Chapter 6 - THE MARRIAGE THAT STARTED AS A LIE
I looked at Marcus.
Every memory began rearranging itself.
The coffee shop where we met.
The accidental second meeting.
The way he seemed fascinated by stories about my father.
The speed with which he became indispensable.
The proposal after eleven months.
Had any of it been mine?
“Did you know?”
Marcus shook his head.
“No.”
“Did you know?”
“I swear.”
“Stop saying that.”
My voice cracked.
“I don’t want your vows.”
He flinched.
Fair.
Lucia continued.
“Victor identified you through Elena and Daniel’s records. Years later, when Marcus began working in insurance, Victor approached him.”
Marcus stared at her.
“He said he was an old friend of my mother.”
“He was more than that.”
Marcus’s face twisted.
“He knew things about her.”
“Because he lived with her briefly.”
I didn’t care about Victor’s love life.
Not yet.
I cared about my marriage.
“When did he tell you to meet me?”
Marcus closed his eyes.
“The coffee shop.”
There it was.
I felt physically sick.
“You were sent.”
“Yes.”
“You said you didn’t know.”
“I didn’t know he was my father.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
He looked at me.
“Yes.”
My lungs refused to work normally.
Dante moved closer but stopped several feet away.
Good.
I did not need another man standing between me and my own anger.
“Why?”
Marcus’s eyes filled.
“He said Daniel had hidden evidence that could destroy innocent people along with Victor.”
“And you believed him?”
“At first.”
“At first.”
The phrase echoed.
“When did you stop believing him?”
“A month after I met you.”
I laughed.
“Convenient.”
“It’s true.”
“Then why keep seeing me?”
His voice broke.
“Because I fell in love with you.”
“Do not use that word right now.”
He looked down.
“You’re right.”
“Did Victor tell you to marry me?”
“No.”
“Did he approve?”
“No.”
That surprised me.
“He told me to stop seeing you.”
“Why?”
“Because I was getting too close.”
“To me or the evidence?”
Marcus looked ashamed.
“To you.”
Lucia watched silently.
So did Dante.
Nobody rescued him.
Nobody rescued me.
We just stood in the ugly truth.
“When did you start helping Victor again?”
“Eighteen months ago.”
The same timeline he had given before.
“What happened?”
“He showed me documents proving my mother had lied about my father.”
“But not that Victor was him.”
“No. He said my real father had been murdered by the Castellanos.”
Dante’s mouth tightened.
“He manipulated you.”
“Yes.”
“That does not explain what you did to Mia,” Lucia said quietly.
Marcus looked at her.
“No.”
His answer mattered.
Not enough.
But it mattered.
“I started drinking more.”
I folded my arms.
“Alcohol did not hit me.”
“No.”
“I need to hear you say it.”
He looked at me.
“I hit you.”
My eyes burned.
“You shoved me into a door.”
“Yes.”
“You broke my phone.”
“Yes.”
“You made me apologize after.”
His face crumpled.
“Yes.”
“And yesterday?”
“I punched you.”
The basement went silent.
He did not say lost control.
Did not say we fought.
Did not say you made me angry.
For once he named the act.
I hated that part of me felt relief.
“Why did you meet Victor yesterday?”
“He finally told me.”
“Told you what?”
“That he was my father.”
Marcus wiped his face.
“He said he needed the watch and the ledger because Daniel had destroyed our family.”
“You gave him Dad’s watch before yesterday.”
“Yes.”
“What did you still have?”
“The original red ledger.”
My pulse jumped.
“You said Victor had it.”
“I lied.”
Of course.
“Where is it?”
Marcus looked toward the blue coat.
“I put it somewhere he would never search.”
“Where?”
“Our apartment.”
I almost laughed.
“That is the first place he would search.”
“No.”
Marcus looked at me.
“He would search my things.”
Understanding came slowly.
“You hid it in mine.”
“Yes.”
