Chapter 3 - Chapter 3: Moretti's Legacy

The sun had risen above the University of Foggia campus, a pale and distant disk struggling to break through a shroud of heavy gray clouds. The light filtered weakly into Andrea's room on the second floor of the dormitory, slipping through the thin, worn curtains that hung like forgotten rags. Those golden streaks settled on the scratched and stained linoleum floor, a patchwork that told the story of years of students who had passed through. Andrea hadn't woken up in the classical sense; he hadn't slept at all. He'd lain on the bed, his body stiff and heavy, trapped in a tormented wakefulness that kept him up until dawn. The clothes from the night before still clung to him: the denim jacket, crumpled and stiff from the night's chill, scratched at his back; the sneakers, caked with dirt and dust from the lab, remained on his feet, leaving a trail of crumbs across the wrinkled bedspread. He'd tried to sleep, to shut off his brain, to let go, but sleep had eluded him with an almost deliberate cruelty. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Professor Moretti. Not the Moretti he'd known for years—the kind man with perpetually fogged glasses, the tired but genuine smile, the deep voice that explained the mysteries of botany with contagious passion—but a different, brutal image that looped endlessly in his mind. The body slumped on the lab floor, arms splayed in an unnatural pose, eyes wide in an expression of eternal surprise, blood pooling beneath him like a living puddle, thick and dark, almost pulsating. And then there was the notebook. His notebook. Andrea Rossi, written in sharp, decisive letters on the black cardboard cover, resting on the professor's table like a silent accusation, a detail that shouldn't have been there. He saw it every time he closed his eyes: the slightly worn cover, the pages he'd filled with messy notes during the hours spent with Moretti, the formulas scribbled in the margins. He always kept it in his bag, a strict rule he'd imposed on himself since his first year of university. He never left it lying around, never forgot it. Yet there it was, at the crime scene, an invisible thread tying him to that terrible night. How had it ended up on Moretti's table? Who had put it there? And why? Those questions buzzed in his head like a frenzied beehive, relentless and unanswered.With a hoarse groan, he pulled himself up from the bed. His body felt like it was made of concrete, every muscle protesting from tension and exhaustion. His head throbbed, a dull pain radiating from his temples to the back of his neck, a reminder of the sleepless night. He stood slowly, swaying slightly, and approached the small sink in the corner of the room. The mirror above it, cracked in one corner and stained from years of dampness, reflected an image that made him flinch. He didn't recognize himself. The dark circles under his eyes were deep, almost black, carved like trenches beneath reddened eyes. A day's worth of stubble darkened his chin, giving him an unkempt look that wasn't his own. His brown hair, usually neatly combed, was a wild tangle falling over his forehead. But it wasn't just his physical appearance that struck him. There was something in his eyes, a shadow he'd never seen before. Fear, perhaps. Or guilt. Or both. He couldn't decipher it.He turned on the tap with a mechanical motion. Cold water gurgled out, splashing lightly against the sink's edge. He thrust his hands under the stream, shivering at the icy contact. He looked at his fingers: dried blood still clung to them, crusted under his nails, embedded in the creases of his skin, a tangible reminder of what he'd seen, what he'd touched. The night before, he'd tried to wash it off, scrubbing hard under the lab's water before the police arrived, but it hadn't been enough. He grabbed the cheap soap bar on the sink's edge—smelling faintly of synthetic lemon—and began to scrub, with an almost desperate fury. The water turned a pale pink, then a dirty gray, as the blood dissolved and swirled down the drain. He kept scrubbing, even as his hands reddened, even as his skin began to burn. But it wasn't enough. He still felt dirty, as if the blood had seeped beyond the surface, into his veins, his bones, his marrow. As if it had become part of him.He stopped, panting slightly, and turned off the tap. His hands trembled as he dried them on an old T-shirt he found on the floor—one with a faded Radiohead logo, a gift from his brother years ago. He returned to the bed, staring at the cracked ceiling. He had to do something. He couldn't just sit there, motionless, letting the world collapse around him. The police had questioned him for hours the night