Chapter 8 - WHAT BEATATRICE NEVER SAID
Roman stared at Vittorio.
“Use against her how?”
Vittorio looked toward Beatatrice.
She had gone completely still.
“Ask her.”
Roman’s expression changed.
“Ma?”
Beatatrice sat down.
Harper recognized the movement.
Not weakness.
Preparation.
The way people sit when they are about to lift something they have carried too long.
Roman lowered himself into the chair across from her.
“What did he do?”
Beatatrice looked at the watch.
Then she began signing.
Your father came into the hospital room after midnight.
Roman translated aloud, though Harper did not need him to.
He had your watch.
Beatatrice’s hands slowed.
He said police found it under Leo.
Roman’s jaw tightened.
He said Vittorio had already left.
Vittorio turned away.
Then he told me what would happen if I spoke.
Roman whispered, “What?”
Beatatrice’s eyes filled.
He said you would be blamed.
Roman did not move.
Harper felt sick.
Beatatrice continued.
He said he would tell police you had been driving.
Roman’s face drained of color.
Vittorio spoke quietly.
“Salvatore knew your watch put you at the scene.”
Roman looked at him.
“And you let him threaten her with that?”
Vittorio’s voice cracked.
“I didn’t know until years later.”
Beatatrice nodded.
He said you had been drinking.
Roman stared at nothing.
He said people would believe the violent Moretti son killed a deaf child and ran.
Roman flinched.
Harper noticed the wording.
“Deaf child?”
Beatatrice nodded.
Roman stood abruptly.
“My father knew exactly who Leo was.”
Harper understood.
Salvatore had not buried a nameless accident.
He knew the boy belonged to the center his own wife loved.
That made it worse.
Much worse.
Beatatrice continued.
He said if I left him, you would go to prison.
Roman walked away from the table.
Harper watched his hands curl into fists.
He had spent years building his life around control.
Now he was discovering the person who taught him control had used it to imprison his own mother.
Beatatrice signed.
So I stayed.
Roman turned.
“Because of me.”
Beatatrice shook her head fiercely.
Because of him.
Roman’s eyes filled.
Do not take his guilt.
That sentence stopped him.
Harper looked away.
She suddenly understood something about Beatatrice.
For fifteen years, people had treated her silence as consent.
Salvatore.
Vittorio.
Perhaps Roman too, without knowing it.
But Beatatrice had not been silent because she was weak.
She had been cornered.
Roman sat beside her.
Not touching.
Waiting.
Beatatrice looked at him.
Then Roman signed with clumsy, careful hands.
I am sorry I did not see.
Beatatrice’s expression softened.
She reached over and touched his cheek twice.
The same gesture Harper had seen at Laura.
Thank you.
Good boy.
Except Roman was no longer a boy.
And Beatatrice was no longer protecting one.
Vittorio walked toward the window.
“I’ll give a statement.”
Roman looked at him.
“What?”
“I’ll tell them I was driving.”
“You should have fifteen years ago.”
“Yes.”
Vittorio did not argue.
“I’ll tell them about Salvatore. About Angelo. About the car.”
“You could go to prison.”
“I know.”
Harper studied him.
For once, he did not appear concerned with survival.
Roman remained silent.
Vittorio turned.
“I spent half my life calling cowardice loyalty.”
He looked at Harper.
“That doesn’t become noble because I regret it.”
Harper said nothing.
But she believed him.
Not enough to forgive.
Enough to listen.
Roman picked up his father’s photograph from the mantel.
He studied it.
Then he set it facedown.
“I’m going to the district attorney tomorrow morning.”
Vittorio nodded.
“I’ll go with you.”
Harper asked, “What about the companies?”
Roman looked at her.
“If contracts survive only because a child’s death stayed buried, they don’t deserve to survive.”
Harper had not expected that answer.
“People will lose jobs.”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“I’ll separate the operating companies before this becomes public. Protect payroll where I legally can. Independent audits. New leadership.”
Vittorio almost smiled.
“Your father would hate that.”
Roman looked toward the facedown photograph.
“I’m beginning to see the appeal.”
Beatatrice laughed silently.
Harper did too.
For the first time that night, the laughter did not hurt.
Roman walked toward Harper.
She stiffened automatically.
He stopped several feet away.
“I owe you an apology.”
“For what?”
“For expecting you to trust me because I decided I was telling the truth.”
Harper considered him.
“That’s a start.”
“I also owe your brother more than money.”
“You don’t owe Leo a building.”
Roman blinked.
Apparently he had been thinking exactly that.
Harper almost smiled.
“He doesn’t need his name on marble.”
“What does he need?”
“He needs the truth.”
Roman nodded.
“And your mother needs something too.”
He looked toward Beatatrice.
“What?”
“To stop being treated like the family secret everyone translates for.”
Roman absorbed that.
Beatatrice had understood enough from their faces.
She signed.
I would also like dinner.
Harper laughed.
Roman looked offended.
“We never ate.”
Beatatrice pointed toward the clock.
It was nearly two in the morning.
Vittorio opened the refrigerator.
“There’s lasagna.”
Roman stared at his uncle.
“You nearly destroyed my life and now you’re offering lasagna?”
Vittorio shrugged.
“It’s very good lasagna.”
Even Roman laughed.
For several strange minutes, they became almost ordinary.
Then Beatatrice reached for the broken watch.
She placed it in Roman’s palm.
Roman looked at her.
She closed his fingers around it.
Keep it.
Roman shook his head.
I don’t want it.
Beatatrice signed back.
You should.
Then she pointed toward Harper.
Tell him.
Harper looked confused.
“Tell him what?”
Beatatrice’s eyes filled.
Her hands moved slowly.
Salvatore lied about one more thing.
Roman went still.
“What?”
Beatatrice looked at Harper.
Then at Roman.
Leo was still alive when Salvatore arrived.
Harper’s breath stopped.
Roman whispered, “What?”
Beatatrice nodded.
Then came the final truth.
Your father saw him.
May you like
Her hands trembled.
And Leo saw your father at the car.
