Chapter 3 - THE PHOTOGRAPH THAT SHOULD NEVER HAVE EXISTED
“What baby?”
Nora’s question hung between them.
Vincent Russo stood beside his sleeping mother, holding a photograph that had turned twenty years of family history into something unrecognizable.
He read the sentence again.
Vincent must never know what happened to the baby.
“There wasn't a baby,” he said.
Nora kept her voice low.
“Are you sure?”
Vincent looked at her sharply.
“I would remember if my parents had another child.”
“I’m not saying they did.”
“Then what are you saying?”
“That your mother wrote something she believed mattered.”
Vincent studied the handwriting.
He knew it.
Camila had written his birthday cards in the same careful script for decades.
Every letter leaned slightly to the right.
Every lowercase t was crossed with a long, deliberate stroke.
This was hers.
“Where did you find the picture?”
“Behind the dresser.”
“Before or after Paulie cleared the room?”
“After.”
Vincent folded his arms.
“Paulie doesn't make decisions about my mother's belongings without reason.”
Nora said nothing.
He noticed.
“You disagree.”
“I think your mother was frightened when she realized her things were missing.”
“Paulie has protected this family since I was a boy.”
“Then he should understand why those things matter to her.”
Vincent looked toward the bed.
Camila slept with one hand curled around the edge of her blanket.
She looked very small.
For a moment, he remembered her as she had been when he was a child.
Strong.
Elegant.
Impossible to intimidate.
His mother had once walked into a room full of armed men and ordered them to stop arguing because her son was trying to sleep upstairs.
They had obeyed.
Now she was afraid of empty hallways.
He carefully placed the photograph inside his jacket.
“Don't discuss this with anyone.”
Nora nodded.
“Not even Paulie?”
“Especially not Paulie.”
The following morning, Nora arrived to find Camila sitting by the window.
Rain dotted the glass.
The old woman was twisting a pearl necklace around her fingers.
Nora recognized it from the photograph.
“That's beautiful.”
Camila smiled faintly.
“Thomas gave it to me.”
“Was it for your birthday?”
“No.”
Her expression changed.
“For forgiveness.”
Nora sat beside her.
“Forgiveness for what?”
Camila lifted the pearls toward the light.
“He thought beautiful things could make ugly things disappear.”
Nora felt an unexpected sadness.
She had spent most of her life around people who owned very little.
Her mother had worked at a grocery store until arthritis forced her to retire early.
Her father had left when Nora was eleven.
Money had always been a problem, but she had never imagined that a necklace worth thousands of dollars could be associated with so much unhappiness.
“Did you forgive him?” she asked.
Camila considered the question.
“Sometimes I thought I had.”
Then she reached for Nora’s hand.
“Promise me something.”
“What is it?”
“If the little girl comes back, don't let them take her.”
Nora's stomach tightened.
“What little girl?”
“The one with the yellow coat.”
Camila looked toward the garden.
“She cried when the gate closed.”
Nora waited.
But Camila had already drifted somewhere else.
“Do you think Thomas will like the roses this year?”
Downstairs, Vincent was meeting Carmine Gallow.
The Chicago underboss sat opposite him in the library, wearing a charcoal suit and an expression that suggested he had slept badly.
“The agreement is falling apart,” Carmine said.
“Because your people keep testing boundaries.”
“Because your people don't trust mine.”
“They have reasons.”
Carmine rubbed his forehead.
“Vincent, we both know what happens if this collapses. Young men start trying to prove themselves. Somebody gets killed. Then somebody else decides he needs revenge.”
Vincent leaned back.
“Then tell your men to stay out of Brooklyn.”
“They will.”
“Good.”
Carmine hesitated.
“Beatrice owes your mother an apology.”
Vincent looked at him.
“She owes her more than that.”
“I know.”
There was something unusual in Carmine's voice.
Embarrassment, perhaps.
But also fear.
“She's been under pressure,” Carmine continued.
Vincent's expression hardened.
“Don't insult me by explaining why a grown woman humiliated my mother.”
“I'm not excusing it.”
“Then what are you doing?”
Carmine stared at the bookshelves.
“Trying to keep two families from destroying each other.”
Vincent took the photograph from his jacket.
He laid it on the table.
Carmine looked down.
For several seconds, his face revealed nothing.
Then his right hand tightened around the armrest.
