Chapter 4 - THE WATCH THAT STOPPED AT 10:17
Roman’s hand remained closed around the broken watch.
“Who?”
Beatatrice looked at him.
Then toward the men standing beyond the alcove.
Roman understood.
He dismissed them with one motion.
All four moved farther away.
Paul immediately began steering curious diners toward dessert menus and coffee carts, pretending Laura had not just become the center of a family secret.
Harper barely noticed.
“Who else was there?” Roman asked again.
Beatatrice signed.
You know.
Roman’s expression hardened.
“No.”
She repeated the sign.
You know.
Harper looked between them.
Roman leaned back.
“There were dozens of people at that fundraiser.”
Beatatrice shook her head.
She picked up Leo’s drawing.
Then she pointed toward the crude black shape beside the red-coated woman.
Harper had always assumed it was another person.
Beatatrice tapped it.
Vittorio.
Roman stopped moving.
Harper knew the name.
Vittorio Moretti was Roman’s uncle.
Unlike Roman, Vittorio appeared regularly in business pages rather than tabloids. He managed the family’s legitimate construction interests, sat on hospital boards, donated to churches, and gave interviews about labor apprenticeships.
“He was there?” Harper asked.
Roman’s voice was flat.
“He was my father’s younger brother.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
“Yes.”
Roman rubbed his thumb over the cracked crystal.
“Vittorio was at St. Clare.”
Beatatrice signed.
He left before police came.
Roman looked at her sharply.
“You told me Angelo was driving.”
Beatatrice shook her head.
Harper frowned.
“Who’s Angelo?”
“Our family driver.”
Roman’s gaze stayed on his mother.
“He was blamed for the accident.”
Harper remembered the name now.
Angelo Bianchi.
She had heard it whispered once during her childhood.
A driver.
Drunk.
Dead six months later from a heart attack before charges could become a trial.
Her mother had refused to discuss him afterward.
“Angelo didn’t hit Leo?”
Beatatrice slowly shook her head.
Harper felt anger rising again.
“You knew?”
Roman stood.
“I knew what my father told me.”
“And you believed him?”
“For longer than I should have.”
“How long?”
Roman looked at her.
“Until tonight.”
Harper searched his face for deception.
She found something worse.
Shame.
Beatatrice touched Harper’s arm.
Then she signed.
Roman came back to the hospital.
Roman looked away.
His mother continued.
His father sent him home. Roman returned alone after midnight.
Harper had not known that.
He asked about Leo.
Beatatrice looked at Roman with an expression filled with old sorrow.
Salvatore told him Leo had been taken somewhere else.
Roman gave a bitter laugh.
“He told me the family wanted privacy.”
Harper understood suddenly.
Salvatore had not simply lied once.
He had placed different lies in different rooms and trusted grief to prevent everyone from comparing them.
“What happened to Vittorio?”
Roman picked up his phone.
Harper stiffened.
“You’re calling him?”
“No.”
Roman slipped the phone back into his pocket.
“I’m going to see him.”
Beatatrice immediately stood.
Roman shook his head.
“No.”
His mother signed one word.
Yes.
“Ma.”
Fifteen years.
Roman’s jaw tightened.
Beatatrice pointed toward Harper.
Her brother.
Then toward Roman.
Your life.
Then toward herself.
My silence.
Roman stared at her.
Beatatrice lifted her chin.
Enough.
Forty minutes later, Harper found herself sitting in the back of a black SUV beside Beatatrice Moretti.
She had no idea why she had agreed to come.
Perhaps because Leo’s drawing was in her bag now.
Perhaps because the broken watch rested in Roman’s coat pocket.
Perhaps because after fifteen years of knowing almost nothing, walking away felt impossible.
The Moretti family townhouse stood behind iron gates on a quiet Upper East Side block.
Vittorio was in the dining room when they entered.
He was older than Roman by nearly twenty years, with silver at his temples and the relaxed posture of a man accustomed to surviving dangerous families by never looking frightened.
He glanced up from his espresso.
“Roman.”
Then he saw Beatatrice.
Then Harper.
His face changed slightly.
Not fear.
Recognition of trouble.
“What happened?”
Roman removed the broken watch and placed it on the table.
Vittorio’s eyes dropped to it.
His hand stopped halfway toward his cup.
Roman noticed.
“So you remember it.”
Vittorio slowly sat back.
“Where did you find that?”
“My mother kept it.”
Vittorio looked at Beatatrice.
Something passed between them.
Harper saw guilt immediately.
Roman did too.
“Tell me about Leo Hayes.”
Vittorio’s expression hardened.
“I don’t know who that is.”
Harper stood.
“You’re lying.”
Vittorio looked at her.
Roman said quietly, “She’s his sister.”
That changed everything.
Vittorio closed his eyes.
Only for a second.
When he opened them, he looked suddenly older.
“Your mother had brown hair.”
Harper’s anger turned cold.
“You knew her.”
“I saw her at the hospital.”
Roman stepped closer.
“Who was driving?”
Vittorio did not answer.
Roman slammed his palm against the table.
The espresso cup jumped.
“Who was driving the car that killed that boy?”
Beatatrice did not flinch.
Harper did.
Vittorio stared at his nephew for a long moment.
Then he looked at Harper.
“I was.”
The room became silent.
Harper gripped the back of the chair.
“You hit Leo.”
Vittorio swallowed.
“Yes.”
Roman moved so quickly Harper barely saw it.
He grabbed his uncle by the shirt and shoved him against the wall.
“You let Angelo take the blame.”
“My brother made that decision!”
“You let him!”
“I was terrified!”
Roman drew back his fist.
Beatatrice stepped between them.
Just as Harper had done at Laura.
Roman froze.
Vittorio’s breathing shook.
“I wasn’t drunk,” he said.
Harper looked at him.
“I don’t care.”
“You should.”
“Why?”
“Because I didn’t lose control of that car.”
He looked directly at Beatatrice.
“The brake pedal went to the floor.”
Roman released him.
Vittorio straightened his shirt.
“The next morning, your father sent the sedan away before police could examine it.”
Roman stared.
Vittorio’s voice dropped.
“But I saw it first.”
“Saw what?”
“The rear brake line.”
He swallowed.
“It hadn’t burst.”
Vittorio looked toward Beatatrice.
“It had been cut.”
Beatatrice’s face drained of color.
Then she signed four words.
May you like
Harper translated automatically.
“I was supposed to leave in that car.”
