Chapter 8 - THE NIGHT MY BROTHER NEVER CAME HOME
"Who sent Matteo to that road?"
My voice sounded unfamiliar.
Across the table, Carlo watched me with the satisfaction of a man who had finally found the right wound.
My mother was trembling.
I turned toward her.
"Mother?"
Isabella closed her eyes.
"I did."
For a moment, nobody moved.
Then I heard Vivien whisper, "Oh, no."
I stared at Isabella.
"You sent Matteo?"
My mother nodded.
"That afternoon, Sofia called me."
"Sofia?"
"She said someone had begun looking for the old evidence again. She wanted to move some records before they disappeared."
I looked at the photograph.
Matteo standing beside Sofia.
My brother smiling.
My brother still alive.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because you were in Palermo meeting with the shipping partners. Matteo offered to help."
My throat tightened.
"He was twenty-nine."
"I know."
"You let him go alone?"
My mother's face crumpled.
"I didn't know he would drive that road at night. He said he was going to meet Sofia the next morning."
Carlo made a quiet sound.
"An unfortunate misunderstanding."
I turned on him.
"Be silent."
He leaned back.
I looked again at my mother.
"What happened?"
"He called me from the car. He said the brakes felt wrong. He was frightened."
The room seemed to tilt.
Until that moment, I'd believed Matteo's accident involved bad weather and excessive speed.
That was what the investigation had concluded.
My mother began crying.
"The line went dead."
I pressed my palms against the table.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because when they found the car, the investigator said there was no evidence of interference."
"Did you believe him?"
She shook her head.
"No."
I stared at her.
"Then why—"
"Because two days after his funeral, I received a photograph of you leaving your office."
Her voice broke.
"On the back, someone had written, 'You have one son left.'"
I sat down slowly.
Eleven years.
My mother had carried that threat for eleven years.
And I had mistaken her silence for strength.
Carlo folded his hands.
"Tragic, isn't it?"
I looked at him.
"You knew."
"I know many things."
"Did you order Matteo's death?"
His face hardened.
"Your brother died because he was driving too fast."
"That's not what you implied."
"I implied that your family has always been reckless with secrets."
Rocco moved closer.
I raised one hand.
Not yet.
I wanted Carlo to keep talking.
"Show me the evidence," I said.
Carlo smiled.
"The transfer papers first."
"No."
"You misunderstand your position."
"And you misunderstand mine."
I stood.
"These properties are mine. The foundation funds scholarships, medical clinics, and housing assistance. You're not taking them based on documents you fabricated."
Stephen stepped forward.
"Those are serious allegations."
I turned toward him.
"So is using your position as trustee to divert funds."
He stopped.
"Elena's trust has received legitimate income for years," I continued. "I know because we've obtained independent records. There's no lawful basis to hand it to your holding company."
Carlo's expression changed.
For the first time that evening, he looked uncertain.
"Who reviewed those records?"
"People your family doesn't employ."
Adrian spoke sharply.
"Lorenzo, you're making a terrible mistake."
I looked at him.
"You entered my home and took a ribbon from a three-year-old's hair so her mother would believe she was in danger."
His face lost color.
Vivien stared at him.
"Adrian?"
He didn't look at her.
I continued.
"And you prescribed medication to my mother without adequately documenting why it was necessary."
"Her symptoms—"
"An independent physician has reviewed her condition."
Adrian stood.
"This is absurd."
"Then you'll have no trouble explaining yourself to the medical board."
He looked toward Carlo.
I saw it clearly.
The same look Vivien had given her father.
Fear.
Carlo stared at his son.
"Sit down."
Adrian sat.
Then Vivien stood.
"No."
Carlo turned.
"What did you say?"
She wiped her tears.
"I said no."
He stared at her.
"Sit down, Vivien."
She shook her head.
"No, Papa."
Her voice trembled.
But she remained standing.
"I believed you when Adrian said you needed help. I believed our family had been cheated."
Carlo's expression became cold.
"Careful."
"I threatened Elena. I frightened her child. I told myself it was necessary because you said everyone would suffer if I didn't."
