“That’s him?”
“That’s him.”
“You think he knows we know?”
“He will.”
---
Meanwhile, in a parked car down the hill from the estate, another figure watched the feed from a tiny screen on the dashboard. A voice crackled from a speaker.
“They’re gathering. And the mask is cracking.”
The man’s face wasn’t visible, but the symbol on his ring glinted in the moonlight.
Three roses.
One bleeding.
“Then let them gather,” he said. “It’s easier to kill lions when they think they’re safe in their den.”