Chapter 3 - THE PHOTOGRAPH THAT TURNED A MAFIA BOSS INTO A SUSPECT
“My father didn't murder your wife.”
Carmine Orsini spoke so quietly that Nell almost missed the words.
Emmett Fontaine was still struggling in his wheelchair outside St. Catherine's. His chest rose and fell in painful, uneven movements.
But Nell heard Carmine.
And she hated the certainty in his voice.
“How would you know?” she demanded.
Carmine turned toward her.
“Because I knew my father.”
“So did my mother, apparently.”
She pulled the photograph from her coat and held it in front of him.
Carmine studied the image.
His father stood beside Rosa Fontaine outside the bakery, one hand resting on a blue leather book.
The younger Salvatore Orsini looked healthier than Carmine remembered him in his final years.
“What is this?”
“Something the man you just stopped from kidnapping my father wanted me to surrender.”
Carmine looked up sharply.
“Kidnapping?”
“They forged my signature. They were taking him somewhere without telling me where.”
Benny had already moved toward the two transport workers.
“Boss, their vehicle isn't registered to a medical transport company.”
The man with the silver ring stepped backward.
Carmine noticed.
“Don't leave.”
The man stopped.
Carmine took the wheelchair handles himself and pushed Emmett toward the building.
“Miss Brisco, find a doctor you trust.”
Nell nearly laughed.
“I don't trust anyone here.”
“Then we'll find someone somewhere else.”
He glanced at Benny.
“Have our physician meet us at St. Louis Memorial.”
Within minutes, Emmett was placed in a properly staffed ambulance. Tessa quietly helped transfer his medication records and told Nell which treatments had been administered. Carmine's security team kept the forged transport papers and the names of the men involved.
The man with the silver ring was still beside the van when Benny approached him.
“Name,” Benny said.
“Martin.”
“Last name?”
“Keene.”
“Who hired you?”
Martin smiled nervously.
“I think you should speak to my attorney.”
Benny photographed his identification.
“You'll be hearing from ours.”
As the ambulance departed, Carmine turned toward Nell.
“Ride with him.”
“I'm not leaving him.”
“I didn't ask you to.”
The look on his face troubled her.
It was neither pity nor irritation.
It was concern.
Nell had forgotten what that looked like when it came from someone with power.
By four that afternoon, Emmett was stable.
The doctors discovered that he had been given an unusually heavy dose of sedating medication before the attempted transfer. It had worsened his confusion and made his breathing more dangerous.
A hospital physician ordered a review of his medication history.
Nell stood beside his bed, fighting tears.
“He's been getting worse for months,” she whispered.
The physician nodded.
“Some of that may be his underlying condition. But his recent decline deserves a closer look.”
“Can he recover?”
“We can treat the medication effects. His memory difficulties are more complicated.”
Nell accepted the answer.
For years, people had offered her comforting promises they couldn't keep.
She appreciated someone telling her the truth.
Outside the room, Carmine waited.
He had arranged a private room, security, and a full evaluation.
When Nell stepped into the hallway, he handed her a cup of coffee.
“Black,” he said.
She stared.
“How did you know?”
“You said the pie was too sweet with wine. I figured you preferred coffee without sugar.”
Despite herself, Nell smiled.
It disappeared quickly.
“Mr. Orsini, I can't afford this hospital.”
“You aren't paying.”
“I don't want charity.”
“Then consider it an advance toward wages you should have been paid properly.”
She frowned.
“What does that mean?”
Carmine removed a folded document from his pocket.
“Your payroll deductions weren't ordered by a judge. Someone altered the instructions after the original court judgment.”
Nell felt dizzy.
“For three years?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“Just over fourteen thousand dollars.”
She leaned against the wall.
Fourteen thousand dollars.
She thought of the meals she had skipped.
The winter coat she had sewn together twice.
The medication she had delayed buying.
And the forty-one dollars she had been short that morning.
“Where did it go?”
“An account controlled by one of Conrad Bellarose's companies.”
Her eyes filled.
“Why would he do that?”
“I don't know yet.”
Carmine watched her absorb it.
“I'm arranging repayment from my company immediately. We'll pursue whoever authorized the deductions separately.”
Nell looked up.
“Your company took the money.”
“Yes.”
“Then you had a responsibility to notice.”
Carmine did not argue.
“You're right.”
That surprised her more than an apology would have.
“People around you are afraid to tell you when you're wrong,” she said.
“Probably.”
“Then you need better people.”
