Chapter 5 - THE WOMAN MY FATHER NEVER TRUSTED
"My mother's been dead for nine years."
The words came out harsher than I intended.
Isabella stood beneath the chapel's stained-glass window, staring at me.
"I didn't say your mother was alive."
"You pointed at her photograph."
"Because the woman Marcus met looked exactly like her."
Raphael stepped forward.
"How old?"
"Late forties, maybe fifty. Same eyes. Same dark hair. She wore a pearl necklace."
A memory surfaced.
My mother had a younger sister.
Catherine.
I'd seen her only a handful of times during childhood.
She'd disappeared from family gatherings after a bitter argument with my father.
For years, I'd been told she wanted nothing to do with us.
"Catherine," I whispered.
Raphael's face changed.
Isabella noticed.
"You know her?"
"My aunt."
Raphael lowered his head.
I turned on him.
"You knew she was in Chicago?"
"I suspected."
"When were you planning to tell me?"
"When I understood why she'd returned."
I let out a humorless laugh.
"Everyone keeps making decisions for me."
Raphael didn't argue.
He looked exhausted.
And for the first time, I wondered whether his loyalty to my father had become a prison.
I slipped the rosary into its velvet box.
"We're going to find Catherine."
Isabella caught my sleeve.
"Dante, please. Marcus threatened Sophie. He said if Elena wouldn't cooperate, he'd take the child."
"I know."
"Then why are we standing here?"
"Because I'm trying to stop him without getting anyone killed."
She released me.
A small movement.
But I noticed.
Thirteen months earlier, Isabella would have thrown herself into my arms.
Now she stood three feet away, uncertain whether she had the right to touch me.
I wasn't sure either.
We left the chapel together.
By morning, Raphael had identified Catherine's residence.
A modest townhouse in Oak Park.
She'd been living there for eleven months under her married name, Catherine Whitmore.
She worked as a volunteer coordinator at a community medical clinic.
Nothing about her life suggested someone involved in organized crime.
But nothing about Marcus had suggested betrayal either.
I arrived shortly after nine.
Catherine opened the door before I could ring the bell.
She stared at me.
"Dante."
Her voice cracked.
"You look so much like your mother."
I remained on the porch.
"Why have you been meeting Marcus?"
Her expression closed.
"Come inside."
"No games."
"Dante, please."
Something about her tired face stopped me.
She looked older than fifty.
There were dark circles beneath her eyes and a slight tremor in her hands.
I followed her into a narrow living room.
Photographs lined the mantel.
My mother appeared in several.
So did I.
As a baby.
As a little boy.
As a teenager at my high school graduation.
I stared.
"Where did you get these?"
"Your mother sent them."
"She told me you hated our family."
Catherine sat slowly.
"I hated what your father had become."
I remained standing.
"Then why meet Marcus?"
"Because he found me."
"What did he want?"
"An apology."
I almost laughed.
"For what?"
She looked directly at me.
"For what happened to his mother."
The room went still.
"Marcus's mother died when we were children."
"No," Catherine said. "That's what you were told."
I studied her.
"Explain."
Catherine removed a folded letter from a drawer.
The paper was soft with age.
At the bottom was my father's signature.
"Marcus's mother worked for your father before Teresa did. Her name was Lucia Carrera."
I remembered Lucia only vaguely.
A kind woman who brought cookies whenever Marcus visited our house.
"She disappeared after an accounting dispute," Catherine continued. "Your father believed she'd stolen money."
"Did she?"
"No."
"How do you know?"
"Because she came to my sister."
I sat down.
Catherine took a breath.
"Lucia discovered that someone was using your father's warehouses to move money without authorization. She brought your mother the records."
"What happened?"
"Your mother confronted your father. He promised to investigate."
"And?"
"Before he could, Lucia was accused of theft."
My stomach tightened.
It sounded painfully familiar.
"Who accused her?"
"Anthony Bell."
Isabella's father.
The discovery hit me hard.
"Anthony worked for my father then?"
"Yes."
"And Marcus knows?"
Catherine nodded.
"He knows his mother was framed."
"Was she killed?"
"No. She fled to Indiana."
"Then why did Marcus believe she died?"
"Because she died four years later. She was alone, sick, and afraid to return."
I stared at Catherine.
Marcus had grown up believing his mother was a thief.
Just like Elena.
Two children.
Two ruined families.
And one business empire built on secrets.
"What did Marcus ask you to do?"
"He wanted the location of Teresa Rossi."
"Why?"
"Because he believes Teresa stole the evidence Lucia collected."
"Did she?"
Catherine shook her head.
"Teresa saved it."
I remembered the ledger.
The watch.
The rosary.
All of it.
"Then Marcus isn't entirely wrong."
"No," Catherine said softly. "But he doesn't understand what happened afterward."
"What happened?"
She looked toward the window.
"Your father found out who was responsible."
"Who?"
"Someone he'd trusted for years."
My pulse quickened.
"Anthony Bell?"
Catherine hesitated.
"Anthony helped."
"Helped whom?"
She opened a second drawer.
Inside was a photograph.
My father stood outside the warehouse with Anthony Bell.
Between them was a third man.
I recognized his face immediately.
Raphael Vargas.
I stared.
"No."
Catherine's eyes filled.
"I'm sorry."
I stood so quickly the chair scraped across the floor.
"Raphael saved my father's life."
"He did."
"Then why is he in this photograph?"
"Because he was there the night the records disappeared."
I looked again.
Raphael was younger.
His expression was grim.
One hand rested on Anthony's shoulder.
"What does this prove?"
"Nothing by itself," Catherine admitted. "That's why I've kept it all these years."
I turned away.
I could accept that Isabella had lied.
I could accept that Marcus had betrayed me.
But Raphael?
The man who taught me to drive?
Who sat beside my hospital bed after I was shot?
Who'd promised my father he'd protect me?
I couldn't bear the possibility.
Catherine spoke gently.
"Dante, your father trusted Raphael."
"Then why show me this?"
"Because trust and innocence aren't the same thing."
My phone vibrated.
A message from Raphael.
Elena and Sophie are safe. Meet us at the clinic.
I looked at Catherine.
"Why the clinic?"
Her expression sharpened.
"What clinic?"
I showed her.
She stood immediately.
"That's where I volunteer."
I felt something tighten inside me.
"Did Raphael know that?"
"No."
A second message appeared.
This one contained a photograph.
Sophie sat at a small table holding her detective hat.
Elena stood beside her.
Behind them was a glass door bearing the clinic's name.
Catherine stared.
"Dante..."
"What?"
She pointed to a man reflected in the glass.
Marcus.
My oldest friend stood just outside the clinic entrance.
Then another message appeared.
Not from Raphael.
From Elena's phone.
Mr. Moretti, Raphael told me you sent him. But Sophie says he's wearing the bad man's watch.
I stared at the words.
Then I looked at the photograph again.
Raphael's wrist was visible beside Sophie's shoulder.
May you like
And fastened around it was my father's old gold wristwatch.
The one that had vanished from his belongings after the funeral.
