Chapter 5 - THE NAME ON THE AFFIDAVIT
There was a particular kind of silence that followed an accusation against a powerful man.
Alessandro knew it well. In his father's time, whole rooms had practiced it. Men would look away, women would gather their children, and employees would wait until the accused person had left before daring to speak honestly.
That silence returned when Karen Liu read the name Vincent Romano aloud.
Rosa sat opposite her in a conference room at an independent law office. Alessandro stood near the window. Helena Brooks had joined them, carrying a thick folder of corporate records. Nobody tried to pretend that the accusation was ordinary.
“The affidavit isn't proof that Vincent caused Elena's death,” Karen said. “Lucia stated that Elena called her the night before leaving for Naples. According to Lucia, Elena said Vincent had insisted on a meeting, then threatened to take Matteo from his mother if she refused.”
“Did Lucia witness anything?” Alessandro asked.
“She witnessed a phone call afterward. Elena said she was going to meet Vincent at a hotel above the Amalfi road. That's what Lucia swore to twenty-six years ago.”
“Why wasn't the statement in the investigation file?” Rosa asked.
Karen's expression sharpened. “That may be the most important question. We have a stamped copy, but the formal case inventory doesn't list it.”
Helena opened her folder. “At the time, Giovanni owned a transportation company that supplied the regional police motor pool. Vincent was a silent investor. That creates serious questions about conflicts of interest.”
Alessandro looked out across the Hudson. For years he'd told himself his mother's death was a foggy memory best left undisturbed. Every new document made that memory less foggy and more deliberately obscured.
“I want the complete original case file,” he said.
“You may not get it quickly,” Karen cautioned. “Italian authorities would need to make their own decisions about reopening any investigation.”
“Then we'll provide them what we have, through the proper channels.”
Rosa considered him. “And what happens to us while you do that?”
“Nothing about the investigation changes the agreement regarding Lily.”
“I'm not talking about the paperwork.”
He turned. Her hands were clasped tightly together. She looked tired enough to fall asleep in the chair, yet there was nothing weak in the way she held his gaze.
“If Vincent feels cornered, he could come for the one person you care about who can't protect herself,” Rosa said. “That's what your father taught everyone, isn't it? Find the weakest person in the room.”
Alessandro felt ashamed because she was right. Not about what he intended to do, but about the culture he'd allowed to surround him. He'd once praised himself for keeping violence outside his home. He had failed to notice that the fear of violence had already moved in.
“I will ask the police about protective measures,” he said. “And if you'd rather leave this estate, I'll help without trying to choose the destination.”
Rosa nodded. “Lily and I will stay with my aunt until the housing application is ready. Karen knows the address. You can reach us through her.”
He wanted to object. Instead he said, “Thank you for telling me.”
Across town, Vincent Romano sat in a private office with windows overlooking Manhattan. He held an aging photograph of Giovanni Moretti, Elena, and a boy whose face was partly hidden behind an enormous birthday cake. The photograph had arrived in an unmarked envelope that morning.
He opened the accompanying note.
YOU REMEMBER WHAT HAPPENED TO MATTEO. SO DO I.
Vincent read it once, then tore it into thin strips. His daughter Isabella stood beside the desk, arms folded.
“You told me Matteo was dead,” she said.
Vincent looked up slowly. “There are things you don't understand.”
“Apparently there are whole people I don't understand. Including the man you expected me to marry.”
“You were expected to help preserve peace.”
“You expected me to marry Alessandro because it would give you access to his father's archives.”
He said nothing. Isabella's voice grew quieter.
“When I saw that button on the floor, I knew somebody had searched the archive. I thought Alessandro had found the photographs. I shouted at the child because she was holding evidence I recognized. It was cruel, and I know that now. But you are the one who put me there.”
Vincent leaned back. “You will not lecture me.”
