Chapter 7 - LOCKER 317
The key belonged to a locker at South Station.
Dante recognized the shape.
So did Carlo.
Paul refused to explain how he knew anything more, and Dante’s guards removed him to another room while arrangements were made to hand him over to authorities Dante claimed he could no longer afford to avoid.
I did not ask what that meant.
I had one question left.
Locker 317.
Dante wanted six guards.
I said two.
We compromised at four.
Apparently discovering your father is a mafia boss comes with negotiations no childhood manual prepares you for.
Leo stayed with Dante.
I did not understand why I trusted that.
Maybe because I had watched Dante lose control exactly once.
And stop the second Leo cried.
At South Station, crowds moved around us without caring that my life had collapsed twice in twenty-four hours.
People dragged suitcases.
Bought coffee.
Argued about tickets.
Normal life felt insulting.
The locker sat near the end of a row.
My hand trembled as I inserted the key.
It turned.
Inside was a brown canvas bag.
Nothing else.
I pulled it out.
Dante touched my shoulder.
I flinched.
He immediately removed his hand.
“Sorry.”
I hated how quickly he was learning my boundaries.
It would have been easier if he stayed terrible.
I opened the bag.
A woman’s sweater.
Prescription reading glasses.
Two hundred dollars in small bills.
A train ticket.
And an old silver watch.
Dante inhaled sharply.
“You know it?”
“Yes.”
He picked it up carefully.
The crystal was cracked.
The leather strap was dark with age.
“My father gave me this when I turned eighteen.”
I stared.
“How did my mother get it?”
“I gave it to her.”
“Why?”
“Because I had nothing else that was mine.”
There was no performance in his face now.
Just memory.
“She hated expensive jewelry,” he said. “She said watches were useful.”
Despite myself, I smiled.
“That sounds like her.”
Dante smiled too.
It was the first time we shared something about Marisol instead of fighting over her.
That frightened me.
I opened the bag farther.
A photograph lay beneath the watch.
Not Marisol.
Sofia.
She stood on a dock holding Leo.
On the back:
Lena,
If Mom is right, you hate seafood, love old movies, and sing when you’re nervous.
I hope she’s right about the first two because the singing sounds unbearable.
I laughed.
Then cried.
I covered my mouth.
Dante turned away to give me privacy.
That kindness made me cry harder.
I had a sister.
She had known ridiculous details about me.
She had teased me before we ever met.
And she was dead.
There are griefs you think you do not have permission to feel.
Those are sometimes the worst ones.
I read the rest.
I don’t know if I get to call you my sister before you decide you want me to.
But I want you to know I tried to make things safer first.
Dad is not innocent.
Neither is Uncle Carlo.
Neither was Grandfather.
But I think Dad is trying to become someone Leo can be proud of.
I hope I’m right.
If I am not, walk away from all of us.
My hands shook.
Dante did not ask to read it.
That mattered too.
Beneath the photograph was another train ticket.
Newburyport to Portland, Maine.
Dated seven months ago.
One month after Marisol disappeared.
“She was alive a month later,” I whispered.
Dante nodded.
Then I saw the final object.
A hotel key card tucked inside a plastic sleeve.
Harbor Light Motor Inn.
Room 12.
Portland.
No date.
No note.
Dante said, “We can go.”
I looked at him.
“You’re coming?”
“If you want.”
“What if I don’t?”
“I’ll make sure you’re protected from a distance.”
I studied him.
For thirty-one years I had imagined fathers in abstract pieces.
Men at school plays.
Men teaching daughters to drive.
Men embarrassing them at graduation.
I had never imagined this.
A man with blood on his family name asking permission to stand beside me.
“I don’t know what you are to me,” I said.
“I know.”
“I don’t forgive you.”
“I know.”
“I don’t even know what I’m forgiving you for yet.”
“That too.”
I laughed through tears.
“You’re irritating.”
“Sofia said the same.”
That stopped me.
Then somehow made me feel closer to a dead woman I had never met.
We went to Portland that afternoon.
Not in a convoy.
One SUV.
Two guards.
Leo came because Dante refused to leave him with anyone connected to Paul until he knew how deeply the betrayal went.
The Harbor Light Motor Inn sat three blocks from the water.
Room 12 had been renovated since the key card was issued.
The manager remembered nothing about Marisol.
My hope collapsed.
Then Leo started fussing.
I carried him while Dante spoke to the manager again.
I walked toward the small lobby window.
A community bulletin board hung beside it.
Church suppers.
Missing cats.
Room rentals.
Volunteer programs.
And one faded card from St. Catherine’s House.
Safe temporary housing for women leaving dangerous situations.
The logo showed a bell above waves.
My mother used to tell me something when I was little.
If you ever get lost, Lena, go where the bells touch the sea.
I had always thought it was one of her strange sayings.
My throat tightened.
“Dante.”
He turned.
I pointed.
Forty minutes later, we stood outside an old brick building overlooking the harbor.
A nun answered.
She was perhaps sixty.
Sharp eyes.
Gray hair escaping her veil.
When she saw me, her expression changed.
“Lena.”
I nearly fell apart.
“You know me?”
She opened the door wider.
“I know your mother.”
Dante stepped forward.
“Is she here?”
The nun looked at him.
Her face hardened instantly.
“No.”
I did not believe her.
Neither did Dante.
“Sister,” he said quietly, “I am not here to take her anywhere.”
“I remember men in your family saying things like that.”
The words landed.
Dante lowered his head.
“Then you have reason not to trust me.”
That answer softened nothing.
I stepped between them.
“Please.”
The nun looked at me.
“My mother has been missing eight months.”
“She has been hiding eight months.”
“From who?”
The nun’s eyes moved to Dante.
“Sometimes from him.”
My chest hurt.
“And now?”
“Now she is hiding from the man who killed your sister.”
Dante’s jaw tightened.
“Paul Mercer is in custody.”
The nun’s eyes widened.
Then she looked past us.
At Leo.
He was chewing my necklace again.
Her expression broke.
“Oh.”
She touched her mouth.
“Sofia’s baby.”
Leo stared.
Then smiled.
The nun began to cry.
“He looks like her.”
I felt Dante turn away.
“Please,” I whispered. “Where is my mother?”
The nun studied my face.
Then the blue-star locket.
Finally she reached into the pocket of her habit.
She removed a folded piece of paper.
“Marisol left this three weeks ago.”
I took it.
An address.
Rockport.
And beneath it, six words.
Only give this to my daughter.
I looked up.
“Why did she leave?”
The nun’s eyes filled with worry.
“Because someone found her here.”
“Paul?”
“No.”
“Carlo?”
She shook her head.
“Then who?”
The nun looked directly at Dante.
“Someone driving a Rosselli car.”
Dante went still.
I felt cold.
Paul was already accounted for.
Carlo claimed he had tried to protect Marisol.
Dante had insisted he had not known where she was.
There was one possibility none of us had wanted to say aloud.
Someone else inside Dante’s house had been feeding information out.
Before we could speak, Leo grabbed the paper.
It tore in half.
I gently took both pieces.
On the torn underside, hidden beneath the fold, my mother had written one more line.
May you like
Dante saw it at the same moment I did.
Do not bring Dante.
