Chapter 2 - The Bracelet My Mother Had Seen Before
I did not get into Dante Marchetti’s car willingly.
Technically, I didn’t get into it unwillingly either.
I got into it because Vittorio refused to move unless I came too.
That was different.
Dante wanted an ambulance.
Vittorio screamed when the paramedics approached.
Not loudly.
Worse.
He backed against the restaurant wall, arms raised protectively, repeating:
“No white room. No white room.”
I had never seen him panic like that.
Dante stood ten feet away.
His face gave nothing away, but his right hand was clenched hard enough that the knuckles had gone pale.
The paramedic looked at me.
“Does he trust you?”
“Apparently.”
“Can you get him into the ambulance?”
I tried.
“Arthur—”
Dante corrected me quietly.
“Vittorio.”
I ignored him.
“Listen to me.”
Arthur looked at me.
“There’s no white room.”
He stared at the ambulance.
“We’re going somewhere warm.”
“No needles.”
“I can’t promise that.”
His eyes widened.
“Okay. Fine. Probably one needle.”
He grabbed my sleeve.
“No.”
Dante stepped closer.
“Dad.”
Arthur flinched so hard Dante stopped immediately.
That did something to him.
He turned away.
I had never watched a powerful man learn in real time that power was useless.
Eventually we compromised.
Vittorio would ride in Dante’s SUV.
A paramedic would follow.
I would sit beside Vittorio.
Two bodyguards would sit in front.
Dante would drive separately.
The destination was not a hospital.
Dante owned a private medical residence outside Boston.
Of course he did.
The building looked nothing like a clinic.
Warm wood.
Large windows.
No fluorescent lights.
A doctor named Helen Park met us at the entrance wearing regular clothes.
Vittorio still refused to let go of my hand.
I stayed.
Hours later, Dr. Park found me in the kitchen.
“He’s severely malnourished.”
“How severely?”
“Enough that I’m surprised he’s still walking.”
I looked down.
“Anything else?”
“Old head trauma.”
My eyes lifted.
“What?”
“Significant.”
“From falling?”
“Possibly.”
She hesitated.
“But there are other things.”
Dante entered.
“What things?”
Dr. Park gave him a look.
“I’m discussing your father’s care.”
“I’m his son.”
“He is an adult patient.”
Dante’s jaw tightened.
I liked her immediately.
“He cannot currently provide reliable history,” she continued. “I’ll tell you what is medically necessary.”
Dante nodded once.
“Fine.”
“There are signs he was taking—or being given—long-term sedatives.”
Silence.
I looked at Dante.
“What kind?”
Dr. Park named two medications.
I had never heard of either.
Then she mentioned a third.
That one I knew.
Clonazepam.
My mother had taken it.
Not regularly.
Near the end.
After what she called her “bad nights.”
I swallowed.
“Could drugs cause his memory problems?”
“They could worsen them.”
“So he doesn’t necessarily have dementia?”
“I didn't say that.”
Dante leaned against the counter.
“What are you saying?”
“That we need imaging, bloodwork, neurological assessment, and time.”
“Time.”
The word sounded offensive to him.
Dr. Park nodded.
“Yes.”
After she left, Dante looked at me.
“Your mother.”
“What about her?”
“He said her name.”
“I noticed.”
“Who was she?”
“A nurse.”
That got his attention.
“Where?”
“Several places.”
“Which?”
“Mass General for a while. Then private elder care.”
“When?”
I stared at him.
“You think she treated your father.”
“I think my father has been missing eight years and said the name of a dead nurse whose daughter happened to be feeding him.”
“You say things like that and somehow make coincidence sound illegal.”
“I don't believe in coincidence.”
“Of course you don't.”
He watched me.
“Did your mother ever mention Vittorio Marchetti?”
“No.”
“Dante?”
“No.”
“Marchetti?”
“No.”
That was true.
Then I remembered something.
A bracelet.
Not his.
Mine.
When I was twenty, my mother had given me a small silver saint medal and said:
“If anything ever happens to me, keep this.”
At the time I assumed she was being dramatic.
After she died, I put it in a drawer.
The medallion on Vittorio’s bracelet looked almost identical.
Dante saw my face change.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You remembered something.”
I hated men who noticed too much.
“My mother owned a similar medal.”
“Similar how?”
“I don't know. Silver. Saint.”
“Which saint?”
I stared at him.
“Do I look Catholic enough to identify saints by accessories?”
For the first time, his mouth almost moved.
Not quite a smile.
“Fair.”
I stood.
“I should leave.”
“My driver will take you.”
“I can take the train.”
“It’s midnight.”
“I've done it before.”
Dante's eyes hardened.
“I don't like it.”
I laughed.
“That sounds difficult for you.”
He stared at me.
Then he nodded toward the hall.
“My father is awake.”
I followed.
Vittorio sat in bed.
Clean clothes.
Hair combed.
He looked smaller without grime.
Older too.
I approached.
“Hey.”
His face relaxed.
That stabbed me unexpectedly.
“Hungry?”
He nodded.
I held up soup.
Dante stayed near the doorway.
Vittorio noticed him.
No recognition.
But no panic either.
Progress.
I fed him.
Halfway through, Vittorio touched my wrist.
“June.”
“No.”
I smiled sadly.
“Elena.”
He frowned.
“My mother was June.”
His spoon froze.
Then he whispered:
“June hid the key.”
Dante straightened.
“What key?”
Vittorio looked at him.
Suddenly terrified.
“No.”
“Dad—”
“No.”
He grabbed my hand.
“Red church.”
My pulse changed.
“What red church?”
“Bell.”
“What bell?”
He squeezed harder.
“Under Mary.”
Dante stepped closer.
“What did June hide?”
Vittorio’s eyes filled.
“Proof.”
One word.
Then he shut down.
His gaze went blank.
He would not speak again that night.
Dante looked at me.
“You still think this is coincidence?”
I didn't answer.
Because I knew exactly what “red church” meant.
Saint Brigid’s.
The old brick church in South Boston where my mother’s funeral had been held.
And beneath the statue of Mary in that church, my mother had once told me something strange.
“Never move the candle box.”
May you like
I had forgotten.
Until now.
