Chapter 3 - THE WOMAN IN THE PHOTOGRAPH
I did not believe him.
That was the first thing I said.
“You’re lying.”
Marcus exhaled.
“I expected that.”
“I buried her.”
“You buried a coffin.”
“I saw the car.”
“After.”
“The body was identified.”
“By Carlo.”
My jaw tightened.
“Medical examiner.”
“Paid by Carlo.”
“Death certificate.”
“Signed by a doctor who left the country six months later.”
Every answer opened another door.
I hated him for it.
“Where is she?”
“I don’t know.”
The rage came instantly.
“You call me after thirty-one years and tell me my mother is alive, then say you don’t know where?”
“I knew until six years ago.”
“Where?”
“Europe.”
“Country.”
“It changed.”
“Stop speaking in riddles.”
“I’m trying to keep you alive.”
I laughed.
Of course.
Protection.
The favorite excuse of secretive families.
“Try truth.”
Silence.
Then Marcus said, “Lucia survived the crash because there was no crash.”
My heart pounded.
“What?”
“Victor Salerno drove her car to the ravine.”
“Victor.”
“Yes.”
“Who was in it?”
“No one.”
“The body.”
“A woman from a morgue.”
I closed my eyes.
Even for my family, that was monstrous.
“Whose order?”
“Carlo’s.”
“My father staged her death.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because she knew what he was doing.”
“The money.”
“More than money.”
“What?”
“People.”
Everything in me went cold.
“What people?”
“Witnesses. women. undocumented workers. anyone useful enough to move and powerless enough not to be missed.”
I stood.
My chair scraped backward.
“Trafficking?”
“Sometimes.”
The word almost made me break the desk.
“Carlo ran people.”
“Yes.”
“My father.”
“Yes.”
“Moretti Maritime.”
“Yes.”
I had spent twenty years expanding that company.
Legitimizing parts.
Using old routes.
I felt sick.
“Is it still happening?”
“I don’t know.”
“If it is—”
“I believe you don’t know.”
That stopped me.
“Why?”
“Lucia kept watching you.”
My heart stopped.
“What?”
“From a distance.”
“Where?”
“News. business records. people I trusted.”
“You said you lost her six years ago.”
“I lost direct contact.”
“She knew me.”
“Yes.”
“Did she ever come back?”
Long silence.
“Once.”
“When?”
“Twelve years ago.”
My father was still alive then.
“What happened?”
“She saw you.”
“Where?”
“St. Patrick’s funeral.”
Which funeral?
Too many.
Then I remembered.
Uncle Dominic.
A cousin of my father.
Large family gathering.
I had been twenty-eight.
Had I seen a woman?
No.
“Why didn’t she speak to me?”
“Because Carlo was there.”
Rage tightened my chest.
“My father controlled her thirty-one years later?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“She thought you had become him.”
The words landed.
Hard.
I said nothing.
Marcus continued quietly.
“She saw men around you. weapons. fear. She heard what people called you.”
Mafia boss.
Butcher.
King.
Some earned.
Some exaggerated.
Enough.
“She thought I was like Carlo.”
“Yes.”
“And you?”
“I didn’t.”
“Why?”
“Because Carlo never carried an injured dog three blocks to a veterinarian when he was fourteen.”
I froze.
No one knew that.
Except family staff.
Maybe.
“Who told you?”
“Lucia.”
My throat tightened.
Mother had known.
Had watched.
Somehow.
“Where is she now?”
“I don’t know.”
“When did you last speak?”
“Six years ago.”
“What happened?”
“She found Victor.”
“Salerno?”
“Yes.”
“She believed he kept copies of Carlo’s transport ledgers.”
“Why would he?”
“Insurance.”
Again.
“Where?”
“Your estate.”
“The box?”
“No. Different records.”
“Hidden where?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then why put her letter there?”
“Because Victor used that shed in 1995. Lucia once told me if she disappeared again, start where Victor hid things.”
“You found the cavity.”
“Yes.”
“And her box?”
“Already there.”
