Chapter 4 - THE WATCH MY FATHER LEFT BEHIND
“Then Cesare lied.”
The words sounded simple.
Nothing about them was.
Octavio studied the train ticket.
“My godfather has been beside me since I was twelve.”
“People lie longer than fifteen years.”
“I’m aware.”
“You don’t sound like it.”
His eyes lifted.
“You want me to condemn him because his name is written on a ticket?”
“I want you to stop treating loyalty like evidence.”
That landed harder than I expected.
Octavio put the ticket down.
“My father used to say almost the same thing.”
“Maybe you should have listened to him too.”
Instead of getting angry, he gave a tired exhale.
“You do enjoy correcting Contis.”
“Somebody has to.”
I picked up the photograph again.
“O.C. must never see it.”
“If your father meant me, there was a reason.”
“You were what, twenty-three?”
“Twenty-four.”
“Already involved in the family?”
“Yes.”
The answer was not defensive.
Just factual.
That somehow made it worse.
“What exactly did you do?”
He held my gaze.
“Things I would not ask you to excuse.”
That was the first time I understood something important about Octavio.
He would conceal.
He would control.
He could probably terrify a room without raising his voice.
But when forced directly against an ugly truth about himself, he did not decorate it.
I looked away.
“Why were you watching me?”
His expression shifted.
“Not because of my stunning personality, apparently.”
“Partly.”
I looked back despite myself.
He continued.
“Your father saved my life.”
Everything in me stopped.
“What?”
“Lakeshore Steel. I was seventeen.”
He glanced toward the photograph.
“My father took me there to teach me the legitimate side of the business. A support beam gave way.”
I remembered the scar near Octavio’s hairline.
I had noticed it while sketching him once.
“Michael saw it before anyone else.”
His voice changed.
“He shoved me clear.”
“And?”
“The beam crushed his left leg.”
My father had walked with a slight limp for as long as I remembered.
He always said it came from a motorcycle accident.
“He never told me.”
“My father paid his medical bills.”
“My mother said workers’ compensation did.”
“Your mother wanted you away from us.”
“Why?”
Octavio walked to an old writing desk.
From its top drawer, he removed a silver pocket watch.
The metal was worn smooth.
He opened it.
Inside the lid was an engraving.
E.C. to M.H. — A debt no money can settle.
My breath caught.
“My father owned this?”
“Until the night he died.”
“How did you get it?”
“My father gave it to me after Michael’s funeral.”
“Why?”
“He said I should remember the cost when other people paid for Conti decisions.”
I looked at Octavio.
“You kept that all these years.”
“Yes.”
“Yet you stayed in the family.”
His mouth tightened.
“I inherited a machine before I understood how to dismantle it.”
“And have you?”
“Not enough.”
That honesty was becoming inconvenient.
I took the watch.
My father had touched this.
Carried it.
Maybe checked it that final night.
The hands had stopped at 11:47.
Seven minutes after the scheduled meeting with Cesare.
“Did it break?”
Octavio frowned.
“What?”
“The watch.”
He looked closer.
“I don’t know.”
The crown was partially pulled out.
I pressed it.
The back plate shifted.
Not open.
Shifted.
“Octavio.”
He took it.
There was a thin second compartment beneath the engraved lid.
Inside lay a narrow strip of paper.
Faded.
Folded twice.
My father’s handwriting again.
Enzo was right. The Falcone books are false. C.V. knows why. Keep Octavio away until we know who inside the house is helping them.
I read it twice.
Then looked up.
“C.V. knew.”
“Cesare Valenti.”
“But this doesn’t accuse him.”
“No.”
In fact, it suggested my father trusted him.
Reversal.
The man whose name on the ticket had made him look guilty had apparently been helping investigate.
I sat on the edge of the bed.
“So Cesare wasn’t hiding that he knew my father because he killed him.”
“Maybe.”
“Don’t do that.”
“What?”
“Make every answer suspicious.”
“In my life, answers usually are.”
A soft knock sounded.
Three precise taps.
Octavio instantly reached beneath his jacket.
“Who?”
“Marco.”
His security chief entered.
“We found Miss Conti’s car.”
I stood.
“Where?”
“Lower Wacker.”
“Is she—”
“Car was empty.”
Relief lasted half a second.
Marco handed Octavio a clear evidence bag.
Inside was a torn strip of white fabric.
“Blood?” Octavio asked.
“No.”
Marco looked at me.
“Wedding veil.”
I frowned.
“Isabella doesn’t own a wedding veil.”
“She does now.”
He placed another object on the desk.
A photo-booth strip.
Four pictures.
Isabella.
Daniel.
Laughing.
Kissing.
In the final frame, Isabella held up her left hand.
A wedding ring.
Across Daniel’s forehead she had written in marker:
WE DID IT.
My chest loosened.
“She really married him.”
“Yes,” Marco said.
“So she made it to Vegas?”
“No.”
I looked up.
“What?”
“That photo booth is in Cicero.”
The room tightened again.
“She never went to Vegas?”
“No.”
Octavio stared at the pictures.
“She wanted us to think she did.”
“Why?”
Marco hesitated.
“We found one more thing.”
He handed me the last photograph.
It wasn’t from the booth.
It was a security still.
Isabella and Daniel walking into an old church on the Southwest Side.
Behind them stood a man in a dark overcoat.
Cesare Valenti.
I looked at Octavio.
His face hardened.
“He found them.”
Marco shook his head.
“That’s the problem.”
“What problem?”
“He arrived with them.”
Silence.
If Cesare was hunting Isabella, why was she voluntarily walking into a church with him?
I turned the photograph over.
Someone had written a sentence across the back.
This time it was Isabella’s handwriting.
Cesare is the only one I trust.
Then Octavio’s security radio crackled.
A guard downstairs said six words that changed everything again.
May you like
“Boss, Mr. Valenti is here.”
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