Chapter 2 - THE DEAD BROTHER
Lorenzo had been dead for two years.
Dante had seen the body.
Unlike the closed coffins of old family stories, there had been no ambiguity.
Lorenzo Moretti had been shot twice in the chest in a parking garage in Brooklyn.
Dante had arrived before the ambulance.
Held his brother’s hand.
Watched him die.
There were facts grief could not rewrite.
So the man reflected in Elena’s photograph was not Lorenzo.
But he looked enough like him to make Dante’s pulse change.
Rafael leaned over the image.
“Could be coincidence.”
“No.”
“Cousin?”
“Maybe.”
The Moretti family had branches nobody discussed at dinner.
Dante enlarged the scan.
Same nose.
Same posture.
Scar above the right eyebrow.
Lorenzo had that scar.
From a bottle thrown during a bar fight when he was twenty-one.
Dante remembered stitching it himself because Lorenzo refused a hospital.
“Find original footage.”
“Already requested.”
Dante called his sister.
Isabella answered on the fourth ring.
“If this is about Sunday dinner, I’m not bringing dessert.”
“It’s midnight.”
“Exactly.”
“Do you remember anyone who looked like Lorenzo?”
Silence.
“What?”
“Family. Cousins. men Father kept around.”
“Why?”
“Answer.”
“Dante.”
He closed his eyes.
“Please.”
That word changed the call.
Isabella became serious.
“Uncle Stefano.”
Dante frowned.
“Father’s cousin?”
“Yes.”
“He looked nothing like Lorenzo.”
“His son did.”
Dante sat.
“What son?”
More silence.
“Isabella.”
“Marco.”
The name stirred something.
Not memory.
Absence.
“Who is Marco?”
“Stefano’s son.”
“Why have I never met him?”
“You did.”
“No.”
“At Nonna’s funeral. You were eleven.”
That was almost thirty years ago.
“Where is he?”
“I thought prison.”
“For?”
“Fraud? Something in Florida.”
“Alive?”
“As far as I know.”
“Why didn’t Father mention him?”
“Because Stefano sided with Uncle Paolo during the split.”
Old Moretti civil war.
Dante had been a child.
Adults called it a business disagreement.
Men disappeared.
Businesses burned.
Family photographs changed.
“Marco would be what age?”
“Forty-four.”
The man in the reflection looked mid-forties.
“Send me any photograph you have.”
“Why?”
“I found one.”
“Of Marco?”
“Maybe.”
“Where?”
Dante looked toward the hallway.
“In a photograph of my housemaid and her daughter.”
Silence.
Then Isabella said:
“Dante, what did you do?”
“Nothing.”
“That is rarely comforting.”
He told her about the knocking.
The passage.
The photograph.
Mateo Cruz.
She listened.
Then:
“Get Elena out.”
“She’s in the guest wing.”
“I mean out of the house.”
He went still.
“Why?”
“Because if Marco is involved, he may not be watching her because of Mateo.”
“What else?”
Isabella hesitated.
“Lorenzo.”
Dante’s jaw tightened.
“What about him?”
“Lorenzo knew Marco.”
“How well?”
“Better than you think.”
Dante hated that sentence.
“Explain.”
“Two months before Lorenzo died, he came to Boston.”
“To see you?”
“No. Me.”
“Why?”
“He asked about Marco.”
Dante stood.
“And you never told me.”
“He made me promise.”
His temper flashed.
“Everyone makes promises until somebody dies.”
“I know.”
The answer took air out of the anger.
“What did he ask?”
“If Marco ever contacted me.”
“Had he?”
“No.”
“Why was Lorenzo looking for him?”
“He wouldn’t say.”
“Anything else?”
“He told me if something happened to him, I should never believe the first story.”
Dante went silent.
The first story.
Robbery.
Parking garage.
Wrong place.
Lorenzo had supposedly met an accountant nearby.
No connection to family war.
Maybe that was the first story.
“Send the photograph.”
“I will.”
“Isabella.”
“Yes?”
“No more promises that involve hiding dead relatives.”
“Agreed.”
He ended the call.
At one in the morning, Elena knocked on his study door.
Dante looked up.
She wore a borrowed robe over her pajamas.
Hair loose.
No makeup.
No servant uniform.
For the first time, she looked like a woman who lived somewhere rather than someone employed to maintain it.
“Can I come in?”
“Yes.”
She entered.
Closed the door.
“Is Sophie asleep?”
“With Bruno.”
“The dog?”
“On her bed.”
Dante stared.
“Bruno weighs one hundred forty pounds.”
“He appears not to care.”
Traitor.
Elena sat across from the desk.
“You found something.”
Not a question.
Dante turned the photograph toward her.
“Do you know this man?”
She looked.
Too fast.
Then slower.
“No.”
Again.
Not exactly a lie.
“His name may be Marco Moretti.”
Her eyes changed.
There.
“You know the name.”
Elena stood.
“Goodnight.”
“No.”
The word came hard.
She froze.
Dante immediately corrected.
“Please sit.”
She looked at him.
He hated how much effort one word required.
Eventually she sat.
“My husband,” she said, “mentioned Marco.”
Dante waited.
No interruption.
“Mateo was investigating your family.”
“I know.”
Her jaw tightened.
“Of course you do now.”
“I did not before tonight.”
“I believe you.”
That surprised him.
“Why?”
“Because if you knew, I would never have been hired.”
Fair.
“What did Mateo say?”
“Not much.”
“Elena.”
“I mean it. He protected me by telling me very little.”
