Chapter 4 - THE UNCLE AT MY TABLE
Carlo Romano came to dinner every Thursday.
He had for years.
Same chair.
Same whiskey.
Same complaint that my chef did not understand garlic.
The week after I heard Mateo’s recording, Carlo arrived at seven fifteen carrying a bottle of Barolo and kissed Elena’s hand as if he were some charming old aristocrat instead of a man I was beginning to suspect had helped kill my wife.
I wanted to break every bone in his fingers.
Instead I smiled.
That was harder.
“Elena,” Carlo said, “Adrian has been hiding you.”
Elena looked at me.
I looked at Carlo.
Nobody in the room knew exactly how dangerous that sentence was except the two of us.
“She works here,” I said.
Carlo smiled.
“So I hear.”
Lily entered wearing socks that did not match.
She stopped.
Carlo looked at her.
“And who is this?”
Lily hid behind Elena’s leg.
Interesting.
Lily did not hide from people.
She had walked up to armed men and renamed them Fred.
Carlo crouched.
“I’m Uncle Carlo.”
Lily said nothing.
He held out a wrapped chocolate.
Elena immediately stepped forward.
“No candy before dinner.”
Carlo laughed.
“Strict mother.”
“Alive child.”
His smile changed.
Tiny.
Most people would miss it.
I did not.
Neither did Elena.
Carlo stood.
“Of course.”
Lily whispered, “I don’t like that uncle.”
Silence.
Vincent looked away.
I nearly laughed.
Carlo did not.
“Children,” he said.
“Yes,” I replied. “Terrible liars.”
His eyes met mine.
There it was.
A flicker.
Suspicion.
Dinner became a chess game.
Carlo discussed shipping contracts.
I asked about Harbor East.
He did not hesitate.
“Bellini front.”
“You’re sure?”
“Everyone knows.”
“Mateo Morales worked there.”
Elena’s fork stopped.
Carlo looked toward her.
“Your husband?”
She nodded.
“Tragic.”
I watched his face.
“Did you know him?”
“No.”
Lie.
Maybe.
Not enough yet.
I poured wine.
“Bellini had someone inside our routes.”
Carlo’s expression remained smooth.
“For years.”
“You knew?”
“Suspected.”
“Who?”
He shrugged.
“Could have been anyone.”
Vincent sat two seats away.
Carlo looked toward him.
Too long.
There.
I understood.
He was preparing a target.
After dinner, Carlo asked to speak privately.
We entered the library.
He closed the door.
“Your housekeeper is becoming a problem.”
My entire body went cold.
“Explain.”
“Her husband worked for Bellini.”
“So?”
“Widows hear things.”
“Do they?”
“She has a child. Bellini likes leverage.”
I stepped closer.
“Is that advice?”
“Yes.”
“Or a warning?”
Carlo smiled.
“You’ve become suspicious.”
“Occupational hazard.”
He poured himself whiskey.
Then looked at the framed photograph on the mantel.
Sofia.
My wife.
Dark hair.
Laughing in the picture because she had hated posed photographs and I had said something obscene to make her smile.
Carlo sighed.
“She would hate this house now.”
My hands curled.
“You think?”
“She wanted children.”
I stared at him.
He continued.
“She told me once.”
Of course she had.
Carlo had been family.
Uncle.
Counselor.
Protector.
Maybe murderer.
I forced myself not to look at his throat.
“She told everyone.”
“She would have been a good mother.”
“Yes.”
Carlo drank.
“You should marry again.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
I looked toward the hallway.
Somewhere beyond it, Lily was singing about pancakes.
“No reason.”
Carlo followed my gaze.
Understanding entered his face.
Dangerous.
“Adrian.”
“What?”
“Do not make a mistake because a woman and child make the house feel warm.”
I stared.
“What mistake?”
“Forgetting who you are.”
There it was.
The central religion of men like us.
Who you are.
As though cruelty were identity.
As though change were betrayal.
“I remember exactly who I am.”
“Good.”
Carlo set down his glass.
“Then send them away.”
My pulse became quiet.
“Why?”
“For their safety.”
Protection.
Again.
Elena’s warning echoed.
Men used that word when they wanted women to stop deciding.
Maybe they used it on other men too.
“Interesting.”
“What?”
“You suddenly care about a housekeeper.”
“I care about you.”
He touched my shoulder.
I let him.
Every instinct screamed.
I smiled.
“Always have.”
He left ten minutes later.
Vincent entered through the side door.
“He’s dirty.”
“Maybe.”
“You heard him.”
“I heard suspicion.”
“Adrian.”
“We need proof.”
Vincent stared.
Five years earlier, I would not have said that.
Five years earlier, suspicion would have been enough.
Maybe Elena had changed me more than I understood.
Or maybe Lily had.
The next morning, we received proof of another kind.
Someone tried to enter the estate using a catering van.
No event was scheduled.
Security stopped it at the outer gate.
The driver ran.
Passenger fired two shots.
Nobody inside the estate was hit.
