Chapter 7 - WHAT JOSEPH DID THAT NIGHT
The old Romano restaurant looked dead from the street.
Dusty windows.
Faded awning.
No lights.
But the upstairs office was warm.
Someone had been there recently.
Adrian noticed a coffee cup on the desk.
Still half full.
Martin Vale had left in a hurry.
“He knew we were coming,” Adrian said.
Celeste looked around.
“Or someone warned him.”
Adrian’s eyes moved toward his security men.
Nobody reacted.
That bothered me.
Inside the office, Margaret’s photograph hung exactly where she said it would.
Four young men stood outside a construction trailer sometime in the late 1980s.
Joseph Romano.
Anthony Romano.
Daniel Ward.
Martin Vale.
Daniel’s face had been scratched nearly white.
My father looked happy.
Joseph looked powerful even before he had power.
Martin stood slightly behind them all.
The observer.
The survivor.
Celeste stared at her father’s damaged face.
“That’s what Joseph did to him.”
Adrian looked at her.
“I’m beginning to think Joseph did that to everyone.”
We searched the office.
No dramatic hidden safe.
No false wall.
Just decades of ordinary records.
Restaurant receipts.
Property taxes.
Old menus.
Payroll books.
And a locked filing cabinet.
Adrian could have broken it.
Celeste found the key taped beneath the desk.
“Of course,” he said.
“What?”
“You know where Martin hides things.”
“He taught me to play poker in this room.”
Adrian looked at her.
“You had more history with my family than you ever told me.”
“I had more history with your family than you ever asked about.”
He absorbed that quietly.
Inside the cabinet were folders labeled by year.
1997 was missing.
But the drawer contained one object.
A rosary.
My mother recognized it instantly.
“That was Anthony’s mother’s.”
Adrian picked it up.
“My grandmother’s?”
My mother nodded.
“She gave it to Anthony before she died.”
The cross had one damaged corner.
I touched it.
“I’ve seen this.”
Everyone looked at me.
“When?”
I tried to remember.
Then it came back.
“My mother kept a picture of me as a baby in a white dress. This rosary was hanging over the crib.”
Mom closed her eyes.
“Yes.”
“So Anthony left it with us?”
“No.”
“Then how did Martin get it?”
She didn’t know.
Celeste examined the beads.
One was newer than the others.
Not a spy device.
Not microfilm.
Just a replacement wooden bead with tiny initials carved into it.
M.V.
Martin Vale.
“He repaired it,” Celeste said.
“Why keep it?” I asked.
Adrian answered.
“Guilt.”
A floorboard creaked behind us.
Every guard turned.
Martin Vale stood in the doorway.
He was thinner than I expected.
Gray suit.
Silver hair.
No weapon.
He looked tired.
“Put those down.”
Adrian stepped forward.
“Where have you been?”
“Deciding whether I was too old to keep running.”
“Running from me?”
Martin smiled sadly.
“From 1997.”
Celeste’s face tightened.
“You lied to me.”
“Yes.”
“You told me Adrian rejected the photograph.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“To keep you away from this.”
“You let me believe the Romanos were all the same.”
“I hoped hatred would make you leave them alone.”
“It made me marry one.”
Martin almost laughed.
“Yes. That was a miscalculation.”
Adrian did not find it funny.
“Tell us about Anthony.”
Martin looked at me.
I saw recognition immediately.
“You have his eyes.”
I was tired of people telling me which pieces of my face belonged to a dead man.
“Where did he go?”
Martin removed his coat.
“Sit down.”
“No.”
He studied me.
“You are definitely Anthony’s daughter.”
“Answer me.”
He nodded.
“Anthony survived Pier Nine.”
My mother grabbed the desk.
I already knew he had survived the beating.
But hearing it stated plainly still changed the air.
“How long?”
“Six months.”
My heart stopped.
Six months.
Not minutes.
Not hours.
Months.
My mother whispered:
“He was alive?”
Martin looked at her.
“I’m sorry, Maureen.”
She slapped him.
Hard.
Nobody stopped her.
“You knew.”
“Yes.”
“I buried him every day for thirty years.”
“I know.”
“You knew.”
“Yes.”
She hit him again.
This time her hand shook too badly to hurt.
Martin accepted it.