Rage returned.
“What did you use?”
He swallowed.
“Your wedding album.”
I stared at him.
Of course.
The symbol of a marriage built on secrets.
Dante’s voice was quiet.
“We retrieve it without Mia going back there.”
I turned.
“No.”
His jaw tightened.
“Mia—”
“No.”
“You heard your husband. Victor may know.”
“I heard him.”
“You do not need to prove anything.”
“I’m not.”
I held his gaze.
“I’m choosing.”
That stopped him.
Marco said, “Then you do not go alone.”
“Fine.”
Marcus did not come.
That was also my choice.
Marco drove.
Dante sat in front.
I rode in back with Giuseppe.
My apartment looked exactly as I had left it.
Beer bottle on the kitchen counter.
Concealer smeared beside the bathroom sink.
White roses still in their paper on the floor because Marcus had dropped them at Romano’s and someone had apparently sent them over with his coat.
I hated them on sight.
The wedding album sat on the bookshelf.
Inside the back cover was the red ledger.
Original.
My father’s handwriting.
And a small envelope addressed to me.
Not hidden well.
Maybe Dad intended it eventually to be found.
Mia.
I opened it.
Inside was a Polaroid.
Victor Hale stood beside another man on Pier 41.
The other man wore a dark Castellano overcoat.
His face was turned away.
On the back, Dad had written:
The man behind Victor is not Lucia.
Dante read it over my shoulder.
“What?”
So Lucia was cleared.
One answer.
Another door.
Below that:
Anthony knows his face.
My stomach tightened.
Anthony Castellano.
Missing eight months.
Not necessarily dead.
If Anthony knew the mastermind, that explained why he disappeared.
“Did Victor take Anthony?” I asked.
Dante shook his head.
“I don’t know.”
Marco flipped several ledger pages.
Then stopped.
“There’s a notation.”
A.C. relocated. G.R. route. Keep D.C. uninformed.
Dante stared.
“A.C. is Anthony.”
“G.R.?”
Giuseppe Romano.
We all turned.
Giuseppe went pale.
“I helped Anthony disappear.”
Dante’s face became terrifying.
“You what?”
“Eight months ago.”
“You knew where my uncle was?”
“I knew where he went.”
“Where?”
“Montreal.”
“Why did you never tell me?”
“Because he said if Dante knew, Dante dies.”
Dante laughed bitterly.
“I’m getting tired of people loving me.”
Giuseppe lowered his eyes.
Anthony had left behind one thing.
A train-station luggage ticket.
Giuseppe still had it in his restaurant safe.
Locker number 608.
Grand Central.
Stored long-term through a private service.
We retrieved it that afternoon.
Inside was one suitcase.
One dark Castellano overcoat.
And one children’s book.
I frowned.
Dante picked it up.
“The Little Prince.”
“Anthony read it?”
“No.”
His voice softened.
“Luca did.”
Inside the cover was Luca’s handwriting.
For Dante — because grown men forget what matters.
Dante closed his eyes.
The book had belonged to his dead brother.
Between pages forty and forty-one was a photograph.
Victor Hale.
Anthony Castellano.
And a third man.
This time his face was visible.
Dante stopped breathing.
Marco whispered, “No.”
I looked at the man.
Older.
Silver-haired.
Strong features that resembled Dante.
“Who is that?”
Dante’s face lost all color.
“My father.”
I stared.
“Your father is dead.”
“Yes.”
“The photo date?”
Marco turned it over.
Two years after Carlo Castellano’s supposed death.
Dante whispered, “Impossible.”
Then a key fell from the book’s spine.
Attached to it was a metal tag.
ST. AGNES HOSPICE.
ROOM 14.
And beneath it, Anthony’s handwriting:
Dante deserves to hear it from Carlo before Carlo dies.
Dante stared at the message.
May you like
His father had apparently been alive for years after his funeral.
And somewhere in New York, he might still be alive now.