Her face twisted.
“I hated that then.”
“You hate it now.”
“Yes.”
“What about Marco?”
“He said there was someone inside the Moretti organization selling information to police and also selling police information back to criminals.”
“Double agent.”
“Something like that.”
“Marco?”
“Mateo believed so.”
“Proof?”
“He was trying to get it.”
“When he died.”
“Yes.”
Silence.
Dante looked at the file.
“Did Mateo ever meet Lorenzo?”
Elena’s face drained.
That was answer enough.
“How?”
She looked toward the fire.
“My husband came home one night bleeding.”
“When?”
“Four years ago.”
“Where?”
“Shoulder.”
“Shot?”
“Knife.”
“What did he say?”
“Nothing useful.”
“Elena.”
“He said a Moretti saved him.”
Dante stopped breathing.
“Which?”
“He refused to tell me.”
“Lorenzo.”
Her eyes filled.
“I found the name later.”
“How?”
“Mateo kept notes in a locked box.”
“Do you still have them?”
“No.”
“Where?”
“Gone.”
“Who took them?”
“After Mateo died, our apartment was searched.”
“Police?”
“No.”
“What was taken?”
“His box.”
“Anything else?”
“No.”
That mattered.
“Did you report it?”
“I reported the break-in.”
“Did you say what was missing?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I had a two-month-old baby and my husband had just been murdered.”
Her voice broke on the word.
Dante said nothing.
Good.
She continued:
“I stopped wanting justice. I wanted Sophie alive.”
He understood more than he wanted to.
“How did you end up working here?”
Elena laughed once.
“That is the part I still don’t understand.”
“What?”
“Mrs. Moretti.”
“My mother?”
“Your stepmother.”
Right.
Beatrice.
His father’s second wife.
Still alive.
Living in Palm Beach.
“She recommended me.”
Dante went still.
“When?”
“Three years ago.”
“Why?”
“She volunteered at the church pantry where I worked.”
Beatrice knew who Elena was.
Had to.
Maybe.
“Did she know Mateo’s name?”
“Yes.”
His pulse changed.
Elena saw.
“What?”
“Beatrice does nothing accidentally.”
“You think she placed me here.”
“I don’t know.”
“Why?”
“Maybe protection.”
Elena’s face hardened.
“No.”
“Or surveillance.”
“That is worse.”
“Yes.”
Dante reached for his phone.
She stopped him with one sentence.
“Ask her before you investigate her.”
He looked at Elena.
“She is family.”
“That is why.”
Another lesson.
Annoying.
He called Beatrice.
She answered immediately.
“Dante?”
“You’re awake.”
“I’m old, not dead.”
“Did you place Elena Cruz in my house?”
Silence.
Then:
“Yes.”
Elena closed her eyes.
Dante gripped the phone.
“Why?”
“Because Lorenzo asked me to.”
Everything stopped.
“What?”
“Before he died.”
Elena opened her eyes.
Beatrice continued.
“He came to me with a photograph of Elena and the baby.”
“Sophie.”
“Yes.”
“He said if anything happened to him, I was to make sure they were somewhere Marco could not reach easily.”
Dante stood.
“And you chose my house?”
“Where else?”
“You could have told me.”
“Lorenzo said not to.”
“Lorenzo is dead.”
“And he was right to be careful.”
Dante’s temper rose.
“Why?”
“Because one of your guards worked for Marco.”
The study became silent.
“Who?”
“I never knew.”
“Lorenzo did.”
“Probably.”
“Did he tell you why Marco wanted Elena?”
“No.”
“Anything else?”
Beatrice hesitated.
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Lorenzo said Mateo Cruz died because he found out who really controlled the information network between the police and your family.”
“Marco.”
“No.”
Dante stopped.
“Then who?”
“He wouldn’t say.”
“Beatrice.”
“I’m telling you what I know.”
Elena leaned closer.
Dante asked:
“Did Lorenzo believe Marco killed Mateo?”
“No.”
“What did he believe?”
“That Marco was afraid of the same person.”
That changed everything.
Marco might not be the watcher.
He might be another witness.
Then Beatrice said:
“Dante, there is one more thing.”
“What?”
“Sophie.”
Elena stiffened.
“What about her?”
“Lorenzo said she had seen something.”
Dante looked at Elena.
“What could a baby have seen?”
Beatrice’s answer came quietly.
“She wasn’t a baby when it mattered.”
Elena stood.
“That makes no sense.”
Beatrice heard her.
“Elena?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For putting you in that house without telling you why.”
Elena laughed bitterly.
“Everyone keeps protecting me by moving me around like furniture.”
Beatrice was silent.
Then:
“You’re right.”
That mattered.
Dante asked, “What did Sophie see?”
“I don’t know.”
“Lorenzo said?”
“He said Mateo left something with the child because adults were being watched.”
Elena went completely still.
“No.”
“What?” Dante asked.
She looked at him.
“Sophie’s star pillow.”
The worn pillow she carried everywhere.
Mateo had bought it before he died.
Elena had kept it.
Sophia slept with it every night.
The seam was torn.
Her thumb always found it.
Dante stood.
“Where is it?”
“With her.”
They ran.
The guest suite door was open.
Bruno stood in the hallway.
Growling.
Sophie sat on the bed holding the star pillow.
The seam had been cut all the way open.
Stuffing covered the floor.
And in her tiny hand was a black flash drive.
May you like
Someone had entered the room while they were downstairs.
Someone inside Dante’s mansion had known exactly what Mateo Cruz hid four years ago.