before, Inspector De Luca staring at him with those cold, piercing eyes, as if he could see inside him. "You're a witness," he'd said, his voice flat, almost monotone. But the tone, the way he pressed his lips together, the way he tapped his pen on his notepad while taking notes—all of it suggested something else. Andrea wasn't stupid. He knew the notebook put him in a dangerous position, a link too clear, too convenient. And the thought that someone had planted it there on purpose sent chills down his spine, a coldness that burrowed under his skin and wouldn't let go. Who could it have been? Another student? A colleague of Moretti's? Someone who knew him? And why him, Andrea Rossi, an ordinary student with no enemies, no secrets? The more he thought about it, the more lost he felt, trapped in a web of unanswered questions. But one thing was certain: he couldn't sit idly by while the police built a case against him, while someone out there, in the shadows, pulled the strings of this dark game.He grabbed his phone from the nightstand. The battery was dead, which didn't surprise him. He plugged it into the charger—a frayed cord that had seen better days—and waited, sitting on the edge of the bed, drumming his fingers on his knee. The screen lit up after a few seconds, and a flood of notifications hit him like a wave. Messages from friends: "Andrea, you okay?" from Luca, a classmate he'd shared a few beers with. "I heard about the prof, what a mess," from Martina, a girl from his ecology class he barely knew. Two missed calls from his mom, probably worried because he hadn't answered since yesterday. He didn't have the strength to face any of them, not yet. There was only one person he wanted to talk to, someone who might help him make sense of this chaos, find a way out of this nightmare.Giulia Martelli had entered his life three years ago, during their first year of university, in an organic chemistry lab that Andrea still remembered with almost painful clarity. It had been a disaster that day—or it would have been without her. He'd been clumsy and unsure, his hands trembling as he tried to balance an equation on a crumpled sheet of paper, and he'd messed up the calculations. A stupid mistake, the kind that makes you blush for days. The professor, a stern man with a gray beard and an inquisitor's air, was making his rounds, ready to pounce on every imperfection. Andrea had felt panic rising in his throat, sweat prickling at the back of his neck. But then Giulia, seated at the bench next to him, had reached over with a quick, silent motion, correcting the wrong number on his paper before the professor arrived. "You're not a total disaster," she'd whispered, with a smile that was both kind and teasing. And from then on, they'd become friends. Or something like that. Andrea had never been good with relationships. He tended to close himself off, keeping people at a distance, an invisible barrier he'd built over the years without even realizing it. It wasn't exactly shyness; it was more a cautiousness, a need to protect himself from something he couldn't even define. Giulia, on the other hand, was the opposite. Direct, curious, with an energy that seemed to burst from her like a spark. She had a passion for chemical analysis that bordered on obsession—she could spend hours talking about molecular bonds or absorption spectra with an enthusiasm Andrea found sometimes baffling, sometimes admirable. She was brilliant, no doubt, but she never flaunted it. She was just herself, and that had won him over, even if he'd never admit it out loud.Now, sitting on the edge of the bed with his phone in hand and his heart beating a little too fast, he wondered if involving her was a good idea. What if it was dangerous? What if, by pulling her into this, he put her at risk? But then he brushed the thought aside. He couldn't face this alone. He needed her, her sharp mind, her courage. He took a deep breath, opened his contacts, and found her number. He hesitated for a moment, his thumb hovering over the screen, then pressed the call button. One ring. Two. Three. Each sound seemed to last an eternity, amplifying the anxiety tightening his stomach. Then, finally, her voice. "Andrea?" She was awake, her tone clear but tinged with a note of concern. "Are you okay? I heard… well, everyone's talking about what happened last night.""Hi, Giulia," he said, trying to keep his voice steady. He failed: it trembled, just a little, betraying the exhaustion and fear coursing through him. "I'm… I'm okay, sort of. Do you have some time today? I need to talk to you. In person."There was a pause on the other end, a silence that lasted long enough to make him worry. Then a rustle, as if she were moving