Chương 3 - THE MAN IN THE PHOTOGRAPH
Sarah stared at him.
“No.”
Marcus didn’t move.
“My mother’s name was Teresa Santoro.”
“No.”
“She died eighteen years ago.”
“My father never knew your family.”
“He did.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I have photographs.”
The words struck harder than shouting.
Sarah snatched the compass from his hand.
“My father would have told me.”
Marcus’s expression softened in a way she hadn’t expected.
“Would he?”
She hated the question because she already knew the answer.
Thomas Mitchell had been a good father.
Funny.
Patient.
Terrible at remembering birthdays until the last minute.
But there had been locked rooms inside him.
Sicily was one of them.
Sarah remembered finding an Italian ferry ticket in his desk when she was sixteen.
He had taken it from her without anger.
Then burned it in the fireplace.
She had forgotten that until now.
“Show me the photographs.”
Marcus led her through the villa to a study.
An older man stood inside.
Gray hair.
Weathered skin.
A bruise across one cheek.
Paolo.
Sarah stopped.
“What happened to you?”
The captain looked ashamed.
“Two men came to my house.”
“What?”
“I got out through the kitchen.”
Marcus turned toward him.
“You knew her father.”
Paolo closed his eyes.
Sarah felt another betrayal before he even answered.
“Yes.”
She whispered, “How long?”
“Thirty-two years.”
Sarah took a step back.
“You knew him?”
“I dove with Thomas.”
“And you never said anything?”
Paolo’s face folded with guilt.
“He made me promise.”
“I have worked for you for six months.”
“I know.”
“You knew who I was the entire time?”
“Yes.”
Anger flooded through her.
“You hired me because of him.”
Paolo hesitated.
“Partly.”
The word hurt more than a lie.
“I thought I earned that job.”
“You did.”
“Don’t.”
“You did, Sarah. I had twelve applicants. You were the best.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me?”
Paolo looked toward Marcus.
“Because the wrong people were still alive.”
Sarah laughed once.
Sharp.
“Apparently they still are.”
Marcus opened an old safe built into the wall.
From inside, he removed a photograph.
The color had faded.
Four people stood on a marina dock beneath brutal Sicilian sunlight.
Paolo, thirty years younger.
A beautiful dark-haired woman Sarah immediately recognized as Marcus’s mother because Marcus had her eyes.
Beside her stood a broad-shouldered man in a white linen shirt.
And beside him—
Sarah’s knees nearly gave way.
Thomas Mitchell.
Her father looked perhaps thirty-five.
Younger than she remembered him.
Tanned.
Laughing.
One arm slung over Paolo’s shoulders.
Marcus watched her face.
“This was taken two weeks before my mother died.”
Sarah touched the edge.
“My father never smiled for photographs.”
“He did that day,” Paolo whispered.
“What were they doing?”
Paolo answered.
“Looking for proof.”
“Of what?”
Nobody spoke immediately.
Sarah looked between them.
“I’m tired of people deciding what I should know.”
Marcus finally said, “My uncle Raffaele controlled part of the Santoro shipping operation then.”
“Your uncle?”
“He practically raised me after my mother died.”
“And?”
“Some ships were carrying cargo my father had forbidden.”
“What kind?”
“Weapons. Narcotics.”
Paolo added quietly, “People too.”
Sarah looked at him.
“What?”
“Undocumented migrants. Men promised work. Women promised safe passage.”
Her stomach turned.
“Thomas discovered containers that didn’t appear on the manifests.”
Marcus’s voice became flat.
“My mother discovered money moving through companies she didn’t recognize.”
“They worked together?”
“Yes.”
“Against your family?”
Marcus held her gaze.
“Against part of it.”
Sarah looked back at the photograph.
“My father was a diver.”
“He could inspect hull compartments no accountant would find.”
Paolo moved closer.
“Thomas wanted out when he realized how dangerous it was. Teresa asked him for one last dive.”
“The night she died?”
“Yes.”
Marcus looked toward the window.
“My mother took a Santoro motor yacht south of Palermo. Official report said the engine compartment caught fire.”
Sarah tightened her grip on the photograph.
“And my father?”
“Was found five miles offshore the next morning.”
Alive.
That explained everything.
“He survived.”
“Yes.”
“Why did he leave?”
Paolo answered.
“Because somebody put a gun against his head in a hospital room and told him his daughter would grow up without a father if he spoke.”
Sarah felt the air leave her lungs.
“I was twelve.”
“I know.”
“My father came home from Europe when I was twelve.”
“Yes.”
She remembered him appearing at Portland International Airport with his left arm bandaged.
Her mother had told her there had been a diving accident.
Thomas never returned to commercial work.
Sarah sat down.
“He was protecting me.”
“Yes.”
“And lying to me.”
Paolo looked miserable.
“Yes.”
Both things could be true.
That was somehow worse.
Marcus turned the photograph over.
Sarah saw handwriting.
Her father’s.
Paolo — if she ever comes back, give her the key. Not before.
Sarah looked at the old captain.
“What key?”
Paolo reached beneath his sweater.
Around his neck hung a narrow chain.
A small brass key rested on it.
“You’ve been carrying that for eighteen years?”
“Every day.”
Sarah could barely speak.
“Where does it go?”
“Marina storage. Old building. Locker seventeen.”
Marcus immediately turned toward the door.
Sarah stood.
“I’m coming.”
“No.”
Her anger returned.
“Excuse me?”
“There are men hunting you.”
“Because of my father.”
“Yes.”
“Then move.”
Something changed in Marcus’s expression.
He gave one nod.
Not permission.
Acceptance.
They reached the old marina storage building before dusk.
Locker seventeen looked ordinary.
Rusty.
Dent in one corner.
Paolo’s hand shook when he inserted the key.
Inside was a red silk scarf.
A wooden rosary.
A waterproof document pouch.
And another photograph.
Sarah picked up the scarf.
Marcus stopped breathing.
“My mother’s.”
The fabric had been burned along one edge.
He touched it with two fingers.
For the first time Sarah saw the feared Marcus Santoro look not powerful, not dangerous, but young.
Paolo opened the document pouch.
Inside were copies of shipping manifests and one sealed envelope.
Thomas had written across the front:
FOR MARCUS SANTORO — WHEN HE IS OLD ENOUGH TO CHOOSE WHAT KIND OF MAN HE WILL BE.
Marcus broke the seal.
The letter was only one page.
He read silently.
Then his jaw tightened.
Sarah stepped closer.
“What?”
He handed it to her.
Thomas described illegal routes.
False manifests.
Threats.
Then the final paragraph:
Teresa believes Lorenzo has discovered the truth. I pray she is right about what he intends to do. If she is wrong, none of us are safe.
Sarah looked up.
“Lorenzo?”
Marcus’s face had gone gray.
“My father.”
Sarah read the final handwritten line.
May you like
If Teresa dies tonight, ask Lorenzo why he gave the order.
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