I stopped.
“What?”
“I did not place the box.”
Every instinct sharpened.
“Sophia saw you.”
“She saw me looking at it.”
“She said you put the secret away.”
“I put it back.”
“Who placed it there?”
“I don’t know.”
Victor?
Elena?
Someone else?
“Why contact me now?”
“Because Victor disappeared.”
“You know?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“I was watching him.”
“Why?”
“Lucia asked me to years ago.”
“Did you kill him?”
“No.”
“Did you take him?”
“No.”
“Do you know who did?”
“I have an idea.”
“Name.”
“Not over the phone.”
“Where?”
A pause.
“Two days. Fountain.”
Sophia’s message.
“Why my house?”
“Because if I’m right, the person hunting Victor already has access.”
“Who?”
The line went dead.
I stared at the phone.
Then called Luca.
“Full internal audit.”
“Of?”
“Everyone.”
A pause.
“Sir?”
“Staff. security. relatives. drivers. contractors. Nobody gets excluded because I trust them.”
“Yes.”
“And check Moretti Maritime routes going back twenty years.”
“That’s enormous.”
“I know.”
“What are we looking for?”
“People.”
Silence.
Then his voice changed.
“I understand.”
I went to the guest room Elena had used.
Empty.
Sophia’s dying dandelion lay on the windowsill.
I picked it up.
Ridiculous.
A dead weed.
I kept it.
At seven the next morning, my sister called.
Isabella Moretti-DeLuca.
Forty-three.
Three children.
One husband she loved and frightened equally.
She had moved to Boston years ago and stayed out of most family business.
Smartest Moretti alive.
“Why are you auditing Dad?”
My stomach tightened.
“Who told you?”
“Luca called my husband about old shipping accounts.”
“Luca was told to be discreet.”
“He was. My husband is nosy.”
Fair.
“Do you remember Marcus?”
Silence.
Long.
“Yes.”
I closed my eyes.
Of course.
“How?”
“I was twelve when Mom died, Adrian. You were nine.”
“She wasn’t your mother.”
Isabella was my half sister.
Carlo’s daughter from his first marriage.
Her mother died during childbirth.
Lucia raised Isabella from age three.
“She was more my mother than anyone,” Isabella said.
Guilt.
Instant.
“I’m sorry.”
“Good.”
“Marcus.”
“Yes.”
“How do you know?”
“I heard Dad arguing with Lucia once.”
“About?”
“Marcus.”
“What did he say?”
“Dad said, ‘He is dead to us.’ Lucia said, ‘Not to me.’”
My chest tightened.
“Anything else?”
“Mom hit him.”
I almost smiled.
“Lucia hit Dad?”
“Hard.”
That image hurt strangely.
“Why never tell me?”
“I thought Marcus was an old boyfriend.”
I laughed once.
“Of course.”
“Who is he?”
“Her brother. Dad’s brother.”
Silence.
“What?”
I explained.
Not everything.
Enough.
By the time I finished, Isabella was breathing hard.
“Mom’s letter says Dad used Moretti Maritime for illegal transports.”
“Yes.”
“Adrian.”
“I know.”
“You need to call federal counsel.”
“I will when I know what is current.”
“No. You call now.”
She had always spoken to me like a younger brother, even after men twice her size feared me.
“Isabella.”
“Do not ‘Isabella’ me. If people are being trafficked through our companies, you do not privately investigate until the family looks good.”
She was right.
I hated that too.
“I’ll call.”
“Today.”
“Yes.”
“Promise.”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Then softer:
“Is Mom alive?”
I closed my eyes.
“Marcus says yes.”
Isabella cried.
Quietly.
It destroyed me more than my own reaction.
“Does she know about me?”
“Yes.”
“She raised me.”
“I know.”
“Why didn’t she come?”
Because she thought I became Carlo.
I could not say it.
“She was afraid.”
“Of Dad?”
“Yes.”
“After he died?”
I had no answer.
Isabella understood anyway.
“Of you.”
“Yes.”
Silence.
