Chapter 2 - THE SIGNATURE THAT STOLE TWENTY YEARS
“You forged my name to accuse my mother of killing my father?”
Nicholas Romano's voice was so quiet that everyone at the birthday table stopped breathing.
Celia stood beside her chair, one hand pressed against her diamond necklace.
“Nicholas, please. You don't understand what happened that night.”
“Then explain it.”
His mother sat frozen beside him.
The blue knitted scarf rested across her lap.
I stood near the dining-room doors, still holding the torn wrapping paper from her birthday gift.
Twenty minutes earlier, I'd been worried about losing my housekeeping job.
Now I was watching Chicago's most feared mafia boss discover that the woman who raised him might have stolen his entire childhood.
Nicholas held up the hospital statement.
“This says I watched my mother push my father down the stairs.”
Celia nodded.
“Because you did.”
“I was fourteen.”
“You were old enough to understand what you saw.”
“Then why don't I remember signing it?”
Celia looked toward the other dinner guests.
“This isn't a conversation we should have in public.”
Nicholas turned toward his security manager.
“Daniel. Clear the room.”
Daniel Russo had worked for the Romano family for almost thirty years.
He was a broad-shouldered man in his late fifties, with gray hair and a face that rarely showed emotion.
Tonight, however, he looked frightened.
Within minutes, the guests had been escorted into the front reception hall.
The musicians stopped playing.
Only Nicholas, Celia, his mother, Daniel, and I remained in the dining room.
Celia pointed toward me.
“The maid should leave too.”
Nicholas didn't look away from the document.
“Emma stays.”
“She's an employee.”
“She was the only person who helped my mother when you tried to throw her out.”
Celia's cheeks reddened.
Nicholas turned the second page.
“The statement says I signed it at nine forty-five that evening.”
His mother lifted her head.
“You couldn't have.”
“Why?”
Her voice broke.
“Because you were unconscious.”
The silence that followed felt enormous.
Nicholas slowly lowered the paper.
“What?”
His mother reached for his hand.
“You were taken to St. Catherine's Hospital with a head injury. The doctors gave you medication because you were in terrible pain. You weren't answering questions.”
Celia shook her head.
“She's confusing the times.”
“Am I?”
The elderly woman looked directly at her.
“You were standing beside his hospital bed when the nurse said he needed observation. You told me not to touch him.”
Nicholas pushed back his chair.
He raised his left hand and touched the faint scar near his temple.
I'd noticed that scar before.
I'd never asked about it.
“My father told me I slipped on the stairs when I was younger,” he said.
His mother closed her eyes.
“Your father was already dead when you woke up, sweetheart.”
Nicholas stared at Celia.
“You told me Mom hit me before she ran away.”
Celia's expression changed.
For the first time, she looked less angry than desperate.
“I told you what I believed you needed to hear.”
“You told me she hurt me.”
“I was trying to keep you from remembering something worse.”
Nicholas stepped toward her.
“What could possibly be worse?”
Celia didn't answer.
Instead, she reached into her handbag and removed a faded photograph.
She placed it on the table.
I could see the picture from where I stood.
A teenage Nicholas sat on a hospital bed.
A bandage covered his forehead.
His face was swollen.
Beside him stood his mother, visibly younger, wearing a blue coat.
There was blood on her sleeve.
Nicholas picked up the photograph.
“Why have you kept this?”
“Because your mother wasn't the innocent woman she wants you to believe.”
His mother shook her head.
“That blood was Nicholas's.”
Celia looked away.
Nicholas studied the photograph.
Then his eyes narrowed.
“Who took this?”
“Daniel,” Celia answered.
Daniel stiffened.
Nicholas turned toward him.
“Is that true?”
Daniel hesitated.
“Yes, sir.”
“Then you were at the hospital?”
“Yes.”
“Did you see me sign this statement?”
Daniel looked at Celia.
That one glance told me more than his answer.
“I don't remember,” he said.
Nicholas set the photograph down.
“Twenty years ago, you were trusted to protect me. I'm asking you a simple question.”
Daniel swallowed.
“No, sir. I did not see you sign it.”
Celia slammed her palm against the table.
“He was a frightened child! We all did what we could!”
Nicholas turned toward his mother.
“Why didn't you come back?”
“I did.”
“Why didn't you call?”
“I called.”
“Why didn't you write?”
“I wrote every birthday. Every Christmas. Whenever I thought you might need me.”
My throat tightened.
I remembered the cardboard box I'd discovered in Celia's office.
The unopened cards.
The envelopes carefully stacked by year.
Nicholas looked toward me.
“Emma. Tell me exactly what you found.”
I explained how I'd been searching Celia's office for extra table linens that morning.
The storage cabinet was partly open.
Inside sat a box marked PRIVATE.
I'd noticed Nicholas's name on several envelopes when one slipped onto the floor.
“I didn't open any of them,” I said. “But some had dates going back more than ten years.”
Celia pointed at me.
“She was going through my personal belongings!”
“I wasn't,” I answered.
Nicholas raised one hand.
“Enough.”
He faced Celia.
“You kept my mother's letters?”
“I kept you safe from them.”
“Safe from birthday cards?”
Celia's mouth tightened.
“You have no idea what your father was involved in before he died.”
Nicholas gave a humorless laugh.
“I run his organization. Don't lecture me about what he was involved in.”
His mother reached toward him.
“Nicky, your father wasn't always the man you remember.”
Something painful crossed his face.
“Don't.”
She withdrew her hand.
“I'm sorry.”
Nicholas looked at the scarf.
“Why did you keep this all these years?”
“Because I promised you I'd finish it.”
“You remembered?”
“I remembered everything.”
She touched the blue wool.
“You chose the color yourself. You said it matched the winter sky.”
Nicholas sat down slowly.
For a moment, the dangerous man everyone feared disappeared.
He looked like a son who had spent twenty years waiting for someone who was never allowed through the front gate.
I wanted to cry.
Instead, I quietly brought his mother a glass of water.
She squeezed my fingers.
“Thank you, sweetheart.”
Celia watched us with open resentment.
Then Nicholas noticed something on the hospital document.
He moved it closer to the chandelier light.
“There's another signature.”
Daniel went pale.
Nicholas read the typed line beneath it.
Witness identification and statement verified by Daniel Russo, Family Security Officer.
He looked up.
“You certified that I gave this statement?”
Daniel didn't answer.
Nicholas stood.
“Daniel.”
The older man's shoulders dropped.
Celia moved toward him.
“Don't you dare.”
Nicholas stepped between them.
“Look at me.”
Daniel's eyes filled.
For twenty years, he'd guarded the Romano mansion.
He'd protected Nicholas through shootings, betrayals, and countless threats.
But he'd never looked more defeated.
“I signed the verification,” Daniel whispered.
Nicholas's face hardened.
“Did you hear me accuse my mother?”
“No.”
“Did you see me awake?”
“No.”
“Then why did you sign it?”
Daniel glanced at the photograph of Nicholas lying injured in the hospital bed.
“Because your aunt told me your life depended on it.”
Nicholas stared at him.
Daniel wiped a shaking hand across his face.
“There's something else you deserve to know.”
Celia grabbed his arm.
“Daniel, stop.”
He gently pulled away.
May you like
Then he looked directly at Nicholas.
“Your father was still alive when I carried you out of that house. And someone made sure you couldn't tell anybody what happened next.”
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