something—books, probably, or one of her endless coffee cups. "Of course," she said finally, her voice firmer. "Where are you now?""At the dorm. But I can come to you if you want.""No, don't worry. I'll come over. Give me half an hour, okay? I'll bring coffee."Andrea smiled, a tired, tight smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Thanks. See you soon."He hung up and set the phone on the bed, letting himself fall back onto the mattress. He stared at the ceiling, the cracks spreading like veins on a dried leaf. Giulia was coming. It was a small comfort, an anchor in the storm. But as he waited, his mind wandered back to that night, trying to reconstruct every detail, every fragment that might make sense of it. He'd arrived at the lab around seven, after a day of classes that had left his head buzzing with numbers and technical terms. Moretti had called him that afternoon, with that calm but insistent voice he used when he needed something. "Andrea, can you come tonight? I need help with the soil samples." It wasn't an unusual request. Andrea often spent evenings at the lab, working side by side with the professor. He was his mentor, yes, but also something more: a guide, a father figure who'd taken him under his wing when he was just an insecure freshman. The lab was as it always was: an orderly chaos of test tubes, microscopes, scattered papers. Moretti was already there, hunched over his table, scribbling notes in that illegible handwriting only he could decipher. He'd smiled when Andrea walked in, a tired but warm smile. "It always rains when you least expect it, huh?" he'd said, nodding toward the window where the first drops were tapping against the glass. Andrea had nodded, chuckling softly, and they'd gotten to work, each in their own corner. He didn't remember anything odd. No strange noises, no shadows out of place. He'd stepped out to grab a coffee from the hallway vending machine—awful coffee, bitter and too hot—and returned after five minutes. Moretti was still there, alive, focused on his notes. They'd exchanged a few words, nothing important, just small talk about the weather and Andrea's thesis. Then, around ten, he'd decided to leave. "See you tomorrow, prof," he'd said, pulling on his jacket. Moretti had replied with a distracted wave, a "Yes, yes, tomorrow" that now echoed in his ears like a distant ghost. He'd left, walked through the light rain back to the dorm, but then realized he'd forgotten a pen on the table. A stupid pen, one of those cheap ones worth a few cents, but he cared about it. He'd turned back, grumbling to himself about his carelessness. And that's when he'd found him. Dead. The blood. The notebook.A shiver ran down his spine, making him shudder despite the room's warmth. Someone had been there after him. Someone who'd placed the notebook on the table, who'd left the lab in disarray. But who? And how had they not crossed paths with him? The campus wasn't huge, and at that hour it was nearly deserted—just a few straggling students and the janitor dozing in his booth. A sharp knock at the door jolted him out of his thoughts. He leapt up, his heart pounding in his chest.He opened the door quickly, almost roughly, and found Giulia standing there. She held two paper cups in her hands, steam curling lazily from the lids, and a gray backpack slung over one shoulder. She wore an oversized hoodie, faded jeans with a tear at the knee, and her usual white sneakers, mud-stained at the edges. Her brown hair was pulled into a messy ponytail, a few stray strands framing her face and accentuating the green eyes that studied him with a mix of concern and curiosity."Hey," she said, handing him one of the coffees. "You look like you've seen a ghost."Andrea took the cup, feeling the warmth through the paper. "Not quite," he replied, trying to lighten his tone. "More like someone who's seen a corpse."Giulia's eyes widened, a flash of surprise crossing her face, but she didn't say anything. She stepped into the room with purpose, as if it were her own, and sat on the edge of the bed, setting her backpack beside her with a soft thud. The coffee's aroma filled the air, a strong, bitter scent mingling with the dorm's stale smell—mold, old books, the sweat of too many days without opening the window."Tell me everything," she said, her tone serious, almost professional, as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "I've heard a ton of rumors, but I want the truth. What happened?"Andrea sat on the chair across from her, a wobbly one he'd salvaged months ago from an abandoned classroom. He took a sip of the coffee—black, no sugar, just how he liked it—and let the warmth slide down his throat, giving him a moment to gather his thoughts. He