Chapter 4 - The Man My Mother Hid
Niccolo Marchetti came to visit his brother the next afternoon.
He brought flowers.
That should tell you something about men like Niccolo.
He did not bring flowers because he cared.
He brought flowers because everyone watching would remember that he had.
I was at the medical residence because Vittorio had refused breakfast until someone called “the girl.”
Apparently that was me.
I hated how quickly I had become part of his routine.
I also loved it.
That scared me.
I was spooning oatmeal into Vittorio’s mouth when three black cars arrived.
Dante entered first.
“Niccolo is here.”
Vittorio dropped the spoon.
Not metaphorically.
It hit the floor.
His hands began shaking.
I stood.
“Why did you let him come?”
“I didn't.”
Dante’s voice was cold.
“He arrived.”
“Don't bring him in.”
“I won't.”
Vittorio whispered:
“Nick.”
His face drained.
“Nick.”
I crouched.
“You're safe.”
“No.”
“You are.”
“No.”
He pointed toward the hallway.
“Fire.”
“What?”
“Fire. Basement.”
Dante froze.
“Dad?”
Vittorio looked at him.
For one second, clarity returned.
“Your uncle lies.”
Then vanished.
Dante turned.
“Marco.”
Security locked down the residence.
Niccolo was told Vittorio was medically unable to receive visitors.
He did not argue.
That bothered Dante more than if he had.
“He expected resistance,” I said.
Dante looked at me.
“Yes.”
“He wanted us to know he knows.”
“Yes.”
I hated when he agreed with me.
It made danger feel more real.
That evening, Dr. Park showed us the toxicology report.
Vittorio had traces of a long-acting sedative in his system.
Not from the last few days.
From repeated exposure.
“Could it explain eight years?”
“No.”
“But it could explain recent confusion?”
“Partly.”
“And the head injury?”
She pulled up imaging.
An old fracture.
Back of the skull.
“Could have been a fall.”
Dante asked, “Could have been a blow?”
“Yes.”
Vittorio had not simply wandered away.
Somebody had hurt him.
Somebody had kept him medicated.
And somehow, eventually, he ended up on my sidewalk.
I returned to Bellini’s three days later.
I needed normal.
Normal lasted eleven minutes.
My boss met me in the kitchen.
“You have visitors.”
I looked toward the dining room.
Two men in suits.
Not Dante’s.
They asked for coffee.
I approached.
One smiled.
“Elena Brooks?”
“No.”
He looked amused.
“You’re wearing a name tag.”
I looked down.
Damn.
“What do you want?”
“Conversation.”
“Coffee first.”
He laughed.
“I like you.”
“I don't.”
I poured coffee anyway.
He slid an envelope across the table.
Inside were twenty thousand dollars.
I closed it.
“No.”
“You don't know what it's for.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Walk away.”
“See?”
He leaned back.
“Your mother made bad choices.”
My skin went cold.
“Leave.”
“She involved herself in family matters.”
“Leave.”
“You should learn from her.”
I picked up his coffee.
Then poured it directly into his lap.
Not boiling.
I'm not insane.
Warm enough to ruin his pants.
He stood.
I stepped back.
The entire restaurant went silent.
My boss whispered:
“Oh, Jesus.”
The second man stood too.
Then four other men entered.
Dante’s.
Marco first.
The two strangers went still.
Marco smiled.
“Gentlemen.”
Nobody smiled back.
I folded my arms.
“I had it handled.”
Marco looked at the coffee spreading across the man's trousers.
“I can see that.”
The strangers left.
The envelope remained.
I gave it to police.
That night, Dante came to my apartment.
Not inside.
He stood in the hallway.
“You need to relocate.”
“No.”
“Elena.”
“No.”
“Niccolo knows where you work.”
“He knew that already.”
“He sent men.”
“They brought money.”
“Today.”
I looked at him.
That word mattered.
Today.
Tomorrow might be different.
“I won't live in your house.”
“I didn't ask.”
“You were going to.”
“I own a building with furnished apartments.”
I stared.
“Of course you do.”
“One floor is empty.”
“No.”
“Hotel?”
“No.”
“Protected witness housing?”
I paused.
“That one is police, not you.”
“Yes.”
“Fine.”
He nodded.
No argument.
The next morning, Detective Sarah Keene interviewed me about the restaurant incident.
Unlike Dante, she had no patience for mafia family drama.
“Do you understand how stupid pouring coffee on him was?”
“Yes.”
“Would you do it again?”
“Probably.”
She sighed.
“I hate honest witnesses.”
Witness.
The word stayed with me.
I had stopped being a waitress who helped a homeless man.
I was evidence now.
My mother's daughter.
Keeper of a tape.
Witness to Vittorio’s recognition.
Keene listened to the cassette.
Then reopened my mother’s fatal car crash.
Two days later, she called.
“The truck driver.”
“What about him?”
“He disappeared three months after the crash.”
My stomach tightened.
“Dead?”
“No record.”
“Name?”
“Thomas Hale.”
Dante, sitting across from me, went completely still.
I noticed.
“What?”
He shook his head.
“Elena.”
“What?”
“Hale worked for my uncle.”
The room disappeared.
“For how long?”
“Eight years.”
I stared.
“He drove security vehicles.”
I stopped breathing.
“Your uncle's employee killed my mother?”
“We don't know.”
“Stop saying that.”
“I won't lie to you.”
I stood.
“I need air.”
Dante followed me onto the police station steps but did not touch me.
I wanted him to.
I hated that.
“My mother helped your father.”
“Yes.”
“She died.”
“Yes.”
“And your uncle kept running your family.”
Dante's face hardened.
“Yes.”
“You trusted him.”
“For most of my life.”
“Do you still?”
“No.”
Behind us, Detective Keene opened the door.
“We found Thomas Hale.”
I turned.
“Where?”
“Rhode Island.”
“Alive?”
“Yes.”
My heart hammered.
“Did he confess?”
Keene shook her head.
“He asked for a lawyer.”
Dante’s phone rang.
Marco.
Dante listened.
His expression changed.
“What?”
He hung up.
“Vittorio is missing.”
I stared.
“What?”
“Someone triggered the fire alarm at the residence.”
Every part of me went cold.
Dante continued.
“My father disappeared during the evacuation.”
And suddenly Vittorio’s warning made sense.
Fire. Basement.
May you like
He had not been remembering the past.
He had been warning us about what would happen next.
