Chapter 5 - THE ONE-EARED RABBIT
Damiano had the photograph examined.
Not by one of his own people.
That mattered.
An independent forensic imaging specialist in Manhattan.
The answer arrived forty-eight hours later.
The image was real.
Damiano’s face had been added later using a second photograph.
Crude by modern standards.
Convincing enough in 2006.
Serena stood beside Damiano in his study when the report arrived.
Lucia sat on the carpet building a crooked tower of wooden blocks.
Damiano had not wanted the child involved in any of this.
Serena had looked at him and said,
“She has nowhere else I trust right now.”
So Lucia came.
Damiano had quietly removed every breakable object within three feet.
Lucia noticed.
“You moved stuff.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“So you can destroy the room efficiently.”
She considered this.
Then nodded.
“Okay.”
Serena covered a smile.
The last two weeks had changed the estate.
Not dramatically.
Serena still worked.
At her insistence.
But eight-hour shifts now.
No child sleeping above the garage because a policy said housemaids should solve their own childcare.
Damiano had reopened the estate’s unused nursery room for staff children during scheduled hours and hired two licensed caregivers.
Serena accused him of changing an entire employment structure because a three-year-old yelled at him.
“That is not what happened.”
“It started with coffee.”
“I’m aware.”
Lucia lifted one finger.
“You were mean.”
Damiano looked at Serena.
“She remembers everything.”
“You should plan accordingly.”
Something warm moved through the room.
Then the imaging report pulled them back.
“Who needed a fake photograph?” Serena asked.
“Carlo.”
“Why implicate you?”
Damiano knew.
“Insurance.”
She frowned.
“If Vittorio learned Carlo was stealing, Carlo needed leverage.”
“A photograph making it appear Vittorio’s son knew about the diverted shipment.”
Serena’s expression hardened.
“You were eighteen.”
“That would not have mattered.”
Mafia families rarely put adolescence ahead of betrayal.
The photograph could have destroyed Damiano’s relationship with his father.
Maybe his life.
Matteo had somehow obtained it.
And hidden it.
Not used it.
Damiano stared at the image.
“Your father protected me.”
Serena looked at him.
“Yes.”
The word hurt.
Her father had been accused of betraying the Contis.
Yet even while fleeing them, he protected Vittorio’s son from false evidence.
“What did my family do for him?”
Serena’s silence answered.
Nothing.
Lucia’s block tower collapsed.
She gasped.
Then announced,
“It died.”
Serena laughed.
Damiano did too.
It surprised him.
Then Lucia crawled toward the one-eared rabbit on the sofa.
She had refused to let anyone repair the missing ear.
Serena had repaired the stomach seam only.
Lucia hugged it.
“My bunny knows secrets.”
Damiano and Serena both froze.
Serena crouched.
“Why do you say that, sweetheart?”
Lucia pointed at the missing ear.
“Grandma said.”
Serena went pale.
“My mother?”
Lucia nodded.
Lucia had been barely two when Rosa Vitale died.
Most memories were fragments.
Songs.
Smells.
Words adults thought children would forget.
“What did Grandma say?”
Lucia hugged the rabbit tighter.
“Bunny keeps Mommy.”
Serena covered her mouth.
Damiano knelt several feet away.
“Lucia.”
The little girl looked at him suspiciously.
He had learned not to touch the rabbit.
“Can your mommy look at Bunny’s ear?”
Lucia considered.
Then handed it to Serena.
Only Serena.
The missing ear had always looked torn.
It wasn’t.
Serena examined the base.
Small stitches had been cut cleanly.
Years earlier.
Inside the remaining fabric was a narrow cavity.
She reached in carefully.
Pulled out a rolled strip of old microfilm.
Damiano stared.
Serena whispered,
“My mother knew.”
Not only about the locker.
Something more.
The estate had equipment capable of digitizing old records.
An hour later, the microfilm appeared on Damiano’s study screen.
Bank transfers.
Offshore accounts.
Pier 17 cargo.
Initials.
Dates.
The diamond smuggling operation had been larger than Marco described.
Carlo had moved millions.
Salvatore participated for six months.
Then tried to stop.
Matteo began documenting everything.
But one name appeared on the final page that none of them expected.
R.V.
Payments.
Regular.
Small at first.
Then larger.
Serena stared.
“My mother was Rosa Vitale.”
Damiano looked at her.
“R.V.”
“No.”
She stepped back.
“No.”
The microfilm showed almost $180,000 transferred to Rosa over three years after Matteo disappeared.
Serena’s face went white.
“My mother told me we had nothing.”
“She might not have known.”
“Her initials are there.”
“Initials aren’t proof.”
“You keep doing that.”
“What?”
“Trying to stop me from hating people too quickly.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I have hated dead men for twenty years because someone gave me paperwork.”
That silenced her.
Damiano pointed at the records.
“We verify.”
They did.
The account existed.
Rosa Vitale was the beneficiary.
But the deposits were cash made by an unknown third party.
Withdrawals?
Almost none.
Then four years after Matteo vanished, the money moved.
All of it.
To a nonprofit medical foundation in Brooklyn.
Serena stared.
“My mother volunteered there.”
The foundation supported burn victims and families displaced by industrial fires.
Not personal enrichment.
Another reversal.
Then Damiano saw the transfer authorization.
The account had originally been opened by:
MARCO BELLINI.
Serena went still.
“He paid my mother.”
Damiano called Marco.
No answer.
Again.
Nothing.
Damiano’s security chief entered the room.
“Sir.”
“What?”
“Marco cleared his apartment.”
“When?”
“About three hours ago.”
Damiano’s blood went cold.
“Vehicle?”
“Gone.”
“Phone?”
“Off.”
Serena held Lucia closer.
Damiano looked at the microfilm.
Marco had hidden the truth.
Paid Rosa.
Stayed beside Damiano for twelve years.
And now disappeared the moment the rabbit revealed his name.
Then Damiano’s security chief placed something on the desk.
An envelope.
Marco had left it at the gate.
Damiano opened it.
Inside was a photograph.
Rosa standing beside Marco outside a Brooklyn hospital.
Dated eleven years earlier.
On the back, Marco had written:
I kept one promise to Matteo.
May you like
Underneath:
I kept the other one from you.
