Chapter 7 - THE PRICE OF TWENTY YEARS OF SILENCE
Vincent Vale did not deny what was written inside the watch.
That frightened me more than anything.
He sat beneath the green lamp, his glasses resting beside the silver cigarette case, and looked like a man who had finally grown tired of pretending he could outrun his own life.
Alessandro's voice came through the speakerphone.
“Tell me where Isabella is.”
Vincent shook his head.
“I can't.”
“Can't or won't?”
“Both.”
Mrs. Russo tightened her arm around me.
Alessandro said, “You helped Dominic take an infant from her mother.”
Vincent flinched.
“I was twenty-seven. Dominic told me the child would be killed if we didn't move her.”
“And you believed him?”
“I believed he was capable of it.”
The room fell quiet.
Vincent rubbed his hands together.
“He had photographs of my younger brother. My brother had borrowed money from dangerous men. Dominic promised to erase the debt.”
“And your price was a baby?” Alessandro demanded.
Vincent's eyes filled.
“I've spent twenty years asking myself that.”
“Then you should have found an answer.”
Vincent bowed his head.
“I know.”
I looked at him.
He had given me peppermints since I was little.
Every Christmas, he brought Mama a tin of cookies from a bakery across the river.
He remembered my birthday.
Now I wondered if every kind thing had been part of something ugly.
“Did you know Grandpa Matteo?” I asked.
Vincent nodded.
“He was my friend.”
“Then why didn't you help him?”
His mouth trembled.
“Because I was afraid.”
I thought about that.
I had been afraid, too.
But Mama had told me to run upstairs anyway.
I squeezed the wooden swallow.
“Sometimes you have to be scared and still do the right thing,” I said.
Vincent began crying.
Not loudly.
Just tears slipping down a face that had forgotten how to hide.
Mrs. Russo wiped her own eyes.
Then she spoke.
“Vincent, you know what happened to Isabella.”
He nodded.
“Tell us.”
He looked at me.
“Not in front of Sophia.”
I stood up.
“I'm already here.”
Mrs. Russo touched my shoulder.
“Baby, some things are grown-up things.”
I looked at her.
“Is Mama one of them?”
Nobody answered.
Alessandro's voice came through the speaker.
“Mrs. Russo, take Sophia into the kitchen. Let her eat something. Tell her I'll speak to her soon.”
I wanted to fight.
But I was tired.
And I was starting to understand that grown-ups sometimes needed to say things children shouldn't have to carry.
Mrs. Russo took me downstairs.
The restaurant was empty.
The chairs were stacked.
One little table remained set near the window.
She brought me grilled cheese and tomato soup.
I ate three bites.
Then I looked at the wooden swallow.
Its left wing was still cracked.
I noticed the blue thread tied to the brass key.
It had a tiny knot.
Mama tied knots like that around birthday presents.
Three loops.
One pull.
She called it the Bellini knot.
I carefully untied it.
A narrow strip of paper had been folded around the thread.
I opened it.
There was a word written in Mama's handwriting.
Mercy.
I stared at it.
Mercy.
That was the name of the old children's home near the river.
Mama had taken me there once to donate winter coats.
The woman who ran it had hugged Mama for a very long time.
I slid down from my chair.
“Mrs. Russo?”
She turned from the stove.
“What is it?”
I held up the paper.
“Mama wrote this.”
Mrs. Russo read it.
Her face changed.
“Mercy House.”
I nodded.
“She went there last Christmas.”
“Did she tell you why?”
“She said she was giving somebody back something they lost.”
Mrs. Russo stared at the paper.
Then she reached for her phone.
Upstairs, Alessandro had returned from the chapel.
He was standing over Vincent when Mrs. Russo brought me back.
The watch lay on the table.
Beside it were the letter and the train ticket.
Alessandro looked at the paper in my hand.
“Mercy,” he read.
He turned to Vincent.
“Does that mean anything?”
Vincent stared at it.
For several seconds, he said nothing.
Then he whispered, “Sister Margaret.”
Alessandro leaned forward.
“Who?”
“The woman who took Isabella.”
Mrs. Russo gasped.
Vincent continued.
“Dominic arranged for the baby to be left at Mercy House. Sister Margaret was told her parents had died.”
Alessandro gripped the table.
“Is she still there?”
Vincent shook his head.
“She's eighty-six now. Retired. Living at Saint Catherine's assisted living home.”
Carlo checked his phone.
“Twenty minutes away.”
Alessandro looked toward the door.
“Get the car.”
Vincent stood.
“Please let me come.”
“No.”
“Alessandro—”
“You don't get to decide how much of this family you can stand near.”
Vincent sat down.
I felt sorry for him.
And angry.
Both at once.
Alessandro knelt beside me.
“Sophia, you did something important.”
“Will it help Mama?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
He looked me directly in the eyes.
“This time, yes.”
I studied him.
He seemed different from the man upstairs.
Still frightening.
Still serious.
But less like a statue.
More like someone who had been hurt.
“Can you fix the bird?” I asked.
He looked at its cracked wing.
“I can try.”
“Mama says broken things don't always need to be thrown away.”
Alessandro swallowed.
“She sounds wise.”
“She is.”
He brushed one loose curl from my forehead.
“I'm going to bring her home.”
Then he stood.
Carlo approached.
“Don, we have a problem.”
Alessandro turned.
“What?”
“The woman in gray.”
“Lucia's bracelet?”
“Yes.”
“Have you identified her?”
Carlo nodded.
“She isn't Lucia.”
Alessandro waited.
“Her name is Rebecca Shaw. She worked at Mercy House twenty years ago.”
Vincent went pale.
Carlo continued.
“And according to the records, she was the last person seen with Isabella before the child disappeared.”
Alessandro looked at him.
“Where is she now?”
Carlo hesitated.
“That's the problem.”
He held up a new image from a traffic camera.
The woman in gray stood beside Dominic outside an abandoned rail depot.
Between them was my mother.
Her hands were bound.
I started crying again.
But Alessandro was staring at something else.
A small figure stood near the depot entrance.
A young woman.
She wore a red coat.
And around her neck hung a silver necklace shaped like a swallow.
May you like
Vincent whispered one name.
“Isabella.”