“Why didn’t he come home?” I asked.
Martin’s eyes filled.
“Because Joseph told him you were dead.”
My mother made a sound like she had been struck.
I couldn’t speak.
Martin continued carefully.
“After the pier, Daniel and I got Anthony out. Joseph believed Anthony had gone to Daniel. We moved him to a motel on Cape Cod.”
“Why not a hospital?”
“Because Joseph owned people in places he shouldn’t have.”
Adrian did not argue.
“What happened then?”
“Anthony wanted to go back for Maureen and Rachel.”
“Why didn’t he?”
“Joseph found me first.”
Martin’s voice became quiet.
“He showed me a newspaper clipping about an apartment fire.”
My mother shook her head.
“There was no fire.”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“Joseph said Maureen and the baby had died.”
My knees weakened.
The phrase from Eleanor returned.
You were never supposed to survive long enough to meet Adrian.
Not because Celeste wanted me dead.
Because Joseph had once arranged for my father to believe I already was.
“How could Anthony believe him?” I asked.
“Joseph had photographs.”
“Of what?”
“A burned crib.”
My mother covered her mouth.
“He staged it.”
“Yes.”
Adrian turned away.
Even now his father found new ways to become worse.
“So Anthony left?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Providence first. Then New York.”
“Why?”
“He wanted proof strong enough to destroy Joseph before returning.”
“Did he find it?”
Martin nodded.
“That’s why Joseph sent me after him.”
Celeste whispered:
“You worked for Joseph.”
“Yes.”
The room changed.
This was the reversal none of us wanted.
Martin had helped Anthony escape.
Then betrayed him.
“What did you do?” I asked.
“I found him.”
My mother began crying again.
“And?”
“He had the pension records. Bank transfers. Everything.”
“Did you kill him?”
Martin looked at me.
“No.”
“Then what?”
“I made the second worst decision of my life.”
“What was the first?”
“Telling Joseph where Anthony was.”
Silence.
“What was the second?”
“I took the evidence and came back to Boston.”
“Why?”
“Joseph threatened my wife.”
“So you left Anthony?”
“Yes.”
“Alive?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“New York.”
“When?”
“October 1997.”
My heart pounded.
“He could still be alive.”
Martin’s expression told me not to hope.
“I don’t know.”
“Did you ever look?”
“For years.”
“And?”
“Nothing.”
That should have been the end.
But Martin walked to the framed photograph.
He removed it from the wall.
Behind it was not a safe.
Just an old envelope taped to the backing.
He handed it to me.
Inside was a train ticket.
New York to Boston.
December 24, 1997.
Christmas Eve.
Anthony Romano.
My breath caught.
“He came back.”
Martin nodded.
“I found that ticket in Joseph’s desk after he died.”
Adrian stared.
“My father saw him again.”
“I believe so.”
My mother whispered:
“Then Anthony came home for us.”
Martin’s eyes filled.
“Yes.”
I turned over the ticket.
Something had been written on the back.
Not Joseph’s handwriting.
Anthony’s.
Four words.
I FOUND MY GIRL ALIVE.
My hands began shaking.
“He knew.”
Martin nodded.
“At the end, yes.”
“Then where did he go?”
Martin looked at Eleanor.
She had just entered the office with Margaret.
When she saw the ticket in my hand, all the blood drained from her face.
Adrian turned slowly toward his mother.
“Mom?”
Eleanor stared at the handwriting.
Then she sat down.
“I hoped that was gone.”
I felt cold.
“You knew he came back.”
She did not answer.
“Eleanor.”
Her eyes met mine.
“Yes.”
My mother stepped forward.
“You saw Anthony on Christmas Eve?”
Eleanor began to cry.
“Yes.”
“Where?”
She looked at Adrian.
“At Pier Nine.”
Adrian’s voice became hollow.
“What happened?”
Eleanor reached for the rosary.
Her hand trembled around the beads.
“Joseph was there.”
My mother whispered:
“No.”
Eleanor closed her eyes.
“Anthony came home to take Rachel and Maureen away.”
“What did Joseph do?”
Eleanor opened her eyes.
“He stopped him.”
I could barely breathe.
“How?”
She looked at me.
May you like
And I knew before she said it.
“Joseph killed your father.”
