Chapter 3 - THE PHOTOGRAPH THAT SHOULD NOT HAVE EXISTED
“Dante Gallo was standing in my grandfather's photograph before he was born.”
Nora said the words aloud in her empty apartment.
They sounded ridiculous.
Yet the resemblance was unmistakable.
The boy beside the farmhouse had Dante's dark eyes, sharply defined eyebrows, and the same stubborn angle to his chin.
Nora checked the back again.
Someone had written a date beneath the photograph.
October 17, 1982.
Dante Gallo was in his early forties.
It was possible.
But the little boy couldn't have been more than six.
What bothered Nora more was the scratched-out face.
Someone had deliberately destroyed one man's identity while leaving the others untouched.
She placed the photograph on her kitchen table beside the old coat.
Then she examined the yellowed ticket.
Palermo to Rome.
One-way.
October 21, 1982.
Four days after the photograph.
Her grandfather had never told her how he left Sicily.
He said only that America had given him the opportunity to become somebody ordinary.
At seventeen, she thought that sounded sad.
At twenty-nine, with overdue bills on her refrigerator and a photograph she couldn't explain, ordinary suddenly seemed like a blessing.
She put the photograph in a clean envelope.
Then she reached for the rosary hanging beside her grandfather's portrait.
It was a simple wooden rosary, worn smooth by decades of prayer.
One bead was darker than the others.
She remembered Pietro rubbing that bead whenever he was worried.
Nora slipped it around her wrist.
At nine the next morning, she returned to La Cattedrale.
Paul met her before she reached the dining room.
“I told you not to come back.”
“I need my final paycheck.”
“Payroll takes two weeks.”
“Then I need written confirmation that you've terminated me.”
His expression changed.
“For what?”
“For my records.”
Paul leaned closer.
“Stop making problems, Nora.”
She looked past him toward the kitchen.
Carla stood beside the espresso machine.
She wasn't looking at Nora.
She was looking at Paul's hand.
He was holding his phone.
On its screen was a photograph of Nora's grandfather's dark coat.
Nora saw only a glimpse before Paul turned it facedown.
“How did you get that picture?”
Paul went pale.
“What picture?”
“The coat.”
“I have no idea what you're talking about.”
Nora took out her phone.
“Then you won't mind if I ask Dante Gallo.”
Paul caught her arm.
“Don't.”
She looked at his fingers.
Slowly, he released her.
“You don't understand,” he whispered.
“Then explain.”
Paul glanced around.
“My daughter goes to a private school. My wife has medical bills. People like me don't get to say no when certain men make requests.”
“What men?”
He swallowed.
“I was told to put you at Salvatore's table.”
“By whom?”
“I never met him.”
“You expected me to believe that?”
“He paid my debts.”
Nora stared.
“Someone paid your debts to arrange a dinner assignment?”
Paul nodded miserably.
“And he knew your grandfather's name.”
Before she could ask another question, a familiar voice came from behind her.
“Paul. Go to your office.”
Dante Gallo stood near the entrance.
He wore a black overcoat over a white shirt.
There were dark circles beneath his eyes.
Paul disappeared without another word.
Nora folded her arms.
“How is your father?”
“Stable. The doctors believe he suffered a cardiac event brought on by stress. He's under observation.”
“I'm sorry.”
Dante watched her carefully.
“I don't think you caused it.”
“Your manager does.”
“My manager is about to discover how little patience I have for dishonesty.”
Nora hesitated.
“Did you know he was told to assign me your table?”
Dante's expression went still.
“No.”
“He admitted somebody paid his debts.”
Dante took out his phone, then stopped.
“I'm going to investigate that.”
“People keep saying that word around me.”
“What word?”
“Investigate.”
She stepped closer.
“I was a waitress yesterday. Today I'm unemployed, somebody is interested in my dead grandfather's coat, and your father says he betrayed the man who raised me.”
Dante listened without interrupting.
“I deserve something more useful than another mystery.”
“You do.”
He surprised her by pulling out a chair.
“Sit down.”
“I don't want a job interview.”
“This isn't one.”
Nora sat reluctantly.
Dante remained standing for a moment.
“My father told me Pietro Rossi stole money and disappeared after a warehouse fire in Sicily. He said two men died that night.”
“Who?”
“My uncle, Vittorio Gallo, and a warehouse employee.”
Nora remembered the sentence on the photograph.
The wrong brother paid for the fire.
“Was Vittorio your father's brother?”
“Yes.”
“What happened to his family?”
Dante's jaw tightened.
“He had a son named Enzo. My cousin. We grew up together after his mother moved to America.”
“Where is Enzo now?”
“He manages several of our family's shipping interests.”
Nora studied him.
“Do you trust him?”
Dante looked surprised.
“I did until you asked.”
She placed the photograph on the table.
Dante leaned down.
He went completely still.
“Where did you get this?”
“My grandfather's coat.”
He picked up the photograph.
“That's my father.”
“I know.”
“And Pietro.”
“Yes.”
Dante touched the little boy.
“That's me.”
Nora felt relief and disappointment together.
“So it's real.”
“Of course it's real.”
“Then who's the man with the scratched-out face?”
Dante didn't answer.
He studied the silver-handled cane.
Then his expression changed.
“My father didn't begin carrying that cane until after his stroke.”
“When?”
“Eight years ago.”
Nora stared at the photograph.
“But the picture is from 1982.”
Dante turned it over.
He examined the date.
“Someone altered this.”
“The photograph?”
“Not necessarily the picture. The date.”
He looked back at the little boy.
“I remember this farmhouse.”
Nora leaned forward.
“You do?”
Dante nodded slowly.
“I remember my uncle Vittorio putting me on a horse.”
His voice became quieter.
“And I remember somebody screaming.”
Nora said nothing.
Dante looked up.
“I was told it was a nightmare.”
At the hospital, Salvatore refused to speak when Dante showed him the photograph.
But the moment he saw the scratched-out face, his hand began to tremble.
“Who gave you this?”
“Nora found it.”
Salvatore closed his eyes.
“Then Pietro knew.”
“Knew what?”
“That someone was still protecting the man in that photograph.”
Dante placed it on the bedside table.
“Papa, whose face was removed?”
Salvatore shook his head.
“Not yet.”
Dante's patience broke.
“You've spent forty years telling me a man betrayed you. Now his granddaughter is losing her livelihood because of it.”
Salvatore looked toward Nora.
She stood near the door, wishing she hadn't come.
“Your grandfather was a good man,” he said.
“Then why did he spend his life afraid?”
Salvatore's eyes filled.
“Because I gave him every reason.”
Nora stepped closer.
“What happened at the warehouse?”
Salvatore touched the wooden rosary on her wrist.
For the first time, he looked truly frightened.
“Where did you get that?”
“My grandfather.”
“Show me the darker bead.”
Nora held out her wrist.
Salvatore examined it, then covered his face.
“My God.”
Dante frowned.
“What?”
Salvatore slowly looked at Nora.
“Your grandfather carried that rosary the night the warehouse burned.”
“He carried it every day.”
“No,” Salvatore whispered. “Not that one.”
He pointed toward the dark bead.
“That rosary belonged to Vittorio's wife.”
Nora looked down.
May you like
Salvatore's next words barely rose above the machines beside his bed.
“And we buried it with her.”
