An Unknown Man Humiliated Me in Front of Everyone, but the Restaurant Owner Looked at Me Only Once — and His Smile Immediately Disappeared

That night I was thrown onto the floor in Lorenzo Costa’s restaurant, and a few minutes later I found myself in his office, with a bloody lip and the fear of a strange man in my heart.

On the street of San Marino, the rain was falling so heavily that the restaurant’s tall windows were covered in cold steam. And I was kneeling on the white marble, no longer able to distinguish red wine from my own blood with my palms.

Gregory stood over me.

“Get up, Elena,” he growled. “Do not disgrace me in front of the whole hall.”

His fingers were tangled in my hair. An old pain awakened in my neck, as if my body already knew what was coming. Around me stood expensive tables, silent waiters, and guests who avoided looking at me.

Only one person did not look away.

On the second floor, by the railing, stood Lorenzo Costa. He was dressed in a black suit and held a small coffee cup in his hand. Behind him, in the shadows, stood someone large and heavy. I immediately understood that the most dangerous person in the hall was the one who did not raise his voice at all.

Gregory raised his hand.

“Are you mocking me again?”

“I did not say anything,” I answered, and immediately regretted it.

His fist struck my cheek. My head turned to the side, a ringing sound rang in my ear, and the floor spun up toward my face.

Then silence fell.

Lorenzo put the coffee cup on the railing. The light clink of porcelain sounded throughout the hall.

“Who is this man?” he asked.

The man beside him answered quietly:

“Gregory Valente. The nephew of Niccolo Valente.”

Lorenzo’s face did not change.

“Take him out.”

Gregory looked at me, and fear appeared in his eyes for the first time.

“Do you even know whom you are touching?” he shouted.

Lorenzo was slowly coming down the stairs.

“I do,” he said. “That is why I advise you not to move.”

Two men approached Gregory from both sides. One threw his jacket over his arm, while the other stood so close that I noticed the shape of a weapon hidden beneath his coat. Gregory immediately fell silent.

Lorenzo looked toward me.

“Bring her to me.”

Those words frightened me no less than Gregory’s fist.

I was still on the floor when a scarred hand appeared before me. I stared at it for several seconds. Help had never been free in my life.

“If you do not want to get up, do not get up,” the man told me. “But you cannot stay here long.”

“Are you like him too?” I asked.

Something flashed in his eyes.

“I do not know who he is.”

“Then why should I follow you?”

“Because the boss asked you to.”

The answer was so cold that I still took his hand.

The smell of wood, leather, and old whiskey filled Lorenzo’s office. The wall clock counted the seconds in a heavy sound. He handed me a clean towel, but said no reassuring words.

“Sit down.”

“I prefer to remain standing.”

“Your left rib is not broken, but it may be bruised. And your lip will split again in five minutes if you stay this tense.”

“Are you a doctor?”

“No. I have simply seen many beaten people.”

I pressed the towel to my lip. Pain blurred my eyes, but I did not cry.

Lorenzo stood by the desk and looked at me as if he were searching for something behind my face.

“Where did Gregory go?” I asked.

“To a place where he will not be able to use his hands for a while.”

“He will wait for me.”

“Not today.”

“You do not know what his family is capable of.”

“On the contrary, I know very well.”

The air in the office seemed to grow heavier. I reached for my bag, but my hand met empty air. I had left the bag in the hall.

Lorenzo noticed the movement.

“What are you looking for?”

“Nothing.”

“A person who is looking for nothing does not look so frightened.”

I went to the window. Cars flashed below in the rain. I wanted to escape, but my knees were trembling.

There were three knocks on the door.

Lorenzo raised his head.

“Come in.”

Vincent entered, holding my bag. A small copper key showed through the torn handle—the one I always hid inside.

“We found this beside his table,” Vincent said.

My heart missed one beat.

Lorenzo placed the bag on the desk and opened it as calmly as Elena herself.

Inside were only a wallet, a phone, and folded receipts. Then he ran his finger along the bag’s inner seam. His hand stopped where the fabric was slightly raised.

“Why is this here?” he asked.

I took a step toward him.

“Do not open it.”

Lorenzo looked into my eyes, while Vincent locked the door. Lorenzo’s fingers approached the hidden seam, and just then…

Lorenzo’s finger cut the seam, but he did not immediately take out the object hidden inside. First he looked at me, as if giving me one last chance to tell the truth myself.