She looked toward me.
"And I was wrong."
I watched her.
She had finally said the truth aloud.
But the damage remained.
Carlo stood slowly.
"You're disappointing me."
Vivien flinched.
Then she straightened.
"I've spent my entire life afraid of disappointing you."
Her voice broke.
"I'm done."
Carlo's eyes narrowed.
"Then you can leave with nothing."
Vivien looked at him.
"That would still be more than I've had from you."
For a moment, I saw something almost human cross his face.
Regret, perhaps.
Or merely surprise that his daughter had stopped obeying.
Then it vanished.
He turned back to me.
"You've heard enough?"
"Not nearly."
I placed the second photograph on the table.
"Who photographed Matteo with Sofia?"
Carlo didn't answer.
"Who knew where he was going?"
Silence.
Then Isabella spoke.
"Stephen."
Everyone turned.
My mother reached into her handbag.
She removed a folded letter.
"Matteo left this for me the morning before he died."
I stared.
"You kept his letter?"
"I was afraid."
She handed it to me.
The paper was worn from being opened and folded.
I recognized Matteo's handwriting immediately.
My younger brother had always written his capital letters too large.
Mom,
I think someone from the Bellini family has been using another name to get close to our businesses.
I don't want Lorenzo involved until I know more. He's carrying enough already.
Sofia says the evidence is safe, but someone has been moving money through the foundation.
If anything happens to me, find out who approved the railway warehouse payments.
Please don't blame yourself.
Matteo.
I read it twice.
Then again.
I looked up.
"Railway warehouse payments?"
Rocco stepped closer.
"We haven't reviewed those accounts yet."
Carlo looked toward Stephen.
The movement was tiny.
But I saw it.
I turned to Stephen.
"You approved those payments."
He said nothing.
"Didn't you?"
His face went pale.
Carlo struck the table with his palm.
"This meeting is over."
"No," Vivien said.
Everyone looked at her.
She reached into her handbag.
"Matteo came to see me before he died."
My heart stopped.
"What?"
She looked at me.
"He knew I was Carlo's daughter. He wanted to know whether I'd seen Stephen."
I stared at her.
"Eleven years ago?"
She nodded.
"Before you and I ever met."
Something cold moved through me.
"You knew my brother?"
"Only briefly."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because I was afraid you'd think I was part of whatever happened."
I looked into her face.
"And were you?"
She shook her head.
"I didn't understand then. But Matteo gave me something."
She removed a small black wristwatch.
My brother's watch.
The one he'd worn every day since our father gave it to him for his twenty-first birthday.
I reached for it.
My hands were shaking.
"Where did you get this?"
"Matteo left it with me. He said if I ever heard he'd had an accident, I should give it to Isabella."
"Why didn't you?"
Vivien began crying.
"Because Adrian found out. He told me Matteo had been involved in illegal money transfers and that the watch could implicate our family."
I stared at her.
"You kept this for eleven years?"
"Yes."
I took the watch.
Its leather strap was cracked.
The crystal was scratched.
On the back were the initials M.D.
And beneath them, something my father had engraved.
Always find your way home.
I remembered Matteo laughing when he received it.
I remembered him holding it up to the light.
I remembered the last time I saw him alive.
Vivien spoke softly.
"There's something inside."
I looked up.
"Inside?"
"Matteo said your father had modified the back."
Rocco handed me a small tool from his pocketknife.
I carefully opened the watch case.
Beneath the movement sat a tiny folded piece of photographic film.
A miniature image.
Rocco held it beneath a magnifying viewer on the conference table.
It was a photograph of a bank-transfer authorization.
The account belonged to a railway warehouse company.
The date was the afternoon before Matteo died.
The recipient was Belltower Holdings.
And the person who had approved the transfer was not Carlo.
Not Adrian.
Not Stephen.
It was someone whose signature I had trusted for most of my adult life.
I stared at the name.
Rocco leaned closer.
His face turned gray.
"Lorenzo," he whispered, "that's impossible."
But the authorization was clear.
May you like
The transfer had been approved by my oldest lieutenant.
Rocco Morelli.