One guard took a graze to the shoulder.
The van crashed against the stone barrier.
Inside, police found zip ties.
Sedatives.
A child car seat.
And a photograph of Lily.
Elena saw it.
Then she slapped me.
Not hard.
But enough to silence everyone in the security room.
“You said we were safe.”
I looked at her.
“I said safer.”
“That van got through the first gate.”
“It did not reach the house.”
“That is not the point!”
Lily was upstairs with a nanny and two female security officers Elena had personally approved.
Elena’s voice shook.
“You knew they wanted something from her rabbit.”
“Yes.”
“You knew Bellini might come.”
“Yes.”
“And you let her stay here.”
“So did you.”
Her eyes flashed.
“You own this place!”
“And you chose the security plan.”
Her face changed.
That was unfair.
Technically true.
Emotionally cruel.
I regretted it immediately.
“Elena.”
“No.”
She stepped back.
“This is your world.”
“Yes.”
“My daughter is three.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t.”
She pointed toward the monitors.
“Men shooting at gates is normal to you.”
“It is not normal.”
“You didn’t even flinch.”
“Because panic does not help.”
“You think calm means this isn’t horrifying?”
“No.”
“Then say it.”
I stared.
She was crying now.
Angry tears.
Terrified tears.
“Say you are scared.”
Nobody had asked me to say that in years.
Maybe ever.
I looked through the glass toward the estate.
Then at Elena.
“I am terrified.”
She stopped.
Vincent looked at the floor.
I continued.
“I am terrified they will hurt Lily because of Mateo.”
My voice lowered.
“I am terrified they will hurt you because you stayed near me.”
Elena’s anger softened slightly.
“And I am terrified that every person I let matter becomes another target.”
There.
Truth.
Ugly.
Uncontrolled.
Elena’s tears continued.
She stepped closer.
“You don’t get to decide we matter and then lock us in a fortress.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“I’m learning.”
The words felt pathetic.
She accepted them anyway.
“What now?”
I looked at Vincent.
“Not here.”
His eyebrows rose.
Elena did too.
I continued.
“They know the estate. They know routines. Someone may be giving information.”
“Carlo?” Vincent asked.
“We don’t know.”
“Where do we go?” Elena asked.
I thought.
Then chose somewhere nobody in my organization controlled.
“My sister’s old house.”
Elena frowned.
“You have a sister?”
“Had.”
Another ghost.
Bianca Romano had died twelve years earlier from leukemia.
Not violence.
Not business.
Just disease.
Sometimes life needed no enemy.
The small house in Evanston had remained under a trust outside the Romano companies.
No guards regularly posted.
No staff.
No public connection to my current operations.
Sofia and I had stayed there once while our mansion underwent renovations.
It was the last place I remembered feeling ordinary.
“We go tonight.”
Elena studied me.
“We?”
“Yes.”
“You too?”
“If Bellini thinks I’m here, better.”
“And if someone follows you?”
“I won’t be followed.”
Vincent smiled slightly.
That part I could guarantee.
We moved at midnight.
Separate cars.
Decoys.
Phones left behind.
No Romano-branded security.
Only Vincent and two people I trusted with my life.
At the Evanston house, Lily woke while I carried her inside.
She blinked at me.
“Mister Big House?”
“Go back to sleep.”
“This house is little.”
“Yes.”
“So now you’re Mister Little House?”
I closed my eyes.
Elena laughed behind me.
Even Vincent laughed.
I looked down at Lily.
“No.”
She rested her head against my shoulder.
“Yes.”
Five minutes later, she was asleep again.
I placed her on the small bed that had once belonged to Bianca.
Elena stood in the doorway.
Watching.
“You’re good with her.”
“No.”
“You are.”
“I allow vandalism.”
“That is apparently enough.”
I covered Lily with a blanket.
Buttons tucked beneath her arm.
When we stepped into the hallway, Elena whispered, “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“Being scared enough to leave your fortress.”
I looked at her.
Close.
Too close.
The small hallway held no marble.
No guards.
No chandeliers.
Just us.
“Elena.”
Her breath changed.
“Yes?”
I almost kissed her.
Then Lily called from the bedroom.
“Mama!”
Elena stepped away.
I hated and appreciated the interruption equally.
She went inside.
Vincent appeared at the bottom of the stairs.
His expression killed whatever softness remained.
“What?”
“We got the van driver.”
“Alive?”
“Yes.”
“Who hired him?”
“He says Rourke.”
Detective Patrick Rourke.
The cop Mateo had warned about.
Vincent continued.
“And Rourke works directly with Carlo.”
There it was.
Not suspicion anymore.
A line.
My uncle.
Bellini.
Dirty police.
Mateo’s death.
Sofia.
I looked toward the bedroom where Elena was humming softly to Lily.
Then back at Vincent.
“We still need more.”
“More?”
“Yes.”
“For what?”
I looked at him.
“To end it.”
Not kill one man.
Not shoot another.
May you like
End the structure.
For the first time in my life, revenge felt too small.
