Chapter 3 - THE WOMAN MATTEO HID FROM EVERYONE
Elena Rossi had been missing thirty-one hours when police found her car.
Not her.
The car sat beneath an overpass in Newark.
Driver’s door unlocked.
No blood.
No broken glass.
Purse gone.
Phone gone.
One child’s mitten in back seat that Emilia said belonged to her from three winters earlier.
Ordinary debris.
I learned that phrase from detectives.
Vehicles collect lives.
Coffee receipts.
Pens.
Hair ties.
Things that mean nothing until someone disappears.
Giovanni wanted every old Moretti contact in New Jersey questioned before sunset.
He did not order it.
That distinction mattered.
He said it aloud in my kitchen.
“I want Barone’s people found.”
“Police first.”
“I know.”
“Then stop saying what you want like it is the plan.”
His jaw tightened.
We were home.
Emilia upstairs in Luca’s old guest room.
She refused a hotel and refused any Moretti property.
I respected that.
Our house was technically Moretti property too, but both our names were on deed.
We had bought it together after marriage.
No armed men inside.
Rule remained.
Two plainclothes Boston officers were outside at police request after Massachusetts authorities coordinated with New Jersey and New York.
Giovanni hated them.
Good.
Luca sat at kitchen island pretending homework existed.
Actually listening.
At fourteen, he had become professionally skilled at looking elsewhere while absorbing every adult sentence.
“Dad.”
Giovanni looked.
“What?”
“Who is Salvatore Barone?”
My husband’s face changed.
I almost answered.
Stopped.
Giovanni’s history.
His responsibility.
He sat across from Luca.
“When my father was alive, he had twelve men who handled problems.”
“What kind of problems?”
Giovanni looked at me.
I said nothing.
“Illegal ones.”
Good.
Luca’s mouth tightened.
“Like killing?”
“Yes.”
No softening.
“Were you one?”
“No.”
“Uncle Matteo?”
“For some years.”
Luca looked upstairs.
“Then he had a kid.”
“Yes.”
“Did he know?”
“We don't know.”
“Dad.”
“I don't.”
Good.
Luca pushed pencil across counter.
“Why did you tell me he died when he was twenty-five if Emilia’s eleven?”
There.
Math again.
Giovanni rubbed his face.
“Because I believed he did.”
“How long ago?”
“Twenty-three years.”
“Then she literally can't be his daughter.”
“Yes.”
“Unless he didn't die.”
“Yes.”
Luca stared.
Then:
“That seems like a big mistake.”
I closed eyes.
Giovanni nodded.
“Very.”
Luca continued:
“So either her mom lied.”
“Yes.”
“Or everybody lied to you.”
“Yes.”
“Which is worse?”
Giovanni looked toward ceiling.
“Currently?”
I almost smiled.
Then he grew serious.
“I don't know.”
Luca nodded.
“Good answer.”
Everyone stole that.
Later, Detective Amelia Price came to house.
Forty-three.
New Jersey Major Crimes.
She had the kind of calm that made Giovanni more nervous than shouting.
She sat at dining table.
“Mr. Moretti.”
“Giovanni.”
“No.”
He blinked.
I hid smile.
“Mr. Moretti, I understand Elena Rossi was once employed by a company connected to your family.”
“I don't know.”
Price looked at him.
“You expect me to believe that?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“My family owned hundreds of businesses and used fronts.”
“Some I knew.”
“Some I did not.”
“Do you still?”
“No.”
“None?”
“Legitimate holdings.”
“Separate governance.”
She wrote.
“Any criminal enterprise?”
Giovanni looked at me.
Then detective.
“I have not participated in one for years.”
Precise.
Price noticed.
“Statute-friendly answer.”
“Lawyer-friendly life.”
Fair.
She continued:
“Do you know Elena Rossi?”
“No.”
“Seen photograph?”
“Today.”
We had.
Police found old driver’s-license image.
Dark hair.
Strong nose.
Beautiful in ordinary way.
Forty-three now.
If Emilia’s age was accurate, Elena would have been thirty-two at birth.
Too young to have conceived child with a man supposedly dead twenty-three years.
So something else was wrong.
Price placed photograph of red ring inside plastic evidence sleeve.
“You identified this as Barone’s.”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Initials underneath.”
“Could be duplicate.”
“Yes.”
“Any unique damage?”
Giovanni pointed.
“Scratch on stone left side.”
“From?”
“He hit a church rail with it during my father’s funeral.”
That was specific.
“You remember.”
“Yes.”
“Could still be copy.”
“Yes.”
Again.
Facts.
Price looked almost approving.
“Where is Barone now?”
“Sicily last I knew.”
“Address?”
“My attorney provided.”
“Travel?”
“No idea.”
“We found entry record.”
Giovanni went still.
“United States?”
“Three weeks ago.”
Cold.
“Where?”
“JFK.”
“Departure?”
“None.”
He was here.
Giovanni’s hands flattened on table.
I watched.
Old urge.
Movement.
Then he asked:
“Did you issue alert?”
Price’s eyebrow lifted.
“Yes.”
Good.
Progress rewarded.
She continued:
“We found another thing.”
Elena’s rental apartment.
Not luxury.
Two-bedroom in Hoboken.
Neighbor said she had lived there eight years.
Worked as payroll manager for medical supply company.
No obvious criminal ties.
Inside her bedroom police found photographs.
