PART 7 – The Journey to the Abandoned Chapel
The next morning at five o'clock, we drove through the foggy mountain roads of Northern Italy in an old, borrowed Fiat Punto belonging to a friend of Elena. The windshield wipers ticked monotonously against the glass as thick fog nearly swallowed the headlights entirely. "We're being followed," Elena said suddenly, glancing into the rearview mirror.
A dark sedan had been driving a long distance behind us for ten minutes. As soon as we braked, the car braked too. "Drive on," I said, tightly folding the map on my lap. "They probably know we aren't going to San Michele, but they don't yet suspect where we're headed. As long as we reach the chapel before them, we have a head start." The Fiat's engine screeched as we took a sharp upward turn.
The road grew narrower, littered with loose stones and overhanging pine branches. According to the coordinates, we had to be close. After another twenty minutes of driving, a crumbling stone building with a half-ruined clock tower emerged through the mist: the chapel of Santa Maria del Monte. The roof was half-caved in, and the wooden doors hung crookedly in their frames.
It looked like it had been abandoned for decades. We parked the car behind a clump of bushes so it couldn't be seen from the road. With pounding hearts, we stepped out. The cold mountain air bit into our lungs. "You stay by the car," I told Elena. "If that black sedan shows up here, honk twice. Then I'll know I need to come back." "No, Emma, we do this together," Elena replied unflinchingly, following me into the mist toward the old church.
The door creaked loudly as we pushed it open. Inside, it was dark and quiet. A faint beam of morning light fell through the broken roof onto a stone altar in the center of the space. The smell of dampness and old stone hung in the air. According to the note, we had to look for a stone slab behind the altar featuring the symbol of a lily. I walked forward and began feeling my hands along the cold stone wall.
My fingers traced rough edges, moss, and old plaster. Suddenly, I encountered a seam in the stone. I pressed on it, and with a heavy mechanical click, the stone shifted slightly backward. In the hidden niche behind the wall lay no dossier, but an old copper metal chest. "I found it!" I whispered softly. Yet at that exact moment, we heard the sound of screeching car tires outside on the gravel. The dark sedan had arrived. And shortly thereafter, Lorenzo Moretti’s voice echoed through the empty chapel: "How cozy, such an early morning walk in the mountains."