didn't know where to start, how to explain the horror of that night without breaking down. But Giulia watched him, patient, waiting, and that gave him the push to speak."I was at the lab last night," he began, his voice low, almost hesitant. "Moretti asked me to help him with some soil samples. Nothing unusual, I did it often. We were there for hours, each doing our own thing. Then I left, around ten. I thought everything was normal. But I forgot a pen, so I went back. And I found him. Dead. On the floor. There was blood everywhere, Giulia. And the lab… it was a mess. Drawers open, test tubes broken, papers scattered. Someone had been there after me."He paused, swallowing hard. The memory tightened his throat, making every word a burden. Giulia nodded, a small but encouraging gesture, and he continued."I called the police right away. They showed up in minutes, with sirens, lights… it felt like a movie. They questioned me for hours. Inspector De Luca, this cold guy with eyes that pierce right through you. He said I'm a witness, but I don't believe him. He looked at me like I was guilty. And then there's the notebook.""The notebook?" Giulia asked, frowning."Yeah," Andrea said, gripping the cup between his hands until it dented slightly. "My notebook. The one I use for notes. It was on Moretti's table, near the body. But I didn't leave it there, Giulia. I always keep it in my bag. Always. Someone put it there, and I don't know who. I don't know why."Giulia stared at him for a moment, tapping her fingers on her cup, a habit she had when she was thinking hard. "Wait a second," she said, leaning forward. "You're saying they think you're involved? Seriously?""They didn't say it outright," Andrea replied, running a hand through his hair. "But the notebook… it shouldn't be there. De Luca took it, opened it in front of me, read my name on the cover like it was evidence. He didn't accuse me, not yet, but I felt it. He looked at me like he knew something I don't.""Okay, that's weird," Giulia said, her voice rising slightly with disbelief. "Really weird. But why would someone frame you? It doesn't make sense. You're not the type to make enemies, right? You're… well, you're Andrea. Quiet, reserved, the guy who helps everyone with their notes."Andrea laughed, a short, bitter laugh that scratched his throat. "Not that I know of. But maybe it's not personal. Maybe it's just a way to muddy the waters. The lab was trashed, Giulia. Someone was looking for something. And Moretti… he was working on something big. He'd talk about it all the time, but never in detail. He said it was 'revolutionary.' Something that would change everything. I don't know what it was, but maybe that's why he's dead."Giulia stared at him for a long moment, then stood up abruptly, as if struck by a sudden idea. "Wait here," she said, unzipping her backpack with a quick motion. She pulled out a small black notebook, its cover plastered with faded stickers, and a pen that looked like it had survived too many exams. "We need to figure out what Moretti was doing. If there's something in his notes, his files, it might give us a clue. Do you have access to the lab?""Not now," Andrea said, shaking his head. "The police sealed it off. Yellow tape everywhere, and an officer at the door. But I have some stuff at home. Notes, copies of documents he gave me. I'm not sure there's anything useful, though.""It's worth a shot," Giulia said, scribbling something in her notebook with quick, messy handwriting. "Bring me everything you have. If Moretti was working on something big, it might be the key to figuring out who killed him. And why they're trying to frame you."Andrea nodded, feeling a little less alone for the first time since that night. There was something in Giulia's determination, her energy, that made him feel less lost. "Okay," he said. "Give me a minute."He stood and approached the desk, a chipped wooden piece that seemed ready to collapse under the weight of books and papers. He rummaged through the bottom drawer, pushing aside broken pencils and old receipts, until he found a blue plastic folder. It was stuffed with disorganized sheets: handwritten notes, carefully drawn graphs, data tables he'd collected over the past months working with Moretti. He'd tossed them in there without much thought—they were just fragments of his thesis, pieces of a larger puzzle he'd never had time to assemble. But now, holding it in his hands, he wondered if they contained something more, something he'd never noticed before.He returned to Giulia and set the folder on the bed beside her. "Here," he said, pointing to the papers spilling out the edges. "I don't know where to start. It's a mess."Giulia opened the folder with a