Chương 5
Elena’s voice sharpened. “Bella.”
“Yes.”
“Where is your phone?”
“On the dresser.”
Elena retrieved it. The screen showed three missed calls from Isabella’s mother, two from Lorenzo, and one unknown Manhattan number.
“You did not tell your mother you were coming?”
“No.”
“Then why is she calling?”
“She always calls when I’m late for something. She thinks lateness means death.”
“That is not entirely foolish in this family.”
Isabella almost smiled. The effort collapsed halfway.
She opened the hidden folder. Six photographs appeared, each showing a page from the ledger. Some entries were coded. Others listed addresses and initials. One line showed the fifty-thousand-dollar transfer to Harbor Seventeen, approved by L.D. and released by D.V.
Elena stared at the initials.
“You know something,” Isabella said.
“No.”
“Don’t do that.”
“I know many things. Most are not useful.”
“Your hands shook when Dominic mentioned Carlo.”
Elena stood too quickly. “My son has worked for this family a long time.”
“He was outside the night Matteo died, wasn’t he?”
Elena turned away.
Isabella rose. “Look at me.”
“I am tired.”
“Elena.”
The older woman gripped the sink. Her knuckles whitened.
“Carlo drove Dominic that night,” she said.
The words came so softly Isabella first believed she had imagined them.
“Where?”
“I never asked.”
“You knew where.”
“I knew later.”
“How?”
“He came to my apartment at four in the morning. There was blood on his shirt.”
Isabella sat again.
Elena continued facing the mirror, speaking to their reflections rather than turning around. “Not much. Along the cuff. He said a man had cut his hand in the car. He was shaking. Carlo has always shaken when he lies, even as a child.”
“And you said nothing.”
“He told me Dominic had threatened him. He said if he spoke, they would kill both of us.”
“Lorenzo?”
“No. Dominic.”
“Did Carlo see what happened?”
“He would not tell me.”
“For eighteen months?”
“He stopped visiting. Then he came only when he needed money. He drinks now. He was never a drinker.”
Isabella stared at the photograph on her phone until the letters blurred.
“You let me believe Matteo was robbed.”
Elena turned. Her eyes were wet, but she did not cry. “Yes.”
“You helped my mother choose his burial suit.”
“Yes.”
“You held me at the funeral.”
“Yes.”
The repetition reminded Isabella of Lorenzo downstairs, accepting each accusation without defense. She wondered whether guilt eventually stripped people of every word except agreement.
“Get out,” she said.
Elena’s face crumpled for only an instant. “Bella—”
“Get out of this room.”
“I was trying to protect my son.”
“And who protected mine?”
“He was not your son.”
“He was my brother.”
“I know.”
“No. You knew he was dead. That isn’t the same thing.”
Elena backed toward the door. Before leaving, she placed the phone on the dresser and straightened it so it sat exactly parallel to the edge. A small housekeeping reflex, absurdly careful.
When she was gone, Isabella locked the door again.
She called her mother.
Teresa answered before the first full ring. “Where are you?”
“Home.”
“You have dinner tonight.”
“I know.”
“You’re never late for that dinner.”
“I’m not going.”
A pause. In the background, a television audience applauded. Teresa watched old game shows while knitting scarves nobody requested.
“What did he do?” she asked.
Isabella covered her mouth.
Her mother’s voice changed. “Isabella?”
“I need to come to you.”
“Then come.”
“I can’t yet.”
“Why?”
“Because there’s a car outside.”
Teresa muted the television. “What car?”
“I don’t know how to explain this over the phone.”
“Is Lorenzo there?”
“Yes.”
“Put him on.”
“No.”
“Then call the police.”
Isabella looked at the hidden photographs. “I may need to.”
Her mother breathed into the receiver for several seconds. “Is this about Matteo?”
Isabella closed her eyes.
Teresa did not ask how she knew. Grief had trained her to recognize the shape of a silence.
“What happened to my son?” she said.
“I don’t know all of it.”
“Does your husband?”
“Yes.”
The line remained quiet except for Teresa’s breath.
Then she said, “Do not come here.”
“Mama—”
“If men are watching you, do not bring them to my door. Call your cousin Anthony. He knows a lawyer.”
“Anthony handles divorces.”
“A lawyer knows another lawyer. That is how America works.”
Despite everything, a laugh rose in Isabella’s throat and vanished.
“Are you safe in the house?” Teresa asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Is Lorenzo going to hurt you?”
The answer should have been simple. Isabella had seen Lorenzo break a man’s jaw in a restaurant parking lot, though he had believed she was already in the car. She had heard rumors about others. He had never struck her, never threatened her, never raised his voice at her. He had also sent men to terrorize Matteo and helped hide his murder.
“I don’t know,” she repeated.
“Then do not trust the part of you that wants the answer to be no.”
A knock sounded at the bedroom door.
Isabella ended the call and slipped the phone beneath a pillow.
“Who is it?”
“Elena.”
“Go away.”
“Dominic wants to see you.”
“No.”
“He says it concerns your brother.”
Isabella stood slowly.
Another voice came through the door.
“Open it, little sister.”
Dominic sounded almost amused.
She moved toward the travel bag. Her hands wanted to search for something—a weapon, perhaps, though she had never fired a gun and would probably be more dangerous to herself than anyone else. Instead, she removed the ultrasound photograph and ring, tucked both into the inner pocket of her dress, then zipped the bag.
“Where is Lorenzo?” she called.
“In the library,” Dominic said.
“Then I’ll speak to him there.”
“I’d prefer privacy.”
“I wouldn’t.”
Silence followed.
The handle moved once. The lock held.
Dominic spoke again, his voice lower. “Matteo used to lock doors too.”
Isabella’s skin went cold.
May you like
Then Lorenzo said from farther down the hall, “Step away from the door.”
Dominic laughed. “Your wife invited me upstairs.”
