Era una voz que había escuchado durante los primeros veintiséis años de mi vida.
A voice I had heard sing lullabies, give orders, and command respect.
It was my mother’s voice.
“Mother?”
I whispered, my voice sounding impossibly young and small in the quiet room.
“You’re… you’re dead.
Te enterramos en la cripta familiar hace dos años”.
—Escúchame, Lorenzo —sibiló, ignorando mi pregunta por completo.
Su voz era frenética, acompañada por el débil y rítmico tictac de un monitor cardíaco en el fondo.
“No hay tiempo.
The web is closing.
Don’t trust Vivien.
She was never meant to be your wife… she was sent to finish what was started twenty years ago.”
“Mother, what are you talking about?
Where are you?”
“Whatever you do, Lorenzo… do not go to your father’s estate in Naples. It’s a trap!