For the first time, Carmine smiled faintly.
“That's becoming clear.”
That evening, Carmine brought the photograph to Palmira Orsini.
His grandmother was sitting in the library with a shawl across her shoulders and a book resting unread in her lap.
At seventy-eight, Palmira possessed a quiet authority that even Carmine respected.
She glanced at the photograph.
Then her face changed.
“Where did you find that?”
“Someone gave it to a woman who works in the house.”
Palmira took the picture.
Her hand trembled.
“Rosa.”
“You knew her?”
Palmira's eyes filled with tears.
“Knew her? That woman fed half this city when nobody else would.”
Carmine sat opposite her.
“Tell me.”
Palmira looked toward the darkened garden.
“Twenty-five years ago, after a hurricane damaged our neighborhood, Rosa Fontaine opened her bakery every morning and gave bread away until the ovens went cold. Your grandfather helped pay for the flour. When your father took over the family business, he kept supporting her.”
“Why?”
“Because she was his friend.”
Carmine stared at the photograph.
“My father had a friend I never knew about?”
“He had many things you never knew about.”
“Then why did Emmett Fontaine accuse him of murder?”
Palmira looked at him.
“Because the night the bakery burned, your father was there.”
Carmine leaned forward.
“You knew?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Your father made me promise not to discuss it.”
“Why?”
Palmira closed her eyes.
“Because Rosa had discovered that someone was stealing from a community rebuilding fund. That money had been collected by local businesses after the storm. She found evidence that the fund had been used to purchase properties from struggling families.”
Carmine frowned.
“Who managed the fund?”
Palmira hesitated.
“Conrad Bellarose handled its public accounts.”
“And who handled the private accounts?”
She looked away.
“Your father.”
Silence filled the library.
Carmine felt a familiar coldness spread through his chest.
He had inherited the Orsini organization believing his father was a hard man who nevertheless kept his word.
Now an old woman was telling him that the family's money had been mixed into a scheme that destroyed vulnerable families.
“Did he steal from them?”
“I don't know.”
“Grandma.”
“I never saw the full records.”
“Where are they?”
“Rosa kept a blue ledger. She said it contained everything. She intended to give it to an investigator.”
Carmine looked at the photograph again.
The blue book.
The night of the fire.
“And the ledger disappeared?”
“Yes.”
“Along with Rosa?”
Palmira nodded.
Then she said something that changed everything.
“Salvatore came home that night with burns on his hands. He told me he'd tried to save her.”
Carmine stared.
“Why wasn't that in the police report?”
“Because someone persuaded the authorities he had never been there.”
“Who?”
Palmira's expression hardened.
“Lawrence Voss.”
Carmine recognized the name immediately.
Voss had advised the Orsini family for decades.
He was the gray-haired man at the dinner table who had mocked Nell for baking.
And he was still overseeing several of the family's most valuable legal trusts.
The next morning, Nell returned to the estate to collect her belongings.
She intended to resign.
She could no longer pretend the Orsini name meant nothing to her.
Odette Puit was waiting beside the staff entrance.
“You missed your shift yesterday,” she said.
“My father was almost kidnapped.”
“I heard.”
Nell stared at her.
“That's all you have to say?”
Odette's face remained composed.
“Come into my office.”
Nell followed reluctantly.
Inside, Odette locked the door.
Then she opened a drawer and removed a small blue cloth pouch.
“I was supposed to give you this if anyone ever asked about your mother's recipe.”
Nell stopped breathing.
“What?”
“Your mother came here eight years ago. She asked me to keep something safe.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because she said the people looking for it would kill anyone who knew.”
Odette placed the pouch on the desk.
Inside was a brass key and a folded piece of paper.
Nell recognized her mother's handwriting immediately.
Eleanor, if the day comes when you must open the second oven, do not go alone.
She looked up.
“Second oven?”
Odette nodded.
“At Fontaine's Bakery.”
“The bakery burned.”
“Not all of it.”
Before Nell could ask another question, the office telephone rang.
Odette answered.
Her face went white.
She slowly lowered the receiver.
“What happened?” Nell asked.
Odette opened her mouth.
Then someone struck the office door three times.
A man's voice spoke from the hallway.
“Mrs. Puit, Mr. Voss would like a word.”
Odette grabbed Nell's arm.
“Put the key away. Now.”
Nell obeyed.
The handle turned.
May you like
Odette whispered one last sentence.
“Whatever happens, don't tell Carmine what his father put behind that oven.”
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