“Where did you get that?”
“My mother's room.”
Carmine swallowed.
“That's an old picture.”
“You recognize it.”
“Yes.”
“Why was your wife in my parents' garden twenty years ago?”
Carmine looked toward the closed library door.
Then back at Vincent.
“Because your father was helping her.”
“With what?”
Carmine hesitated.
“Something personal.”
Vincent felt anger rising.
“Don't make me ask twice.”
Carmine leaned forward.
“Beatrice had a daughter before we married.”
The room went silent.
Vincent stared at him.
“A daughter?”
“Yes.”
“Where is she?”
Carmine's jaw worked.
“That's complicated.”
Vincent placed one finger on the photograph.
“My mother wrote that I must never know what happened to a baby.”
Carmine closed his eyes.
When he opened them, the exhaustion in his expression seemed years old.
“Thomas made promises he couldn't keep.”
“What promises?”
“He said he could find the child a safe home.”
Vincent stared at him.
“Find her a home?”
Carmine nodded.
“Beatrice was young. Frightened. She'd gotten involved with someone dangerous. She believed the baby would be used against her.”
“Who was the father?”
Carmine said nothing.
Vincent's voice dropped.
“Carmine.”
“I don't know whether I have the right to tell you.”
Vincent stood.
“Then we're finished.”
“Vincent, listen—”
“The meeting. The agreement. All of it.”
Carmine rose quickly.
“Don't punish hundreds of people because of something that happened before either of us controlled these organizations.”
Vincent looked at him.
“Then stop treating the truth like another bargaining chip.”
Carmine appeared genuinely ashamed.
“Ask your mother about the yellow coat.”
Vincent froze.
Carmine saw it.
“She remembers?”
“Sometimes.”
“God help us.”
Nora spent the afternoon with Camila in the garden room.
There were no more thunderstorms, but the old woman kept looking toward the iron gates beyond the roses.
“Did you like gardening when you were younger?” Nora asked.
Camila nodded.
“I grew yellow roses.”
“Why yellow?”
“For the little girl.”
Nora's heart began beating faster.
“Did she live here?”
Camila shook her head.
“Only one night.”
“What happened?”
Camila's expression clouded.
“They told me she would be safe.”
“Who told you?”
“Thomas.”
Nora waited quietly.
“And Paulie.”
Nora went still.
Camila looked at her suddenly.
“You mustn't tell Vincent.”
“Why?”
“Because he would have gone after them.”
“After who?”
But Camila had already begun crying.
Nora moved beside her and held her hand.
“It's all right. We don't have to talk about it.”
The elderly woman reached for the pearls around her neck.
Then she did something unexpected.
She unclasped the necklace and pressed it into Nora's palm.
“Take this.”
“I can't accept that.”
“Please.”
“Camila, it's valuable.”
“Not the pearls.”
Camila pointed to the clasp.
Nora looked closely.
A tiny gold plate had been fastened to the back.
It was engraved with two letters.
E.H.
Nora stopped breathing for a moment.
Her own mother's name had been Evelyn Hayes.
And those were the initials printed on the little silver bracelet Nora had kept since childhood.
Camila watched her face.
“You know that name.”
Nora could barely speak.
“My mother was Evelyn Hayes.”
Camila's eyes widened.
For one brief, astonishing second, her confusion disappeared.
“Oh, sweetheart.”
She touched Nora's cheek.
“Your mother was never supposed to tell you where you came from.”
Vincent arrived moments later.
He saw Nora standing beside the window, white-faced, clutching his mother's necklace.
“What happened?”
Nora turned toward him.
“My mother worked for your family, didn't she?”
Vincent frowned.
“What?”
“Evelyn Hayes. Did she ever work here?”
The name meant nothing to him.
“I don't know.”
Camila suddenly began shaking her head.
“No. No, Thomas said not to tell.”
Vincent approached the chair.
“Ma?”
Camila looked directly at him.
“Vincent, I tried to stop them.”
“Stop who?”
Her trembling hand pointed toward the garden gates.
“The night they took the baby.”
Nora closed her eyes.
Vincent felt the room tilt beneath him.
Then Camila gripped his sleeve with surprising strength.
“The baby wasn't Beatrice's only secret.”
May you like
Her eyes filled with tears.
“She was your father's daughter.”
