Chapter 2 - The Name Marco Buried
I did not sleep.
At six in the morning, I was still sitting at the kitchen table with Dominic’s words repeating in my head.
Marco Bellini.
Saved my life.
His death may not have been an accident.
Lucia woke at six fourteen.
She shuffled into the kitchen in pajamas and one sock.
“Why are you awake?”
“I got up early.”
“That’s silly.”
“Yes.”
She climbed onto the chair beside me.
“Do I have school?”
“Yes.”
“Do I have to wear yellow?”
The question hit harder than I expected.
“You can wear anything you want.”
She looked toward the bedroom where the dress hung.
“I like yellow.”
“Then wear yellow.”
Her face brightened.
I packed her lunch.
Made toast.
Signed a spelling worksheet.
Normal things.
I clung to them.
At seven thirty, someone knocked.
I froze.
Through the peephole stood Mr. Salerno.
Dominic’s head of household.
Gray suit.
No coat.
Holding a bakery box.
I opened the door halfway.
“Why are you here?”
He looked almost offended.
“Good morning to you too.”
“Mr. Salerno.”
“Dominic asked me to bring breakfast.”
“I have breakfast.”
He looked past me at the burnt toast.
“I see.”
I almost laughed.
Almost.
Then I remembered.
“Did you know Marco?”
Mr. Salerno’s face changed.
That was answer enough.
I opened the door fully.
Lucia came running.
“Mr. Salerno!”
He smiled.
“Miss Lucia.”
“What’s in the box?”
“Cannoli.”
“For breakfast?”
“Your mother will decide.”
She looked at me.
“No.”
Mr. Salerno sighed.
“Terrible management.”
Lucia giggled.
I did not.
“Sit.”
He did.
“Tell me.”
His smile vanished.
Mr. Salerno had worked for the Castalano family longer than I had been married.
He knew how to stay silent.
That morning, I did not let him.
“Marco Bellini,” I said.
He looked down.
“Yes.”
“Who was he?”
“Your husband.”
“Do not do that.”
He nodded.
“Fair.”
He folded his hands.
“Marco’s father worked for Dominic’s father.”
“What kind of work?”
Silence.
I stared.
“Illegal?”
“Yes.”
“How illegal?”
“Elena.”
“How illegal?”
Mr. Salerno met my eyes.
“Enough.”
I stood.
“Get out.”
“Elena.”
“My husband told me he grew up in Staten Island with a mother who cleaned offices and a father who left.”
“His father did leave.”
“Because?”
“He was killed.”
I stopped.
Mr. Salerno continued.
“Marco was nineteen.”
I sat again.
“By whom?”
“No proof.”
“Who did people believe?”
“A rival crew.”
Lucia entered carrying two plates.
I stopped him with one look.
We waited until she returned to her room to get dressed.
Then I whispered, “Continue.”
“Marco did not join the family business.”
“What business?”
“You know what people say about the Castalanos.”
“Yes.”
“Some of it is true.”
I closed my eyes.
Marco hated gambling.
Hated men who solved arguments with threats.
Hated when movies made criminals look glamorous.
Now I understood why.
“He left.”
“Yes.”
“Then how did he save Dominic?”
Mr. Salerno looked toward the window.
“Eight years ago, Dominic was attacked outside a warehouse in Red Hook.”
I had seen the old scar near Dominic’s collar once.
Assumed car accident.
“Marco was there?”
“He had come to see his uncle.”
“Who?”
“Carlo Bellini. Dominic’s driver at the time.”
I felt sick.
“Marco stepped between Dominic and a shooter.”
My hand flew to my mouth.
“He was shot?”
“Shoulder.”
I remembered the scar.
Marco had a pale line near his left shoulder blade.
He told me it came from crashing a motorcycle at twenty-three.
“Why did he lie?”
“To get away.”
“From Dominic?”
“From all of it.”
Mr. Salerno’s voice softened.
“Dominic helped him disappear from the family network. New surname. New employment references. Quiet life.”
“Rossi.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because Marco asked.”
I stared at the kitchen table.
Our marriage license.
Lucia’s birth certificate.
The garage.
Everything real.
And one name changed before I knew him.
“Did Dominic stay in contact?”
“No.”
“Never?”
“Almost never.”
“Almost?”
“Marco called him twice.”
“When?”
“Once after Lucia was born.”
My eyes filled.
“Why?”
“He wanted Dominic to know he had a daughter.”
“Why would Dominic care?”
Mr. Salerno hesitated.
“Because Marco asked him to be responsible for her if anything happened.”
My chair scraped back.
“No.”
“Elena.”
“No. Dominic is not Lucia’s guardian.”
“Not legally.”
“Then what?”
“A promise.”
I laughed because crying felt too weak.
“Men making promises over women and children who know nothing. Fantastic.”
Mr. Salerno took the hit.
“What was the second call?”
His face changed.
“The night before Marco died.”
Everything inside me stopped.
“What did he say?”
“We don’t know exactly.”
“You were there?”
“No. Dominic took the call alone.”
“Then ask him.”
“He will tell you.”
I stood.
“He should have told me four years ago.”
“Yes.”
The answer disarmed me.
“Why didn’t he?”
