Chapter 6 - THE MAN LORENZO CALLED FATHER
Salvatore DeLuca was seventy-one years old.
He lived in a stone estate overlooking the Hudson and told anyone who asked that retirement suited him.
Lorenzo knew better.
Men like Salvatore never retired.
They simply learned how to control rooms without entering them.
When Lorenzo’s father had been murdered thirty years earlier, Salvatore had become guardian to nineteen-year-old Lorenzo.
He taught him how to read people.
How to recognize fear.
How to survive betrayal.
Most importantly, he taught Lorenzo one rule.
Blood is the only thing a man can trust.
Lorenzo almost laughed at the memory now.
By sunrise, Lucia was under guard in a secure medical suite with Sophia and Emma.
A pediatrician Lorenzo trusted personally had examined her.
Healthy.
Slightly underweight.
No signs of serious injury.
When the doctor said those words, Lorenzo had to sit down.
He wanted nothing more than to remain beside her crib.
But Isabella was still alive.
And every minute mattered.
Lorenzo kissed Lucia’s forehead.
“Daddy is bringing your mother home.”
She caught his finger.
For a moment, he almost could not leave.
Then Sophia touched his arm.
“Go.”
Lorenzo looked at her.
“You protected my daughter.”
“I hid information from you.”
“You were terrified.”
“I was.”
“And you still went looking.”
Sophia glanced at Emma.
“My sister died because she went looking. I couldn’t let that mean nothing.”
Lorenzo nodded.
“Whatever happens, you and Emma are DeLuca family now.”
Sophia’s eyes filled.
Then Lorenzo walked out.
Matteo remained missing.
His phones were dead.
His apartment had been emptied.
His accounts untouched.
That bothered Nico.
“Men running for money take money.”
“Matteo has other money.”
“Not enough to disappear forever.”
Lorenzo looked through Isabella’s old files.
They had searched them eight months ago.
Now they searched differently.
At 9:40 a.m., they found a hidden spreadsheet embedded inside a charity foundation report.
Forty-three payments.
Judges.
Police captains.
Customs inspectors.
Union officials.
Some payments were connected to Matteo.
Others led to companies controlled by Salvatore.
Isabella had discovered an entire shadow organization operating inside Lorenzo’s empire.
They had been selling information.
Routes.
Protection.
Access.
Enough to start wars and profit from both sides.
“She found this before the ambush,” Nico said.
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t she tell you?”
Lorenzo knew immediately.
“She was going to.”
He remembered their final night.
Isabella sitting at the kitchen island.
Lucia sleeping upstairs.
Isabella had looked exhausted.
She said, When we get home tomorrow, I need to tell you something about Sal.
Lorenzo had kissed her forehead.
Tomorrow.
The most dangerous word in human language.
There had been no tomorrow.
Until now.
At noon, Lorenzo drove to Salvatore’s estate.
Nico insisted on following with twenty men.
Lorenzo allowed only four through the gate.
Salvatore waited on the terrace drinking espresso.
He looked exactly as Lorenzo remembered him.
Silver hair.
Dark cardigan.
Calm eyes.
“My boy.”
Lorenzo remained standing.
“Where is Isabella?”
Salvatore sighed.
“So you finally found Lucia.”
Lorenzo’s hand moved toward his weapon.
Salvatore did not flinch.
“If I wanted the child dead, she would have been buried in that coffin.”
“Then why take her?”
“Sit.”
“Where is Isabella?”
“Your temper has always made you stupid.”
Lorenzo grabbed Salvatore by the collar.
The old man’s guards raised their guns.
Nico’s men did the same.
Salvatore smiled.
“There he is.”
“Where is she?”
“You think Matteo did this?”
“He helped.”
“Yes.”
“On your orders?”
“No.”
Lorenzo hesitated.
Salvatore gently removed Lorenzo’s hand.
“Matteo worked for me. But not because he wanted to.”
“Explain.”
“His sister had debts.”
“Matteo doesn’t have a sister.”
Salvatore looked almost sad.
“That is how little you knew your friend.”
Lorenzo stepped back.
“Matteo’s mother had a daughter before she married his father. She lives in Sicily. Cancer. Two children.”
“What does that have to do with Isabella?”
“I found Matteo stealing money to pay for treatment.”
“So you blackmailed him.”
“I gave him a choice.”
“You call that a choice?”
Salvatore shrugged.
“Words are decorative.”
Lorenzo wanted to kill him.
But Isabella needed information.
“You ordered the convoy hit.”
Salvatore’s expression changed.
“No.”
“Don’t lie.”
“I ordered Isabella taken.”
Lorenzo felt sick.
“Why?”
“She found my accounts.”
“So you kidnapped her.”
“I intended to frighten her.”
“You took my three-day-old daughter.”
“That was not the plan.”
“What happened?”
“The men I hired decided a burning vehicle erased problems better than negotiation.”
Salvatore looked toward the river.
“Isabella survived. So did Lucia.”
“And instead of bringing them home?”
“I couldn’t.”
“Why?”
“Because Isabella knew what I had done.”
Lorenzo’s voice became barely audible.
“You let me bury them.”
“Yes.”
That single word ended something inside Lorenzo.
Thirty years of gratitude.
Memory.
Family.
Gone.
“Where is she?”
“I don’t know.”
Lorenzo stared at him.
“Matteo moved her three months ago.”
“Why?”
“Because he finally grew a conscience.”
That made no sense.
“Matteo kidnapped Emma.”
“No.”
Lorenzo almost drew his gun.
Salvatore raised one hand.
“Matteo took Emma because my people were going to kill her.”
Silence.
“What?”
“He staged the kidnapping.”
“The gunshot?”
“Performance.”
“The men in the church?”
“My men.”
“Then why leave Lucia there?”
“Matteo put her there before my men arrived.”
The pieces shifted.
Not enough to form a picture.
But enough to create doubt.
Salvatore leaned closer.
“Matteo betrayed you.”
“Yes.”
“He betrayed me too.”
“Where is Isabella?”
“If I knew, I would use her to negotiate my survival.”
At least that sounded honest.
Lorenzo turned away.
Then Salvatore spoke again.
“There is one person who knows.”
Lorenzo stopped.
“Benedetti.”
The doctor.
“Where?”
“I can give you the address.”
“Why?”
“Because the moment you found Lucia, my usefulness to the people above me ended.”
Lorenzo slowly turned back.
“Above you?”
For the first time, Salvatore looked afraid.
“I was not at the top either.”
A rifle cracked.
Salvatore’s body jerked backward.
Blood struck the terrace doors.
Nico dragged Lorenzo down.
More shots tore through the glass.
Guards scattered.
Salvatore lay on the stone floor, gasping.
Lorenzo crawled toward him.
“Who?”
Salvatore grabbed his sleeve.
His mouth filled with blood.
“Benedetti…”
“I know.”
“No.”
Salvatore’s grip tightened.
“Benedetti isn’t the doctor’s real name.”
“What?”
Salvatore pulled Lorenzo closer.
“He was there when your father died.”
Lorenzo went still.
“My father was murdered thirty years ago.”
“Yes.”
“Carlo Benedetti would have been—”
“Twenty-eight.”
Salvatore coughed.
“Different name.”
“What name?”
Salvatore whispered it.
Lorenzo’s entire body froze.
Because the name belonged to a man he had personally watched go into a grave when he was nineteen.
A man blamed for ordering his father’s murder.
Gabriel Vescari.
May you like
The enemy who had supposedly been dead for thirty years.
And somewhere in New York, that dead man had Isabella.
