Chapter 2 - The Man Who Called Me Lucia’s Heir
The private corridor led to an underground garage.
Christopher’s security moved fast. Marco drove while two cars followed.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“Somewhere secure.”
“No.”
Christopher looked at me.
“No?”
“I agreed to translate letters. I did not agree to be kidnapped politely by a man with bodyguards.”
Marco made a sound that might have been a laugh.
Christopher ignored him.
“You are not kidnapped.”
“Then take me home.”
He hesitated.
That was answer enough.
“My apartment is not safe.”
“We don’t know.”
“Which means no.”
He exhaled.
“Someone knew your name, your grandmother’s name, and where you were working with me less than twenty-four hours after we met.”
“So your office is compromised.”
“Possibly.”
“Your people?”
“No.”
“You sound very sure.”
“I am.”
“Everybody who gets betrayed sounds sure right before it happens.”
His jaw tightened.
“Fair.”
The safe house was a Beacon Hill townhouse with a steel-lined door and enough hidden cameras to make me regret every joke I had made about organized crime.
I stood in the foyer.
“Are you mafia?”
Christopher took off his jacket.
“My father was.”
“That is not what I asked.”
“I oversee what remains of his organization while moving everything possible into legitimate businesses.”
I stared.
“So yes.”
He looked at me.
“Yes.”
“Fantastic.”
Marco entered with a phone.
“Russo wants to speak to Emily.”
“No,” Christopher said.
“Yes,” I said.
They both looked at me.
I held out my hand.
“If he came for me, I want to know why.”
Christopher gave me the phone.
A rough older voice answered.
“Lucia’s granddaughter.”
“My name is Emily.”
“So was hers, once.”
I froze.
“What?”
“You don’t know anything.”
“Then enlighten me.”
Christopher watched my face.
Russo said, “Your grandmother was not born Lucia Caruso.”
“What was her name?”
“Lucia Greco.”
Christopher stood.
I put the call on speaker.
Russo continued.
“She was Salvatore Greco’s younger sister.”
The same Salvatore who had wanted to marry Maria.
I looked at Christopher.
“What does that make me?”
“Useful,” Russo said.
“To who?”
“Matteo Greco.”
Christopher swore.
“Who is he?” I asked.
“The man who inherited what Salvatore built.”
“What does he want from me?”
“The ledger.”
“I don’t have a ledger.”
“Maybe not.”
“Then why me?”
“Because Lucia was smart enough not to keep it where men would look.”
I thought of Nona’s tiny apartment, her recipes, family photographs, old records.
“She died with nothing.”
Russo laughed softly.
“She died with a song.”
I went still.
Christopher did too.
“The dialect,” he said.
Russo continued.
“Lucia and Maria stole names, payments, judges, police, politicians. They hid the route to the records inside the song they shared.”
My hands began to tremble.
“The song my grandmother taught me?”
“Yes.”
“Why tell me this?”
“Because Greco’s people think you already know.”
“I don’t.”
“They won’t believe you.”
The line went dead.
I stared at the phone.
Christopher said, “Write down every version of that song you remember.”
I looked at him.
“You believe him?”
“I believe someone tried to force his way into my office for you.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“No.”
He sat across from me.
“But it’s enough to start.”
I thought of Nona insisting I pronounce certain words exactly her way.
Words no published lyric sheet used.
For the first time, I wondered whether she had not merely preserved a song.
Maybe she had preserved directions.
That afternoon, I asked Giulia the question nobody else seemed interested in.
“What was Nona like before America?”
Giulia smiled.
“Difficult.”
I laughed.
“That sounds right.”
“She argued with priests. Climbed walls in dresses. Once stole Salvatore’s car because he told her women should not drive.”
Christopher looked up.
“What happened?”
“She crashed it into a fountain.”
I stared.
“Nona?”
“Your sweet grandmother.”
For the first time since all of this began, the fear loosened.
Giulia told me Lucia had wanted to become a teacher. Maria wanted to sing professionally. Giulia wanted to leave southern Italy and never marry.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Life.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It is the oldest one.”
Maria fell in love with Vincent Vitali after reaching America. Lucia married an American-born mechanic named Joseph Carter. Giulia disappeared into Europe after threats from Salvatore’s network.
“And the song?” I asked.
Giulia’s expression softened.
“They used it as a promise.”
“What promise?”
“That if one of them became trapped, the others would come.”
Christopher looked at the music box.
“So the song was never just code.”
“No.”
“It was a distress signal.”
“Yes.”
That changed it for me.
All my childhood, Nona sang it while cooking, folding laundry, brushing my hair, sitting beside hospital beds.
I had thought it was nostalgia.
Maybe sometimes it was.
Maybe other times she was reminding herself that once, two women had promised to come if she called.
“Did she ever call?” I asked.
Giulia’s eyes filled.
“Once.”
“When?”
“When your parents died.”
I stopped breathing.
“She called me from the hospital. Said she was taking you home and needed to know whether Greco had anything to do with the crash.”
“What did you tell her?”
“That I would find out.”
“Did you?”
Giulia looked away.
“No.”
The unfinished answer settled inside me.
The mystery around my parents was no longer a random side road.
It had been part of Nona’s fear from the beginning.
And she had raised me anyway.
May you like
Not inside panic.
Inside music.
