Chapter 5 - THE MAN WHO CAME HOME
Marco Marino was not a thief.
He was not dead.
And according to Maso, he was sitting inside Vittorio Rossi's house.
“Why would he go there?” I asked.
“He didn't,” Maso said. “Vittorio's men picked him up.”
Alessandro was already reaching for his coat.
I blocked him.
“You walk in armed and angry, Vittorio controls the story.”
“He has Marco.”
“And maybe that's exactly why he wants you there.”
Alessandro's eyes hardened.
“He doesn't get to keep another man prisoner because we're afraid of appearances.”
“Then don't give him the war he's expecting.”
He stared at me.
Seven years of marriage had taught us how to fight without raising our voices.
Finally he said, “What do you suggest?”
I held up the silver watch.
“We give him something more frightening than a gun.”
The truth.
Vittorio's family meeting began at eight.
I arrived beside Alessandro.
Not behind him.
That mattered.
The dining room where I'd surrendered my ring the previous night was full again.
Same chandeliers.
Same polished table.
Different silence.
Vittorio stood near the fireplace.
He was seventy, elegant and silver-haired, with the measured warmth of a man who had spent decades making people grateful for his approval.
“Adriana.”
“Uncle Vittorio.”
His gaze dropped to my bare hand.
“I heard you left.”
“I did.”
“And yet here you are.”
“I'm learning that leaving a marriage and abandoning the truth are different things.”
Something flashed behind his eyes.
Then Marco was brought in.
Camila had his eyes.
That was the first thing I noticed.
He looked thinner than in the old photographs, but there was no mistaking him.
The rosary around his neck was worn almost smooth.
Alessandro moved toward him.
Vittorio raised one hand.
“Before we welcome our old friend, perhaps he should explain why he stole from this family.”
Marco laughed softly.
“I wondered if you'd still use that story.”
Vittorio's smile disappeared.
I placed the silver watch on the table.
“Maybe this will help.”
For the first time, Vittorio looked afraid.
Only for a second.
But I saw it.
So did Alessandro.
Vittorio recovered quickly.
“An old watch?”
“My father repaired it.”
“Your father repaired thousands.”
“This one has your initials inside.”
Around the table, men shifted.
I opened the case.
The brass disc gleamed beneath the light.
Vittorio did not look at it.
That told me enough.
Marco did.
Then tears filled his eyes.
“Antonio kept it.”
My father.
“You gave it to him?” I asked.
Marco nodded.
“I found the records inside Vittorio's office. Your father was the only man I trusted to hide them.”
“Why didn't you expose him?”
Marco looked toward the door.
“Because my daughter saw what happened when I tried.”
The child's drawing flashed through my mind.
“What did Camila see?”
Marco's voice roughened.
“Vittorio kill a man.”
Nobody moved.
Vittorio sighed.
“Marco has spent seventeen years hiding. Consider what fear does to memory.”
“He's lying,” Marco said.
“Then where have you been?” Alessandro asked.
“Protection.”
“Whose?”
Marco looked at Leah.
Her face changed.
“My father's,” she whispered.
Marco nodded.
“Samuel Bellini got Elena and Camila out of the city. He gave me a different route. We were supposed to meet three days later.”
“But you never did,” Leah said.
“I couldn't. Samuel sent word that Vittorio had found him.”
Leah went pale.
“My father died because he helped you.”
“Yes.”
It was brutal.
But Marco didn't hide from it.
“I'm sorry.”
Leah wiped her cheek.
“Sorry doesn't give me thirty years with him.”
“No.”
Marco touched his rosary.
“It doesn't.”
That simple answer broke something open in her expression.
Vittorio stepped forward.
“This is touching, but it proves nothing.”
I watched his hands.
Steady.
Except when Marco touched the rosary.
Interesting.
“What's inside it?” I asked.
Marco froze.
Vittorio did too.
Alessandro noticed.
“Marco.”
Marco removed the rosary.
The crucifix was unusually thick.
He pressed the back.
A tiny metal plate opened.
Empty.
His face collapsed.
“No.”
“What was there?” I asked.
“A photograph.”
“Of what?”
“The man Camila saw Vittorio kill.”
Vittorio laughed.
“Convenient.”
Marco stared at the empty compartment.
“It was there this morning.”
“Who handled the rosary?” Alessandro asked.
“No one.”
“Think.”
Marco's eyes moved across the room.
Then stopped.
“Maso.”
Every head turned.
Maso stood near the door.
He looked stunned.
“I helped him into the car.”
“You touched my neck,” Marco said.
“You were bleeding.”
“You took it.”
“No.”
Alessandro's voice went dangerously quiet.
“Maso.”
“I didn't take anything.”
I believed him.
Not because I was naive.
Because Maso had brought me the bloody ring when hiding it would have been easier.
I walked toward him.
“Your coat.”
“What?”
“Give me your coat.”
He obeyed.
I checked the pockets.
Nothing.
Then I felt something sewn beneath the lining.
A flat rectangle.
Someone had planted it.
I cut two stitches with the small repair blade I carried.
A photograph slid into my palm.
Camila, age five, stood in the background.
In front of her, Vittorio held a gun.
A man lay on the floor.
But the dead man's face wasn't visible.
On the back was my father's handwriting.
THE FIRST DEATH.
Vittorio stared at it.
Then, unexpectedly, he sat down.
“You have no idea what you're looking at.”
Marco lunged.
Alessandro stopped him.
“You murdered him!”
Vittorio looked almost sad.
“No.”
He pointed toward the photograph.
“I shot him.”
The room went silent.
“But he was already dying.”
I frowned.
“What does that mean?”
Vittorio looked directly at Alessandro.
“Ask your father.”
Alessandro's face emptied.
“My father died twenty-two years ago.”
Vittorio slowly shook his head.
“No, Alessandro.”
May you like
Then he looked at the photograph again.
“The man on that floor is your father.”