“If this is an ordinary receipt, why are you afraid?” he asked.

“Because you are not a policeman.”

“And why did you not go to the police?”

I could not answer.

Vincent stood by the door and turned a small metal pair of scissors in his hand. The yellow office light reflected on its tip.

“Elena,” Lorenzo said, “if I did not know you until now, then you also do not know whom you trust. Now tell me what you are hiding.”

“Nothing that concerns you.”

“In this city, everything people hide reaches me one day.”

His words burned my skin. I could not decide whether I was afraid of him, or whether being beside him meant for the first time that Gregory could not reach me.

Lorenzo opened the seam completely. Inside was a black memory card placed in a thin plastic case. Only three numbers were written on it in white paint: 417.

Lorenzo’s face changed for the first time.

“Where did you find this?”

“I did not find it.”

“Then who gave it to you?”

“My brother.”

Vincent slightly raised his head.

“Matteo Moretti?” he asked.

I tensed.

“You knew him?”

“Everyone knew him,” Lorenzo said. “But he died three months ago.”

“He did not die. He was killed.”

The wall clock struck once. That sound divided the room in two: before and after this.

Lorenzo sat down in the armchair.

“Who killed him?”

“If I knew that, I would not be here.”

“And why do you have his thing?”

“Two days before his death he came to me. It was morning. His coat smelled of wet leather, and a piece of burned paper was stuck to his hand. He told me that if anything happened to him, I must not give this card to anyone until I learned his name.”

“Which name?”

I looked at Lorenzo.

“Yours.”

Vincent took a step by the door, but Lorenzo raised his hand.

“Continue.”

“Matteo said that you intended to kill him. Then Gregory called me and told me that I had to pay my brother’s debt. He knew about the card. He knew I had it.”

“That is why he hid you in the restaurant?”

“He thought coming to you would be a punishment for me.”

Lorenzo laughed softly, but the laugh did not sound joyful.

“Sometimes people think correctly about me.”

He held the card between his fingers.

“We will check this now.”

“No.”

My voice surprised both of us.

“If you read it, you may kill the people who can still tell the truth.”

“And if I do not read it, Gregory will finish you tomorrow.”

“He may already know that I am with you.”

At that same moment Lorenzo’s phone rang. An unknown number lit up on the screen. He answered the call and turned on the speaker.

“Costa listening.”

For the first seconds, only breathing could be heard.

Then a man’s voice sounded:

“The woman is mine. If you do not return her to me by morning, tomorrow investigators instead of workers should open the doors of your restaurant.”

I froze.

Lorenzo looked toward the window.

“Niccolo, is your nephew still alive?”

“You cannot touch him.”

“I have not touched him.”

“Then hand this woman over to me.”

Lorenzo looked toward me. An unusual calm descended into his eyes.

“Elena,” he said, “do you want me to hand you over?”

The question was unexpected. All my life others had decided where I should go, whom I should obey, and how much pain I should endure. Now, for the first time, someone was asking me.

“No,” I said.

Lorenzo turned back to the phone.

“Then you will have to come to me.”

“What is the woman hiding from you?”

“Even I do not know yet.”

“You will find out soon.”

The call ended.

Vincent looked at Lorenzo.

“We should go.”

“No. We will stay here.”

“What if they come in?”

“Let them come in.”

I turned toward him.

“You know that all this may be against you.”

“That is exactly why I want to know what is on the card.”

He placed the card in a small metal device. Folders appeared on the screen, but all were locked. One had only one word written beside it: “Moretti.”

Lorenzo approached the opening field.

“Password?” Vincent asked.

I came closer to the screen. I tried Matteo’s date of birth. It was wrong. My mother’s name—the same. Then I remembered his last words: “The sea always remembers the first trace.”

I entered four numbers.

The folder opened.

The first file was an audio recording. Lorenzo pressed the play button. For several seconds there was static, then Matteo’s voice.

“If you are listening to this, Elena, know that Lorenzo Costa is not the enemy. He does not know that money has been laundered in his name for years. And the person doing it is sitting beside him…”

The recording suddenly stopped.

At that same moment, a heavy удар sounded from outside the office.

Vincent pulled out a weapon.

Lorenzo stood in front of me.

The second удар shook the door.

Then Gregory’s voice sounded from outside:

“Elena, open the door, or the next voice will be your brother’s…”

Gregory’s voice sounded behind the door, but there was something in it that I had thought impossible. He said Matteo’s name as if my brother were still alive.

