Chapter 4 - The Woman Who Was Supposed to Be Dead
Frankie didn’t speak for several seconds.
Then she laughed.
It was the wrong kind of laugh.
Sharp.
Disbelieving.
“My mother is dead.”
Matteo remained silent on speaker.
Frankie looked at Gabriel.
“My mother died when I was nine.”
Gabriel’s expression gave away nothing.
“Are you certain?”
She slammed her palm against the counter.
“Yes, I am certain my mother is dead.”
Leo had gone white.
“Frankie.”
She turned.
Something in her brother’s face frightened her.
“What?”
Leo swallowed.
“I never saw her.”
“What does that mean?”
“At the funeral.”
“You were four.”
“I know.”
Frankie stared at him.
Their mother, Maria Moretti, had supposedly died while visiting relatives in Sicily.
Salvatore had traveled overseas, returned ten days later, and held a closed-casket memorial.
Frankie remembered black clothes.
Flowers.
Her father crying in the kitchen after everyone left.
She remembered asking to see her mother one final time.
He had refused.
“She was in an accident,” Frankie said.
Leo shook his head.
“That’s what Dad told us.”
“Stop.”
“Frankie—”
“Stop.”
Gabriel ended the call.
The silence afterward felt enormous.
Frankie grabbed her jacket.
“Where are you going?”
“To the bank.”
“It’s three-thirty in the morning.”
“I noticed.”
“You won’t get inside.”
“Watch me.”
“I would prefer not to watch you get arrested.”
“Then don’t.”
She reached the elevator.
Gabriel followed.
“You need to think.”
“My dead mother just tried to rob my dead father’s safe deposit box using my name.”
“That is precisely when thinking becomes useful.”
She turned.
“You have family assassinations and secret tunnels under city blocks. I fix transmissions. Forgive me if I’m not adjusting quickly enough to discovering my childhood may have been a lie.”
His expression softened.
That made her angrier.
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Look at me like you feel sorry for me.”
“I don’t.”
“Good.”
“I’m worried about you.”
That was worse.
Frankie stared at him.
Gabriel seemed almost surprised he had admitted it.
She pressed the elevator button.
He sighed.
“Fine.”
“What?”
“We’ll go to the bank.”
“I didn’t ask you.”
“No. You rarely do.”
First Sicilian Mutual occupied a limestone building older than half the city.
Gabriel got them inside in eleven minutes.
Frankie didn’t ask how.
She decided she had reached her daily limit of questions with illegal answers.
The night manager met them downstairs.
He was sweating.
“Mr. Costa, if I had known—”
“You know now.”
The man nodded quickly.
Frankie rolled her eyes.
Gabriel noticed.
“Dead octopus?” he murmured.
“Extremely.”
The manager led them into a security room.
Video filled one monitor.
Timestamp: 3:01 a.m.
A woman entered wearing a dark coat and scarf.
Frankie stopped breathing.
Older.
Thinner.
Gray streaking her dark hair.
But the face—
“Mom,” Leo whispered.
Frankie gripped the back of a chair.
The woman in the footage approached the counter and produced identification.
Francesca Moretti.
Her identification.
Or an excellent copy.
The clerk requested a signature.
The woman signed.
The system rejected it.
She argued for several minutes and left.
Frankie leaned closer to the screen.
“Play it again.”
They did.
Second time.
Third.
Fourth.
The woman walked like Maria.
Held her handbag like Maria.
Touched her left ear when nervous like Maria.
Frankie had spent twenty years forgetting that gesture.
Her knees weakened.
Gabriel’s hand touched her back.
This time she didn’t move away.
“Where did she go?” he asked.
The manager switched cameras.
The woman exited onto the street.
A black sedan pulled beside her.
She entered.
Gabriel leaned toward the image.
“Zoom.”
The plate became visible.
His expression changed.
Frankie saw it.
“You know the car.”
“Yes.”
“Whose?”
“Vittorio’s.”
By sunrise, they had the bank box.
Frankie inserted the brass key herself.
Her fingers trembled.
Gabriel stood behind her.
Leo remained at the penthouse under guard because Frankie refused to risk him again.
The bank manager unlocked the second mechanism.
Box 317 slid free.
It was heavier than expected.
They carried it into a private room.
Frankie sat.
Gabriel remained standing.
“This belongs to your family.”
She looked at him.
“You’re suddenly respectful of boundaries?”
“I have occasional episodes.”
She almost smiled.