Many.
Emilia baby.
School.
Beach.
Christmas.
One photo hidden behind dresser.
A man holding toddler.
Face partly turned.
Giovanni saw and stopped breathing.
“Matteo.”
Price looked.
“You're certain?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Scar behind ear.”
I stared.
The man looked older than twenty-five.
At least thirty.
Maybe more.
Matteo had lived.
Years after Giovanni believed he died.
“How old is child?”
Price asked.
“About two,” according to back note.
Photo dated nine years earlier.
Emilia now eleven.
The photograph could align.
Giovanni whispered:
“He was alive fourteen years after I buried him.”
Nobody moved.
Luca, standing in hallway despite instructions, said:
“Dad.”
Giovanni looked.
Our son’s face showed pain.
Not only for father.
For uncle he never knew.
“Why wouldn't he tell you?”
Giovanni looked at photograph.
“I don't know.”
That answer was becoming unbearable.
Emilia came downstairs.
Saw photo.
“That's Dad.”
Giovanni’s head lifted.
“You remember him?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“A little.”
“You said your mother told you he was dead.”
“She did.”
“When?”
“After kindergarten.”
My chest tightened.
Emilia was five.
Matteo alive until at least then.
Possibly.
“What do you remember?”
Price asked gently.
Emilia sat.
“He smelled like peppermint.”
Giovanni’s face broke.
“Matteo chewed peppermint gum.”
Small detail.
Not proof alone.
Powerful.
“He called me Mimi.”
“He said I had Moretti feet.”
Luca frowned.
“What are Moretti feet?”
Giovanni looked offended.
“Excellent feet.”
I laughed despite tension.
Emilia continued:
“He came at night sometimes.”
“Mom cried after.”
“He brought books.”
“Never toys.”
“He said toys made people remember visitors.”
That sounded like hiding.
“Did he say his name?”
“Dad.”
“What did your mother call him?”
“Matthew.”
English version.
“Did you ever hear Matteo?”
“Once when Mom was mad.”
“What happened when you were five?”
Emilia looked down.
“Dad said we were going somewhere.”
“Where?”
“He said Maine.”
Interesting.
“Then he didn't come.”
“Mom waited.”
“Two days.”
“Then she said he was dead.”
“Did you see body?”
“No.”
“Funeral?”
“No.”
“Why believe?”
Emilia’s eyes filled.
“Because Mom stopped waiting by window.”
That sentence hurt.
Price asked:
“Did Elena ever say who killed him?”
“No.”
“Recently?”
“She said old men.”
“Which?”
“She said men who liked rings.”
Red Rings.
Then:
“She said Dad tried to leave two times.”
“First time he left Giovanni.”
My husband flinched.
“Second time he tried to leave them.”
“Who’s them?”
“Everyone.”
Silence.
Giovanni whispered:
“Matteo faked his death.”
Maybe.
Price said:
“Possibility.”
Giovanni looked at her.
“No.”
“What?”
“My father would never let him.”
“Your father was alive?”
“Yes.”
“Then someone helped.”
“Barone.”
Maybe.
He stood.
Walked to window.
I followed.
“Giovanni.”
“He let me bury an empty coffin.”
“Do we know empty?”
He looked at me.
“No.”
“Then don't make next story yet.”
His eyes filled.
“I cried over him for twenty-three years.”
“I know.”
“He had a daughter.”
“I know.”
“He was alive.”
“Probably.”
“He did not call.”
There.
Not criminal mystery.
Brother grief.
“He chose.”
Maybe.
“Or feared.”
“Or was forced.”
“We don't know.”
Giovanni laughed bitterly.
“You have become irritating.”
“Marriage.”
He looked toward Emilia.
Then whispered:
“If he hid from me because of what I was…”
His voice broke.
“…then you were right too.”
About Luca.
About leaving.
I understood.
“No.”
He looked.
“This isn't verdict on our past.”
“Lauren.”
“You gave me reasons to fear.”
“Yes.”
“I made my own decision.”
“Yes.”
“Matteo made his.”
“Maybe.”
“Do not turn his secret life into evidence that nobody should trust you.”
He closed his eyes.
Then leaned forehead against mine.
Carefully.
We stayed.
Detective Price’s phone rang.
She answered.
Listened.
Her expression changed.
“Where?”
Then:
“Alive?”
My body tightened.
She hung up.
“We found Elena.”
Emilia stood.
“Mom?”
“Alive.”
She began crying.
“Where?”
Price hesitated.
“St. Agnes Medical Center.”
“New Jersey.”
“What happened?”
“Someone dropped her at emergency entrance two hours ago.”
“Condition?”
“Concussion.”
“Broken ribs.”
“Dehydration.”
“She told nurses she fell.”
Emilia shook her head violently.
“No.”
Price nodded.
“We don't believe that either.”
Then she looked at Giovanni.
“There’s another issue.”
“What?”
“Elena is refusing to speak until she sees you.”
Giovanni stared.
“Me?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Price’s expression hardened.
“Because she says Matteo Moretti left one message for his brother.”
My husband stopped breathing.
“What message?”
“She won't tell us.”
“Only you.”
For twenty-three years Giovanni had believed his brother died without goodbye.
Now a woman who had built a secret family with Matteo was alive in a hospital room.
May you like
And apparently she had spent years carrying the one thing Giovanni never thought he would receive.
Matteo’s final words.
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