Chapter 1: Antiques in the Rain

Rain in Turin felt like a dull blade scraping against the wet cobblestones of Piazza Sant'Ambroeus. Andrea Moretti tucked his police badge into the inner pocket of his overcoat, his fingertips brushing the cold, hard edge of the metal. Rainwater dripped from the brim of his hat, pooling into murky puddles at his feet. He looked up at the pitch-black windows of Barberini Antiques. In the glass, he saw his own exhausted face, superimposed over the flickering glow of a streetlamp outside.

“You’re late.”

The voice came from the second-floor terrace, crackling with static, like an old radio picking up interference. Andrea didn’t turn around. He knew it was Katerina. She was in the precinct’s monitoring room, listening in on this sector through a modified walkie-talkie.

“I’m looking for that thing,” Andrea said, keeping his voice low. “Not the watch. The component.”

“It’s right above your head.” Katerina’s voice was cool, stripped of all the rain noise. “In the Barberini underground storage. The ventilation shaft is on the east side. The key is hidden in the binding of the Vitale family ledger. Andrea, be careful. Francesco’s men are patrolling two blocks away. Your heart rate is spiking. That’s unprofessional.”

Andrea closed his eyes and took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the cold, rainy air. He didn’t reply. He turned and plunged into the downpour.

Three hours later, Andrea stood at the entrance to the underground storage. It had originally been an abandoned old subway station, now converted into Barberini’s place to keep the stuff they couldn’t show in public—what the locals called Dirty Goods. The air smelled of mold, engine oil, and a faint trace of tobacco. Andrea used the key Katerina had provided to unlock the side door. He spun the crowbar half a turn in his hand and slid it silently into the lock. The metal grinding against the mechanism sounded piercingly loud in the empty, cavernous space below.

He squeezed sideways through the narrow corridor. His flashlight beam cut through the darkness, illuminating stacks of neatly piled wooden crates. Most were wrapped in dust cloth, occasionally revealing the gold-leaf corners of gilt frames or the velvet lining of boxes. Andrea didn’t touch the flashy big items. His gaze locked onto a nondescript black metal box tucked away in a corner. According to a vague hint Dr. Isabella Sforza, the museum director, had given him on the phone last week, the critical document that "stitched together" a century-old will with enemy war reports was hidden in a false bottom beneath that box.

He crouched down, his fingers tracing the seam on the edge of the metal box. The moment he tried to pry up the bottom panel, a soft click echoed from above—like a match being struck.

“Your breathing gave you away.”

Andrea snapped his head up. At the end of the light beam, Matteo Barberini was perched on a high stool, casually tossing a pocket watch back and forth in his hand. He wore a impeccably tailored dark gray suit, his tie loosened, looking like he’d just stepped out of an elegant dinner party. The rain hadn’t touched him; behind him was a circle of dry shadow.

“I heard you hold your breath back in the corridor,” Barberini said. His voice wasn’t loud, but it was clear enough to cut through the lingering sound of the rain. “It’s a habit of people who’ve had rigorous training. Andrea, did you forget? We went to the same academy.”

Andrea slowly stood up, resting the tip of the crowbar on the ground, pointing it in Barberini’s direction but not actually aiming for any vital spots. It was a defensive stance.

“Matteo.” Andrea’s voice was rough. “You don’t need to use those cliché detective lines to insult a police officer doing his job.”

“Job?” Barberini let out a short, dry chuckle. He stood up and walked down the stairs, his leather shoes clicking a crisp rhythm on the tiled floor. “There’s no job here. Only business. You’ve broken into my private domain trying to steal an item that hasn’t even been cataloged yet. Under Article 1175 of the Civil Code, that’s illegal entry and attempted theft. I could call Mr. Vitale’s legal team right now.”

“Vitale?” Andrea sneered. “You think Francesco Vitale is on your side? He’s currently shredding every document that could link his Maritime Guild’s illegal money laundering schemes to you. You think he’s your shield, but he just sees you as a container he can discard whenever it’s convenient.”

Barberini stopped walking. The pocket watch in his hand stopped swinging. He looked at Andrea, his eyes flickering with a complex emotion—part admiration, part wariness.

“You know his business well,” Barberini said. “But that doesn’t mean you have the right to take that component. That part belongs to the inheritance of The Old Families. According to the will, it’s mine. And you? You represent a cop trying to scrub a bad reputation clean. You’ll use it to check a box, to buy your promotion, to give so-called justice to ghosts who are already dead. That’s a different logic.”

Andrea took a step forward. Rainwater dripped from his hair onto the dry floor.

“Logic?” he countered. “Your so-called logic is letting that ledger stay silent? Letting the intelligence your family sold to enemy officers during World War II remain a footnote in history books? Matteo, the last thing my father said to me before he died wasn’t ‘forgive them.’ It was ‘remember.’ Remember how that black ledger dragged the whole neighborhood into the sink.”