Then:
“Prove her wrong.”
The line ended.
At nine, I called outside counsel.
By noon, we had initiated a privileged internal review and made preliminary contact with federal investigators specializing in trafficking and organized crime.
Every instinct in me screamed not to invite federal eyes into Moretti business.
I did it anyway.
Because some doors should be burned down even if they held up your own house.
At three, Elena called.
Unexpected.
“Are you busy?”
“Yes.”
“I can call later.”
“No.”
A pause.
“Okay.”
Her voice sounded wrong.
“What happened?”
“Sophia drew something.”
I leaned back.
“What?”
“A house.”
“That sounds normal.”
“Not our house.”
“Mine?”
“No.”
She sent a photograph.
Crayon drawing.
Large white house.
Blue shutters.
Tree.
A woman at a window.
Sophia had written nothing.
Three-year-olds generally did not.
But beneath the woman, Elena had added:
She says this is “Adrian’s mommy.”
My blood went cold.
I called immediately.
“How does she know what my mother looked like?”
“She saw the photograph in the box.”
“No. In the box my mother was young. This woman is older.”
Silence.
Elena whispered, “You’re right.”
The drawn woman had gray hair.
My mother would be seventy now.
“How did Sophia see her?”
“I asked.”
“And?”
“She says the old man showed her another picture.”
Marcus.
“What did he say?”
Elena repeated Sophia’s words.
“Lady waiting near water.”
Water.
The fountain?
No.
Maybe coast.
“Anything else?”
“She says ‘blue house.’”
I stood.
“Where are you?”
“At my sister’s.”
“Stay there.”
Silence.
I closed my eyes.
“Sorry.”
“Better.”
“Would you be willing to stay there until I know more?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you.”
Another pause.
“You sound different.”
“How?”
“Tired.”
I looked at the ledger reports across my desk.
“My mother may be alive.”
Silence.
Then very softly:
“Oh.”
I did not know why I told her.
Maybe because everyone else in my life came with history.
Elena did not.
“What do you need?” she asked.
Not what can I do.
What do you need?
The question hit harder than expected.
“Information.”
“About?”
“What Sophia saw.”
“She is three.”
“I know.”
“I won’t interrogate her.”
“Good.”
“Maybe she’ll talk while drawing.”
“That would help.”
“I’ll call tonight.”
“Thank you.”
“Adrian?”
“Yes?”
“I hope she’s alive.”
My throat tightened.
“Me too.”
At six, Luca entered with a file.
“We found Victor.”
“Alive?”
“No.”
My chest went cold.
“Where?”
“Industrial lot near the Hudson.”
“How?”
“Single gunshot.”
“Execution.”
“Yes.”
“Anything on him?”
“One key.”
He placed an evidence photograph on my desk.
Brass.
Numbered.
B-17.
“Recognize?”
“No.”
“Storage locker company.”
“Where?”
“Long Island.”
“And this?”
Luca placed another photograph.
Victor’s left palm.
Someone had written on it in black marker before he died.
LUCIAN KNOWS.
I stared.
“Lucian?”
Luca frowned.
“No one in immediate family.”
“Search.”
“Already.”
Then he added:
“There is one Lucian connected to Moretti Maritime.”
“Who?”
“Lucian Vale. Chief financial officer.”
I knew him.
Fifty-eight.
Worked under my father.
Still worked under me.
Attended Christmas.
Held Sophia once when Elena had to carry serving trays.
My blood turned to ice.
“Bring him in.”
Luca hesitated.
“He left the country this morning.”
“Where?”
“Switzerland.”
Of course.
And then another message arrived.
From an unknown number.
A photograph.
My mother.
Older.
Alive.
Standing outside a blue house beside water.
Timestamp:
THREE DAYS AGO.
Under it:
IF YOU WANT LUCIA, COME WITHOUT YOUR MEN.
I stared.
Location pin attached.
Maine.
Elena’s words returned.
Lady waiting near water.
Marcus had not been speaking in metaphors.
May you like
My mother was alive.
And someone else had found her first.
