Chapter 4 - THE MAN AT HER BEDSIDE
“I saw him.”
Dante’s face became unreadable.
“When?”
“At the hospital.”
“How many times?”
“I don’t know. Three. Maybe four.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
I stared at him.
“I met you four days ago.”
He actually closed his eyes.
“Right.”
It was the first time I had seen Dante Moretti embarrassed.
Under other circumstances, I might have enjoyed it.
Instead I held Matteo’s watch in one hand and my dead mother’s coat in the other.
“She called him Mr. Salvi.”
“You’re certain?”
“Yes.”
“He knew she was dying.”
“Yes.”
Dante looked toward the storage-unit door.
For the first time since I had met him, fear entered his face.
Not fear for himself.
“What did they talk about?”
“She always made me leave.”
“Emma.”
“I didn’t know she had been keeping mafia accounting books when I was five.”
The anger escaped before I could stop it.
He absorbed it without answering.
Then his gaze dropped.
“You’re right.”
That made being angry at him annoyingly difficult.
I searched the coat more carefully.
Inside the lining near the hem, I felt something stiff.
A slit had been hand-sewn closed.
I tore the stitches with my fingers.
A photograph slid out.
Three men stood outside St. Agnes Community Trust.
Carlo Moretti.
Matteo Vitelli.
Victor Salvi.
Behind them was my mother.
The date was stamped two weeks before Matteo died.
Everyone was smiling.
I flipped it over.
My mother had written:
THEY THINK VICTOR IS HELPING.
I felt sick.
“She suspected him.”
Dante took the photograph.
“Or suspected something.”
“Those are not the same thing?”
“Not enough for me to accuse a man who spent eighteen years keeping my family alive.”
There it was.
Loyalty.
I understood it.
I also hated it.
“What would count?”
“Evidence.”
“My mother’s warning isn’t evidence?”
“It’s a warning.”
“You really trust him that much?”
Dante looked at the photograph for a long time.
“He came to our house the night my father died.”
I waited.
“I was seventeen. My mother was already gone. He told me my father had been shot.”
Dante’s voice remained controlled.
“He stayed with me until sunrise.”
Something in my anger softened.
Victor wasn’t simply an employee.
He had been there during the worst moment of Dante’s life.
“He taught me how to run the businesses. He kept men from tearing the organization apart while I finished school.”
“And now his son helped kidnap me.”
“Yes.”
“So perhaps loyalty should have limits.”
His eyes met mine.
“It does now.”
That was all he said.
But something final lived inside the words.
We drove to Union Station before dawn.
Locker 318 was part of an old long-term storage system scheduled for renovation.
The brass key worked.
Inside sat a faded leather suitcase.
The lock wasn’t fastened.
I opened it.
My mother’s rosary lay on top.
I recognized it instantly.
She used to wrap it around her fingers during chemotherapy.
I had believed it was lost at the hospital.
Beneath it were accounting pages, old photographs, and a red scarf.
Dante touched nothing.
“This is yours.”
I appreciated that more than he knew.
I opened the first folder.
St. Agnes Community Trust.
The pages showed donations, property transfers, medical payments.
Then the numbers changed.
Large withdrawals appeared.
$180,000.
$475,000.
$920,000.
Authorized by initials.
V.S.
P.V.
“Who is P.V.?”
“Paolo Vitelli.”
“Marco’s father?”
“Uncle.”
Dante’s voice hardened.
“He died ten years ago.”
“So Victor and Paolo stole the money?”
“Maybe.”
Another page showed the funds later returned.
Authorized by L.C.
Laura Chase.
My mother.
I stared at her initials.
“She put it back.”
“Looks that way.”
“Then why did everyone think she stole it?”
“Because perhaps they saw only the withdrawal.”
I kept turning pages.
At the bottom of the suitcase was a newspaper clipping.
MATTEO VITELLI KILLED IN RIVER NORTH SHOOTING.
Two days later:
BUSINESSMAN CARLO MORETTI SHOT DEAD OUTSIDE HOME.