Barberini pulled a lighter from his inner breast pocket. The silver casing glinted in the dim light. He didn’t light it; he just held it between his fingers.

“Memory is fragile, Andrea. Archives are the truth. And that archive isn’t complete. You only have the edges of the puzzle, not the core.”

“The core is in my hand.” Andrea raised his left hand, holding a folded, yellowed piece of paper between his fingers. He’d just pulled it from the hidden compartment in the metal box, tucked inside a gear assembly wrapped in tin foil.

Barberini’s expression finally changed. He dropped the lazy posture and leaned forward, like a boxer preparing to throw a punch.

“Bring it out,” he said.

“Why?”

“Because what’s written on it isn’t the answer you’re looking for. It’s another trap.”

Andrea didn’t move. He looked at the paper. The ink was faded, but the numbers and code names were still legible. He scanned them quickly and realized the numbers corresponded to tunnel numbering in the Turin underground, not bank passwords or accounts.

“It’s a map,” Andrea said.

“It’s bait,” Barberini corrected him. “If you start digging based on that paper, you’ll unearth a time bomb Vitale planted there. He didn’t set this trap to destroy the archive. He set it to eliminate anyone who knows too much. Including you. Including me.”

In the underground storage, all that remained was the heavy breathing of two men and the dull thud of rain hitting the ground in the distance. Andrea felt the cold sweat soak through his shirt, clinging uncomfortably to his skin. He stared at Barberini, searching his face for any sign he was lying. But Barberini’s expression was terrifyingly calm, like a stagnant pond.

“How do you know?” Andrea asked.

“Because I helped design it.” Barberini said quietly. “I was the one who told Vitale where the archives were. I didn’t think he’d go so far as to count me in.”

Andrea held up his police badge. The metal reflection flashed between the two of them.

“Give me the map, Barberini. This is a search warrant. There’s no judge here, but I have the right to take it away.”

Barberini sighed, pulling a key from his pocket. He tossed it in the air and caught it neatly.

“You can take the paper. But understand this: the moment you leave this room, you have no way back. Vitale’s men will track your GPS signal. Your car, your phone, even your heart rate—they’re all being monitored. What you’re taking isn’t evidence. It’s a one-way ticket.”

“One-way ticket is fine,” Andrea grabbed the yellowed tin paper, his fingertips turning white from the grip. “At least it’ll let me sleep. Do you know what I dreamed last night? I dreamed my father was standing on the steps of the Turin Cathedral, holding this key. He was smiling at me. He wasn’t forgiving me. He was telling me not to be afraid.”

Barberini stared at him for a long time, then pulled a cigarette from his suit pocket but didn’t light it. He held it between his fingers like a silent badge.

“You’re as stubborn as your father,” Barberini said. “Stubborn to the point of stupidity.”

“Better stupid than silent.” Andrea turned and walked toward the exit.

“Andrea.”

Andrea stopped. He didn’t turn around.

“That pocket watch,” Barberini’s voice came from behind him, tinged with a strange tenderness. “The balance wheel inside? It was brought back from the battlefield in 1919. It stopped that year and never worked again. If you want to know the truth of that year, look inside the case.”

Andrea tightened his grip on the tin paper, his knuckles white. He didn’t answer. He pushed open the heavy iron door. Cold wind mixed with rain slammed into him, instantly extinguishing the scent of Barberini’s unlit cigarette.

He stepped out of the underground storage, the rain soaking him to the bone again. He stood in the storm, looking down at the tin paper in his hand. Under the flashlight’s beam, the reflection in the foil revealed a line of tiny engravings. The writing wasn’t printed; it had been scratched into the metal with a needle point.

“To A.M.: Don’t trust Barberini. He’s protecting his mother’s name.”

Andrea’s heart clenched sharply. He looked up at the second-floor terrace of the antique shop. The spot was empty, marked only by the wet footprint of rain. He gripped the tin paper, the engraved ridges digging painfully into his palm.

In the distance, a siren cut through the rain curtain, moving from far to near, sounding like some kind of urging. Andrea shoved the tin paper into his mouth, chewed it up, and spat it into the rain. He turned and disappeared into the darkness, leaving behind only a puddle on the ground mixed with traces of blood.

He didn’t know if the tin paper was really bait, but he knew that Barberini’s line about “protecting his mother’s name” was like a thorn, stabbing into his previously clear plan. Mother? Who was Barberini’s mother? What unspeakable secrets were hidden behind a name that history had erased?

The rain fell harder. The streets of Turin became flowing rivers of black water. Andrea vanished into the night, leaving only the siren’s wail echoing in the downpour for a long time.