“I asked him once.”
“And?”
“He said Marco chose a life without that family. Telling you would bring it back.”
“Marco died.”
“Yes.”
“So the choice was already gone.”
Mr. Salerno looked ashamed.
“Yes.”
Lucia came back wearing a yellow T-shirt.
“Can I have cannoli now?”
I looked at the clock.
School in twenty minutes.
“Half.”
She cheered.
For five minutes, our kitchen became normal again.
Then I walked her downstairs to the school bus.
Mr. Salerno waited.
When Lucia was gone, a black sedan pulled up.
Dominic sat inside.
I opened the rear door and got in without being invited.
He looked at me.
“You came here.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because Salerno told me enough.”
His jaw tightened.
I slapped him.
Hard.
The driver stared forward.
Dominic did not move.
My hand burned.
“That was for four years.”
He nodded once.
“You knew my husband.”
“Yes.”
“You knew he called before he died.”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
Dominic looked out the window.
I grabbed his sleeve.
“What did he say?”
He turned back.
“He said someone had found him.”
My mouth went dry.
“Who?”
“He didn’t know.”
“What did he know?”
“That a man came to his garage asking for Carlo Bellini.”
“His uncle.”
“Yes.”
“Then?”
“He saw the same car outside your apartment two nights later.”
I could barely hear.
“Why didn’t he call police?”
“He did.”
“What?”
“The report said suspicious vehicle. No crime.”
I remembered.
Marco came home late that week.
Checked the locks twice.
Told me someone at the garage had been robbed.
I believed him.
Dominic continued.
“He told me if anything happened, I was not to contact you unless I knew the threat had passed.”
“You knew he died the next day.”
“Yes.”
“In a brake failure.”
“Yes.”
“Did you investigate?”
His face changed.
“I did.”
“And?”
“The brake line had been cut.”
The words entered my body slowly.
“No.”
“Elena.”
“No.”
Police told me mechanical failure.
Old line.
Bad luck.
Rain.
A truck stop barrier.
Marco died before the ambulance arrived.
Dominic kept speaking.
“The officer assigned to the vehicle report changed the finding after an outside mechanic inspected it.”
“Who?”
“The mechanic disappeared two weeks later.”
I stared.
“What did you do?”
“I searched.”
“For four years?”
“Yes.”
“And you found nothing?”
“I found pieces.”
“What pieces?”
He opened a folder on the seat.
Not the engagement letter.
A different one.
Photographs.
License plates.
Garage receipts.
Phone records.
One image showed a man outside Marco’s garage.
Camille’s father.
Richard Whitmore.
I knew his face from newspapers.
Real estate.
Shipping.
Charity galas.
Dead two years.
I looked at Dominic.
“No.”
“Richard Whitmore met Marco three days before the crash.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“You were going to marry his daughter.”
“Yes.”
The car suddenly felt too small.
“Did Camille know?”
“I don’t know.”
“You ended your engagement last night.”
“Yes.”
“Because of Lucia’s dress?”
“No.”
I stared.
Dominic’s voice lowered.
“Because when she mocked Lucia, she used a phrase.”
“What phrase?”
“‘Wandered in off the street.’”
I frowned.
“So?”
“Her father used the exact phrase in a recorded meeting eight years ago about Marco.”
My skin went cold.
“What?”
Dominic opened another page.
Transcript.
RICHARD WHITMORE: Bellini boy wandered in off the street and ruined everything.
My hands shook.
Dominic continued.
“I had forgotten the wording until she said it.”
“Maybe coincidence.”
“Yes.”
He looked at me.
“That is why I did not accuse her.”
“You just ended your engagement in front of eighty people.”
“For what I saw. Not what I suspect.”
I looked at the photo of Richard Whitmore.
“What did Marco ruin?”
Dominic closed the folder.
“A shipment.”
“What shipment?”
He hesitated.
I laughed bitterly.
“Do not protect me now.”
His eyes met mine.
“Weapons.”
The word sat between us.
“Richard Whitmore was using legitimate freight to move illegal weapons through Red Hook. My father wanted no part of it.”
“And Marco?”
“Overheard enough to expose it.”
“Did he?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because doing so would have implicated his uncle and possibly me.”
I stared at him.
“So he stayed silent.”
“Yes.”
“And Richard thought silence might end.”
“Yes.”
I closed my eyes.
My husband had not died because of a random brake failure.
He may have died because powerful men believed someday he would talk.
Dominic touched nothing.
Did not reach for me.
Good.
I needed distance.
“What happens now?”
“I tell you everything.”
“No more choosing what I can handle?”
“No.”
“No more promises made over my head?”
“No.”
“And Camille?”
His expression hardened.
“She comes in only when facts do.”
My phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
A woman’s voice.
“Elena Rossi?”
“Yes.”
“You do not know me.”
“Who are you?”
“My name is Nora Whitmore.”
Dominic went still.
Camille’s older sister.
The one who lived in London and never appeared in family photographs anymore.
Nora continued.
“If Dominic has finally told you about Marco, do not go back to the mansion.”
I looked at him.
“Why?”
Her voice dropped.
May you like
“Because my sister knows exactly who your husband was.”
Then the line died.