decisive motion and began flipping through the pages, her eyes darting over the lines of text and numbers. "Give me some time," she said, not looking up. "You sit and relax. I'll handle this."Andrea obeyed, but relaxing was impossible. He sat back on the chair, the wood creaking under his weight, and watched Giulia work. She was immersed in the documents, completely absorbed, as if the rest of the world had vanished. She flipped through pages with fierce concentration, jotting notes in her notebook, underlining lines with her pen, muttering to herself. Every now and then, she'd say something under her breath—"Interesting," or "This doesn't add up"—frowning or nodding as if following an invisible trail. Andrea watched her, almost hypnotized by her rhythm, the way she seemed to find order in chaos.Nearly an hour passed—an hour in which he drank his now-cold coffee, tapped his fingers on the chair's armrest, stood to look out the window, then sat back down. Outside, the campus was steeped in an eerie calm. Students wandered here and there, heads down, voices hushed. There was a heavy atmosphere, as if Moretti's death had draped everything in an invisible fog. Andrea wondered what they were saying, what rumors were circulating through the halls and classrooms. He knew how it worked: a tragedy like this quickly turned into gossip, a story that grew with each retelling. But he wasn't just a bystander in this tale. He was inside it, trapped at the center.Finally, Giulia looked up, an excited gleam in her eyes. "Found something?" Andrea asked, leaning forward, his heart racing."You bet," she said, turning a page toward him. It was filled with numbers and formulas, scribbled in Moretti's messy handwriting, with a title scrawled at the top: Green Future Project. "Look at this. Moretti was working on a new sustainable farming technique. Something to do with a chemical compound to boost plant yields without synthetic fertilizers. It's… it's brilliant, Andrea. It could revolutionize agriculture."Andrea stared at the page, trying to make sense of it. The numbers danced before his eyes, the formulas a tangle of symbols he only half-understood. Moretti had taught him a lot, but he'd never been a chemistry genius—that was Giulia's domain. "Wait," he said, rubbing his eyes. "You're saying he found a way to make plants grow faster? Without pesticides?""Not just that," Giulia said, pointing to a line of data with her pen. "Look at these numbers. It talks about a 40% yield increase in poor soil, the kind that usually produces next to nothing. And here," she added, flipping to another page, "there's a reference to a patent. It's not registered yet, but he was preparing the paperwork. This is worth millions, Andrea. Millions."Andrea's head spun. "Millions," he repeated, his voice low, almost an incredulous whisper. He stood and began pacing the room, his footsteps echoing on the linoleum. "So someone might have killed him for this? For a patent?""It's possible," Giulia said, setting her pen on the notebook and crossing her arms. "Think about what it would mean for an agricultural company, or a multinational. A patent like that could change the market. It could make entire fertilizer and pesticide industries obsolete. And if Moretti didn't want to sell, or if someone wanted to steal it before he registered it…""They killed him," Andrea finished for her, stopping abruptly. His heart pounded, a drumbeat echoing in his ears. "But why my notebook? Why drag me into it?"Giulia looked at him, serious, her eyes searching his. "Maybe because you were close to him. You were his assistant, you knew about the project, even if not in detail. Maybe they think you have something—some evidence, some document you don't even realize you have.""But I don't have anything," Andrea said, frustration rising like a tide. "Just these notes. And I don't even understand half of what's in them. I'm a botanist, not a chemist. Moretti gave me practical tasks, had me analyze samples, but he didn't explain everything.""Then we need to figure it out," Giulia said, tapping her pen on the notebook with a decisive gesture. "We need to learn everything we can about this project. If there's a connection to his death, we'll find it. And we'll prove you had nothing to do with this."Andrea stared at her, struck by her resolve. There was something in the way she spoke, the confidence she exuded, that made him feel less powerless. "Thanks," he said quietly, almost under his breath. "I don't know what I'd do without you."Giulia smiled, a smile that brightened the room despite the dim light filtering through the window. "Don't thank me yet," she said, her tone playful but earnest. "We've just started. This is only the beginning."The