Vincent raised the weapon.

“We have a back exit,” he whispered.

“No,” Lorenzo replied. “First we must find out what he knows.”

“He is not alone.”

“Neither are we.”

The third удар sounded. The door lock moved.

Lorenzo looked at the computer screen. After the audio recording there was another file. A red mark stood beside it.

“We must listen to this,” he said.

“Now?” I asked.

“Especially now.”

He opened the file.

First came the heavy noise of a camera. Then a room appeared. It was a basement, with wine shelves along the walls. On the left side of the frame my brother sat, his hands tied. In front of him stood Niccolo Valente.

My breath caught.

“This is your last chance, Matteo,” Niccolo was saying. “Tell me where the recording is.”

“Do not touch Elena.”

“We have already touched your sister. She simply does not know it yet.”

Gregory appeared in the frame. He struck Matteo in the face.

I covered my mouth with my hand. Lorenzo’s eyes were fixed on the screen.

“When is this?” he asked.

“Two days before his death,” I said.

In the recording Matteo smiled with a bloody mouth.

“You think Costa will believe everything? Show him his signature. Show him the transfers. Show him the cameras.”

Niccolo placed a folder on the table.

“I already have his signature.”

Then he turned his head to the side.

“And besides, Lorenzo will realize too late that his financial adviser was writing in his place.”

Lorenzo suddenly straightened.

“Who is this adviser?” I asked.

The recording gave the answer.

A man whom Lorenzo clearly knew entered the camera’s view. Tall, well-groomed, with gray hair. He stood every day in the restaurant office, beside Lorenzo.

Vincent said quietly:

“Roberto.”

Lorenzo’s face went pale.

“He has worked here for twelve years.”

On the screen Roberto handed Niccolo the folder.

“All the transfers went out under this name,” he said. “Lorenzo will not be able to prove anything. We have his electronic signature, we have the seal, and we have three witnesses.”

Matteo raised his head.

“You will kill him and blame everything on my brother.”

“That is exactly what will happen,” Roberto answered.

The recording ended.

Heavy silence fell in the office.

Lorenzo did not move at all for several seconds. Then he placed his hands on the desk and lowered his head.

“I accused Matteo of murder,” he said. “I thought he had taken my money.”

“He was trying to save you,” I told him.

“And you knew this?”

“I only knew that your name was repeated everywhere.”

Outside, Gregory shouted:

“Lorenzo! Open up, or I will tell the police that you are holding a woman here by force!”

Lorenzo looked at Vincent.

“Open the door.”

“Boss…”

“Open it.”

Vincent removed the lock. The door immediately opened and Gregory rushed in with two men. But he managed to take only two steps before Vincent’s weapon stopped directly at his forehead.

“The woman is here voluntarily,” Lorenzo said.

“You have nothing to prove it.”

“And you have many things to prove.”

Lorenzo turned the screen toward him.

Gregory saw the recording. The color left his face as if someone had drained away his blood.

“This is fake.”

“Is your voice fake too?” I asked.

“Elena, listen, I only…”

“You were beating my brother in the basement.”

“He was alive when we left.”

Lorenzo approached him.

“Who is ‘we’?”

Gregory stepped back.

“I do not know what you are talking about.”

“Then now you will listen to yourself.”

Lorenzo played the recording again and raised the volume. Gregory’s own voice sounded in the office: “If Matteo does not talk, I will finish his sister.”

Gregory closed his eyes.

For the first time I saw how the weight of a person’s own words fell upon him.

But at the end of the recording there was another file. Lorenzo opened it.

A new message appeared on the screen, with a time and a place.

“If this recording has been opened, Matteo Moretti is still alive. He is in the underground department of Saint Luke’s Clinic. Tell the doctor the code: four, one, seven.”

My knees gave way.

“Matteo is alive?” I asked.

Lorenzo picked up the phone.

“Vincent, prepare the car.”

Gregory suddenly smiled.

“You are too late.”

Lorenzo turned toward him.

“What does that mean?”

Gregory did not answer. He only looked at the phone, which trembled in his pocket.

On the other side, from the clinic, a short message from an unfamiliar woman arrived:

“The patient is no longer in the room. Someone took him ten minutes ago.”

I looked at Lorenzo.

He still had not understood that Matteo’s disappearance was only the beginning, while Niccolo Valente’s next target had already become the car heading toward the clinic…