Each clipping had a handwritten question mark beside the word “rival.”
Then I found an envelope addressed to nobody.
Inside was a single ledger page.
At the top:
MERCY EXIT FUND.
Under it were dozens of names.
No surnames.
Just initials and dollar amounts.
“What is this?”
Dante read over my shoulder.
“People leaving.”
“What?”
“Payments to families starting over.”
I looked at him.
“Your father was helping people leave his own organization?”
“Yes.”
“So was Matteo.”
That changed them.
Not into saints.
Not even close.
But into men trying to undo at least some of what they had built.
“They weren’t enemies.”
“No.”
“Then their deaths created the war.”
“Yes.”
“Who benefited?”
Dante looked at the initials again.
“Anyone who didn’t want the families changing.”
Victor.
Paolo.
Maybe others.
I lifted my mother’s rosary.
One bead near the cross felt heavier.
I twisted it.
The bead unscrewed.
Inside was a tiny rolled strip of paper.
Dante stared.
“My mother apparently believed in hiding things everywhere.”
“She was good at it.”
I opened the strip.
It contained a handwritten list of four names.
Carlo Moretti.
Matteo Vitelli.
Laura Chase.
Victor Salvi.
Beside the first three were dates.
Matteo’s death.
Carlo’s death.
Then another date beside my mother’s name.
Six months ago.
The day she died.
My stomach turned.
Victor’s name had no date.
Instead my mother had written:
HE CAME BACK FOR THE BLUE BOOK.
Dante read the words twice.
“What blue book?”
“I don’t know.”
I looked through the suitcase again.
Nothing blue.
Then I saw something beneath the newspaper.
A hospital parking receipt.
Six months old.
The day before my mother died.
License plate handwritten across the top.
Dante took a photograph of it with his phone.
“I know that plate.”
“Whose?”
“Victor’s.”
My pulse pounded.
“He went to see her the day before she died.”
“Yes.”
I remembered that afternoon.
Mom had been unusually upset.
She had made me promise something strange.
Don’t let anyone tell you I was ashamed of you.
I had thought the medication was confusing her.
Now I wasn’t so sure.
“Dante.”
He looked at me.
“My mother gave me something that night.”
“What?”
“A bracelet.”
I closed my eyes, trying to remember.
“It was ugly. Blue beads. She said it had belonged to her mother.”
“Where is it?”
“My apartment.”
His face changed.
“Emma, your apartment was searched after you were taken.”
My stomach dropped.
“What?”
“I had someone check.”
“And you didn’t tell me?”
“You were being held hostage.”
“That excuse is starting to sound very convenient.”
“You’re right.”
He exhaled.
“I should have told you.”
Another admission.
Another piece of trust I didn’t want to give him but did anyway.
“What was taken?”
“Nothing obvious.”
I grabbed the suitcase.
“We’re going there.”
“Emma—”
“My bracelet.”
He stopped.
Then nodded once.
“Your decision.”
My apartment looked normal.
Almost.
The lamp beside my couch was angled wrong.
One kitchen cabinet stood open half an inch.
Someone had searched carefully.
I went straight to my bedroom.
My mother’s blue-beaded bracelet sat inside an old jewelry box.
Still there.
I laughed from relief.
“Whoever searched didn’t want costume jewelry.”
Dante picked it up.
One bead had a faint seam.
We opened it.
Inside was not paper.
It was a tiny brass token.
One side read:
ST. AGNES — 27.
The other side carried a single word.
MERCY.
Dante’s eyes darkened.
“St. Agnes has been closed for twelve years.”
“So?”
“So Victor owns the building.”
I looked at him.
“Personally?”
“Yes.”
The answer landed badly.
Before either of us could speak, Dante noticed something beneath my bed.
He crouched and reached under.
When he stood, he was holding a black onyx ring.
The same kind Luca had worn.
But this one was larger.
Older.
Inside the band were engraved initials.
May you like
V.S.
Victor Salvi had been inside my apartment.