“Then listen while I tell you something you may find more interesting. The wedding is canceled. My lawyers have withdrawn my consent to the warehouse transfer. Whatever happens next, I won't be your signature.”
For an instant Vincent looked as though he might strike her. Isabella did not move. He glanced toward the open door, where a receptionist could hear them, and lowered his hand.
“You've chosen the wrong side,” he said.
“I don't even know what the sides are anymore.”
She left before he could answer.
That evening Rosa packed the apartment she'd rented for four years. It was small, with a radiator that clicked all night and yellow curtains sewn by her mother. Lily tried to help by placing toy animals inside the suitcase, then removing them because she thought they might be uncomfortable.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“To Aunt Marina's for a little while.”
“Does she have pancakes?”
“Better. She has a dog.”
“Can Bun meet him?”
“Of course.”
Lily accepted the answer and went back to packing. Rosa watched her with a mixture of tenderness and dread. No court document or fortune could guarantee a child a future without fear. The best Rosa could do was make enough ordinary days that danger would not define the whole story.
Her phone rang. An unknown number.
“Rosa Mendes?” asked a man's voice, hesitant and rough.
“Who's calling?”
“My name is Matteo Ricci. I was told you might have something that belongs to me.”
Rosa looked toward the open storage carton. The little wooden boat lay on top, its blue paint chipped along one edge.
For a moment she remembered Lucia sitting at the edge of her bed, sanding that little boat with a scrap of paper until its rough edges could not hurt a child. Rosa had asked who it belonged to. Her mother had answered only that some gifts took a very long time to reach the right person. Rosa had never understood why Lucia cried afterward.
“What makes you think that?”
“Because your mother called me once before she died. She said she had kept a toy my birth mother gave me. She said there was a letter too, but then she got sick and I couldn't reach her.”
“Where are you?”
“Jersey City. I work at a boat repair yard. Listen, I don't want Moretti money. I don't want a fight. I just want to know whether the woman in the photograph was really my mother.”
Rosa tightened her grip on the phone. “We shouldn't speak without lawyers. There's an investigation.”
“I know. An officer gave me your attorney's number. I called you because I was scared she'd say no.”
Rosa heard something painfully familiar in the voice. A grown man asking for permission to learn who he was. She thought about Lily and the truths waiting at the edges of her childhood.
“I'll tell Karen you called,” she said. “If the records are genuine, you deserve answers.”
He exhaled. “Thank you. There is something you should know. Vincent Romano raised me for seven years under another name. Then he sent me away. I thought he was my uncle.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because somebody visited my workshop yesterday. They said if I keep asking about my mother, the little girl in the Moretti house could get hurt.”
Rosa felt the room tilt. She made him repeat the words, then wrote them down with the time of the call. When it ended, she contacted Karen, who advised immediate reporting to the officers already handling the case.
By ten that night, Rosa and Lily were at Marina's home. A cheerful terrier greeted Lily with excessive enthusiasm. Marina made hot chocolate, then sat beside Rosa while Lily fell asleep under a quilt.
“I used to think your mother carried a terrible secret because she didn't trust us,” Marina said. “Maybe she carried it because she didn't know how to put it down.”
Rosa looked at the blue wooden boat she'd kept in her handbag. “I don't want to become her. I don't want Lily to grow up reading my fear in every decision.”
“Then tell her the truth in pieces she can hold. Children don't need all the dark parts at once.”
At the estate, Alessandro received confirmation that Matteo had spoken to police. He asked Daniel to review the protective plan for every involved witness. But another development arrived at the same time: a courier had delivered a bank record showing a payment made after Elena's fatal crash, from a company Vincent controlled to a man named Paolo Santini.
Santini had been the driver of the car that took Elena toward Naples.
According to the official report, he had died in the same crash.
Alessandro stared at the date of the transfer. It was three months after Santini was supposedly buried.
May you like
The dead driver had been paid after his death.
And whoever arranged that payment had assumed nobody would ever look.