Then she opened the lid.
Inside were four things.
A sealed envelope bearing her name.
A flash drive.
A leather ledger.
And a cassette tape.
Frankie touched the envelope first.
Francesca.
Her father’s handwriting.
She opened it.
My Frankie,
If you are reading this, then something has gone wrong, and I did not have time to tell you myself.
There are things I kept from you because I wanted you and Leo to have ordinary lives.
Your mother did not die.
Frankie stopped.
The words blurred.
She forced herself onward.
Maria left because Vittorio Russo threatened you.
Years ago, I helped Antonio Costa gather evidence against men inside his own organization who were using Costa shipping routes for crimes Antonio refused to tolerate.
Vittorio discovered what we were doing.
Your mother agreed to disappear so Vittorio would believe our family had broken apart and the evidence had gone with her.
She was supposed to return when it became safe.
It never became safe.
Frankie pressed her fist against her mouth.
Gabriel looked away, giving her a privacy she hadn’t expected.
She kept reading.
Do not hate her before you know everything.
And do not trust anyone simply because they carry the Costa name.
Except Gabriel.
Antonio believed his son would finish what we started.
If Gabriel comes to you, give him the ledger.
He will know what to do.
But Francesca, there is one final thing you must understand.
If Vittorio learns where the ledger is, he will burn the city to get it.
And if he ever discovers your mother is alive, he will use her to get to you.
Frankie lowered the letter.
Too late.
Vittorio already knew.
She looked at Gabriel.
“My father trusted you.”
Gabriel’s jaw tightened.
“He shouldn’t have.”
“Why?”
“Because I didn’t know any of this.”
“That doesn’t mean he was wrong.”
Gabriel stared at the leather ledger.
“Open it.”
Frankie did.
Names.
Dates.
Shipping containers.
Account numbers.
Payments.
Photographs taped between pages.
City officials.
Judges.
Police officers.
Corporate executives.
And Vittorio Russo.
Dozens of entries.
Gabriel slowly sat down.
“This could destroy him.”
“Good.”
“It could destroy much more than him.”
Frankie handed him the ledger.
“You wanted proof.”
His gaze met hers.
“Now you have it.”
He didn’t take it immediately.
Finally, his hand closed over the leather cover.
“We need your mother.”
Frankie stood.
“Obviously.”
“No. You don’t understand.”
Gabriel tapped one page.
“This ledger documents transactions, but several entries are coded. Maria may be the only living person who knows how Salvatore organized them.”
“And she’s with Vittorio.”
“Yes.”
“Then we take her back.”
Gabriel stared at her.
She raised an eyebrow.
“What?”
“You say things like they’re simple.”
“I rebuild engines that arrive in boxes.”
“That is not remotely the same.”
“Everything is parts.”
For the first time that morning, Gabriel smiled.
Then his phone rang.
Matteo.
Gabriel answered.
“What?”
Matteo’s voice was tense.
“We have a situation.”
Frankie’s stomach tightened.
“What kind?”
“Turn on the news.”
The bank manager switched on a television.
A local anchor stood outside Vanguard Logistics.
Breaking news appeared across the screen.
FEDERAL INVESTIGATION TARGETS COSTA SHIPPING EMPIRE.
Frankie looked at Gabriel.
His face hardened.
The report continued.
Authorities had received anonymous evidence alleging smuggling, bribery, tax fraud, and conspiracy involving Costa companies.
Then the photograph appeared.
Gabriel Costa.
Frankie turned to him.
“Vittorio?”
“Yes.”
“He’s trying to take you down before you can expose him.”
Gabriel was already dialing another number.
Then the television changed.
The anchor touched her earpiece.
“We are also receiving reports of an explosion…”
Video appeared.
Smoke.
Fire.
Emergency vehicles.
Frankie stepped closer to the screen.
She recognized the block instantly.
“No.”
The camera widened.
Flames poured through the roof of Moretti Auto Repair.
Her father’s garage.
Her home for half her life.
Frankie couldn’t breathe.
Gabriel caught her as her knees nearly buckled.
Then her phone rang.
Unknown number.
She answered with shaking fingers.
A woman’s voice spoke.
Twenty years disappeared in a single breath.
“Francesca?”
Frankie closed her eyes.
“Mom?”
Maria Moretti began to cry.
Then a man took the phone.
May you like
Vittorio Russo.
“Bring me the ledger,” he said calmly, “or this time your mother really does die.”
