Chapter 5 - THE CAR MEANT FOR BEATATRICE
Nobody spoke.
Vittorio looked at Beatatrice.
Roman looked at Vittorio.
Harper looked at all of them and realized Leo’s death had just changed shape again.
He had not simply been killed by a careless driver.
He had been standing in the path of something intended for someone else.
Roman finally said, “Explain.”
Vittorio rubbed both hands over his face.
“That night your mother asked me for the sedan.”
Beatatrice nodded.
Roman looked at her.
“You were leaving?”
She did not answer.
Not yet.
Vittorio continued.
“She told me she needed the car brought around quietly. No driver.”
“Why?”
Beatatrice stared down at her hands.
Vittorio answered for her.
“Because she was leaving Salvatore.”
Roman looked as though the sentence had struck him physically.
“My father?”
Beatatrice raised her eyes.
Then she nodded.
Roman’s voice lowered.
“You never told me.”
I tried.
“When?”
That night.
Roman shook his head.
“I remember you crying. I thought you were angry about the fundraiser.”
Beatatrice’s expression crumpled.
Your father came into the room.
Roman went silent.
Something old had clearly returned to him.
A memory.
Harper watched his face.
“What did he say?”
Roman’s eyes remained fixed on his mother.
“He told me to stop interfering in their marriage.”
Beatatrice nodded.
Then he sent you outside.
Roman looked away.
Vittorio poured himself a glass of water with a trembling hand.
“Beatatrice asked me to take the car around the block first. She was afraid Salvatore had someone watching the gate.”
Roman stared at him.
“So you drove it.”
“I drove thirty yards.”
“And killed a child.”
Vittorio closed his eyes.
“Yes.”
There was no excuse in the answer.
Only weight.
Harper hated him for that almost as much as she would have hated denial.
Vittorio continued.
“When the brake pedal dropped, I pulled the emergency brake. The car fishtailed.”
His voice roughened.
“I saw the boy.”
Harper pressed her fingernails into her palm.
“I turned away from him.”
He looked at her.
“I swear to God I did.”
“Don’t.”
Harper’s voice shook.
“Do not ask God to stand in this room for you.”
Vittorio lowered his eyes.
“I hit a light post first. The car spun. By the time I got out, Roman was already running toward Leo.”
Roman’s expression changed.
“You saw me?”
“Yes.”
“Then why did you leave?”
“Salvatore arrived.”
Harper gave a disbelieving laugh.
“Of course he did.”
“He told me if I stayed, police would tear apart everything. The unions. The contracts. The company.”
“So you protected money.”
Vittorio looked at her.
“At twenty-seven, I believed protecting the family meant protecting hundreds of people whose paychecks depended on us.”
Harper shook her head.
“Leo had a family too.”
Vittorio closed his mouth.
That landed.
Roman paced toward the window.
“If the brakes were cut, who knew my mother planned to leave?”
Vittorio counted silently.
“Me.”
Beatatrice raised one finger.
“Salvatore,” Roman said.
She nodded.
“Anyone else?”
Vittorio hesitated.
“Our head of security knew there was tension in the house, but I never told him she was leaving.”
“Enzo?”
“Yes.”
Roman looked toward Harper.
“Enzo died six years ago.”
Harper folded her arms.
“Convenient.”
Roman did not defend it.
Beatatrice opened her handbag and removed her rosary.
The small blue bead Leo had given her caught the light.
Then she removed something else.
A faded train ticket.
Harper leaned closer.
NEW YORK TO BOSTON
The date matched the night Leo died.
One-way.
Roman took it carefully.
“You were really leaving.”
Beatatrice signed.
I had a friend in Boston. I had packed one suitcase.
Roman sat down.
For the first time, he did not look dangerous.
He looked like a son discovering his childhood had contained rooms he had never been allowed to enter.
“Why?”
Beatatrice glanced at Harper.
Then back to Roman.
Your father was not always cruel.
Roman’s eyes tightened.
That made it harder.
She signed more slowly.
He could be generous. Funny. Protective. Then he became afraid of losing control.
Harper understood.
That was far more frightening than calling Salvatore a monster.
Monsters were simple.
People were not.
Beatatrice continued.
He decided protection meant permission.
Roman looked down.
Where I went. Who I spoke to. What I could know.
Vittorio stared at the table.
Beatatrice’s hands trembled.
I wanted my own life.
Roman whispered, “Did he know about Boston?”
Beatatrice nodded.
Harper felt cold again.
Roman turned to Vittorio.
“Did my father cut the brakes?”
“I don’t know.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“I expect you to believe I’ve asked myself that every day for fifteen years.”
Harper looked at Leo’s drawing on the table.
The woman in the red coat.
The blue circles over Leo’s ears.
The black figure beside them.
Something bothered her.
She picked it up.
“What is that?”
Beatatrice looked.
Harper pointed toward a golden scribble Leo had drawn on the black figure’s hand.
“I thought it was another bad horse.”
Despite everything, Beatatrice smiled faintly.
Then the smile vanished.
She touched the scribble.
Roman leaned over.
“What?”
Beatatrice looked at Vittorio.
Vittorio went still.
Harper asked, “What does it mean?”
Roman’s voice was quiet.
“My grandfather had a ring.”
Vittorio slowly lifted his right hand.
No ring.
Roman continued.
“Gold. Lion’s head.”
Beatatrice nodded.
Salvatore wore it almost every day.
Harper pointed to the drawing.
“Leo drew somebody wearing it beside the car.”
Roman’s eyes darkened.
Then Beatatrice shook her head.
Hard.
She reached across the table and tapped Vittorio’s hand.
Her expression was horrified.
Vittorio understood before anyone else.
“No.”
Roman stared at him.
Vittorio stood.
“No, Roman.”
Roman’s voice dropped.
“Why is my father’s ring on your hand in Leo’s drawing?”
Vittorio looked toward the door.
Roman blocked his path.
“Answer me.”
Vittorio’s shoulders fell.
“Because Salvatore gave me the ring that night.”
Harper felt the room tighten.
Roman took one step closer.
“When?”
May you like
Vittorio looked at him.
“Before I opened the hood of your mother’s car.”