next few hours were a whirlwind of work, an organized chaos that turned Andrea's small room into an impromptu headquarters. He and Giulia dove into the documents, spreading them across the bed, the floor, even the already-cluttered desk. Papers were everywhere, a mosaic of crumpled sheets, hand-drawn graphs, data tables that seemed to speak an alien language. Andrea felt overwhelmed, but Giulia was in her element. She read with astonishing speed, deciphering formulas that were mere scribbles to him, connecting dots he'd never have seen. The more they read, the more they realized the enormity of what they held. The Green Future Project wasn't just an abstract theory, an idea Moretti had tossed out during one of his passionate lectures. It was real, tangible, backed by months—perhaps years—of experiments. There were field test data: growth percentages meticulously recorded, photos of plants that seemed to defy nature's laws, with sturdier stems and greener leaves than should have been possible in arid soil. And then there was a detail that kept surfacing, a red thread running through every page: a compound called "VF-17.""Look here," Giulia said, pointing to a note scribbled in the margin of a page in Moretti's messy handwriting. "It says VF-17 was tested on soil near the campus. Samples collected last month. It might be in that secret lab he mentioned.""Secret lab?" Andrea asked, looking up from the papers he was struggling to decode. The word "secret" sent a shiver down his spine."Didn't you notice?" Giulia said, turning another page toward him. "Here's a reference to a 'Site B.' It's not the main lab, the one you usually worked in. Look: 'Site B, VF-17 test, phase 3.' Moretti must have had another place where he conducted these experiments, away from prying eyes."Andrea rubbed his face, trying to process the information. "So there's another lab? And no one knows about it?""Maybe," Giulia said, setting the papers on the bed and crossing her legs. "Or maybe someone knows all too well. Someone who wanted to get their hands on VF-17. Think about it: a compound that boosts yields by 40% without chemical fertilizers. It's a goldmine. And if Moretti was keeping it secret, if he didn't want to share it with the department or some company…""They killed him for it," Andrea said, his voice steady for the first time that day. He stood and started pacing again, thoughts swirling in his head. "And my notebook… maybe it's a way to divert attention, to make it look like I'm involved. But why not just come after me directly? Why not…"He stopped, realizing how paranoid he sounded. "Because you're not a threat," Giulia said, finishing the thought for him. "Not yet, at least. You don't understand the project, you don't have VF-17 in your possession. You're just a minor obstacle, someone to use as a distraction. But now that we know this, now that we're piecing it together, things change."They sat in silence for a moment, absorbing the weight of that possibility. If Moretti had a secret lab, and if VF-17 was truly that valuable, then his death wasn't an isolated incident, an impulsive crime. It was a premeditated murder, carefully planned, and Andrea's notebook was just one piece of a larger scheme, a scheme someone out there was still executing."We have to find it," Andrea said, stopping in front of her. "If there's a lab, there's evidence. Samples, documents, something that can explain all this. Something that can get me out of this mess."Giulia nodded, her eyes blazing with fierce determination. "But we need to be careful. If someone killed Moretti for this, they won't stop at us. They might already know we're looking, that we're digging."Andrea met her gaze, feeling a strength he didn't know he had. "I know," he said. "But I can't sit still while they accuse me of something I didn't do. I need to know the truth, Giulia. I need to know who did this, and why."She placed a hand on his shoulder, a simple gesture heavy with meaning. Her fingers were warm, steady, an anchor in the storm. "Then we'll find it together," she said, her voice low but resolute. "Step by step. You're not alone in this, okay?"Andrea nodded, feeling a knot loosen in his chest. "Okay," he whispered. And with those words, their fate was sealed. The Green Future Project was no longer just Moretti's legacy, a dream left unfinished by a man who was gone. It was their mission, a dangerous path that would lead them into the heart of a mystery bigger than they could imagine. Andrea didn't know it yet, but that day, in that cramped dorm room, with papers scattered and cold coffee in their hands, a battle had begun that would change everything. Not just for him, but for everyone who would cross that dark path.