Chapter 5 - MY FATHER'S SIN
Dead men are difficult to punish.
You can destroy their portraits.
Strip their names from buildings.
Burn every suit they ever owned.
None of it makes them answer questions.
My father had been dead five years.
Until that morning, I had respected him.
Not worshipped him.
I knew exactly what Antonio DeLuca had been.
He'd ordered deaths.
Destroyed rivals.
Bribed officials.
But there had always been rules.
Children were untouchable.
Women outside the business were untouchable.
Families were supposed to remain outside wars.
At least that was the story he had handed me.
Maybe all sons inherit edited versions of their fathers.
"Where are you?" I asked Sophia again.
"If I tell you, you'll come."
"Yes."
"And people will die."
"Possibly."
"Matteo."
"Your father kidnapped your sister, planted a weapon outside our hotel room, tried to kill me, and apparently spent fourteen years stealing an inheritance from you. We passed the avoiding-conflict stage sometime before breakfast."
She was silent.
Then: "I'm meeting someone."
"Who?"
"I can't tell you."
"Someone connected to your mother?"
"Yes."
"Do you trust them?"
"No."
At least she was learning.
"Do they know you're married?"
"Everyone knows I'm married."
"Fair point."
I walked away from Marco and Isabella.
"Listen to me. Whatever my father did, I didn't know."
"I know."
"Do you?"
"Yes."
"Then why are you running from me?"
"I'm not."
"You vanished from an armored car."
"I left a note."
"That doesn't make it less irritating."
A tiny breath on the other end might have been a laugh.
Good.
She was alive.
"Tell me where you are."
"I need an hour."
"No."
"Matteo."
"No."
"I'm asking you to trust me."
That stopped me.
Trust.
From the woman who hadn't believed she could choose her own coffee twelve hours earlier.
"One hour," I said.
"Thank you."
"If you're not back in sixty minutes, I tear New York apart."
"That seems excessive."
"You married excessive."
The line went dead.
I looked at Marco.
"Trace?"
He shook his head.
"Burner. Moving."
"Track traffic cameras."
"Already started."
Isabella sat on the desk.
"What now?"
"Now we figure out what our fathers did."
The documents in Room 14 told a story uglier than the family legends.
Lucia Bellucci had been born Lucia Carbone.
Her father, Carlo Carbone, had owned shipping yards, commercial property, and logistics companies across three states.
Legal businesses.
Mostly.
When Carlo died, he left controlling shares in a trust for his only grandchild at the time.
Sophia.
She was four.
Lucia served as trustee until Sophia turned twenty-one.
Vittorio Bellucci apparently believed marrying Lucia made her inheritance his.
It didn't.
So he'd begun transferring assets.
My father had helped.
For two million dollars.
Then Lucia discovered it.
The tape recorded the confrontation.
"What happened after?" I asked.
Marco flipped through papers.
"Officially? Lucia died three days later."
"Cause?"
"Car accident."
Isabella frowned.
"We were told infection."
I looked at her.
"You're sure?"
"That's what Father said."
Two separate lies.
Useful.
The official report would exist.
Marco called someone.
Ten minutes later, he had it.
Lucia Bellucci died on October 14, 2009, after her car went off a bridge near Sleepy Hollow.
Driver survived.
Lucia didn't.
"Driver?" I asked.
Marco scrolled.
"Dominic Serra."
I knew the name.
Everyone did.
Dominic had been my father's closest lieutenant.
He disappeared seventeen years ago.
Rumor said federal protection.
My father claimed he'd stolen money.
"What happened to him?"
"No record after 2010."
I remembered him.
Tall.
Quiet.
He used to bring pastries to our house on Sundays.
When I was eleven, he taught me how to throw a baseball.
The idea of that man killing Sophia's mother made my stomach turn.
Then Elena called.
I answered.
"Where are you?"
"Hotel."
"Why?"
"Because someone needs to keep Bellucci soldiers from walking upstairs and stealing your wife's toothbrush for evidence."
"Anything happen?"
"Her Aunt Teresa tried to enter twice."
"Don't let her."
"I threatened to throw her purse off the roof."
"Good."
"Also, there's a woman here asking for Sophia."
My attention sharpened.
"Who?"
"She says her name is Catherine Vale."
Mrs. Vale.
The woman Isabella mentioned.
"Hold her."
"I already invited her for tea."
I hung up.
"We're leaving."
When we reached the hotel, Catherine Vale was sitting calmly in the private lounge.
She was around sixty.
Gray hair.
Black dress.
No jewelry.
Elena sat opposite her.
Sophia wasn't there.
Catherine stood when I entered.
"Mr. DeLuca."
"Where's my wife?"
"I hoped she was with you."
"Wrong answer."
Catherine studied me.
"You look like Antonio."
"That's becoming less flattering by the hour."
Her expression shifted.
"You found the room."
"Yes."
"And the tapes."
"Yes."
She looked toward Isabella.
"I'm sorry."
Isabella recoiled.
"For what?"
"For Saint Michael's."
My anger rose.
"You worked there."
Catherine closed her eyes.
"Yes."
"What did you do to Sophia?"
"I followed instructions."
"The favorite defense of cowards."
She accepted that.
"Yes."
Elena stood.
"Matteo."
She was warning me.
Not to forgive Catherine.
Not to lose control before she talked.
I sat.
"Start with Lucia."
Catherine's hands folded.
"Lucia knew Vittorio was moving assets out of Sophia's trust. She came to me because I had worked for the Carbone family."
"What were you?"
"Private tutor. Later personal secretary."
"You helped hide documents?"
"Yes."
"Where?"
"I don't know."
I leaned forward.
"Try again."
"Lucia didn't trust me enough to tell me."
"Smart woman."
Catherine lowered her eyes.
"The night she died, she called me. She said Antonio DeLuca had agreed to help her escape with Sophia."
That contradicted Sophia's conclusion.
"My father?"
"Antonio had taken Vittorio's money. But he regretted it."
"How convenient."
"He told Lucia he would expose the transfers."
"Then she died."
"Yes."
"Who drove?"
"Dominic Serra."
"Was he working for my father?"
"Yes."
"Did he kill her?"
Catherine looked at me.
"No."
The room became silent.
"Then what happened?"
"Someone followed them."
"Who?"
"Enzo."
Isabella stared.
"He was seventeen."
"And already trying to earn his father's approval."
Catherine's voice trembled.
"Enzo's car forced them off the road."
I thought of Sophia's brother.
The man sitting across from us at breakfast that morning.
"What happened to Dominic?"
"He pulled Lucia from the car."
"But she died."
"Not immediately."
I stared.
"What?"
Catherine began crying.
"Lucia Bellucci did not die in that crash."
Isabella stood so quickly her chair fell.
"What are you saying?"
Catherine looked at her.
"I'm saying the body recovered from the river wasn't your mother."
Everything stopped.
Even Elena seemed speechless.
"Where is Lucia?" I asked.
"I don't know."
"Liar."
"I swear."
"Who does?"
Catherine looked toward the door.
"Dominic Serra."
Marco cursed under his breath.
"And where is Dominic?"
She pulled a folded piece of paper from her bag.
"That's why I'm here."
An address.
Brooklyn.
Red Hook.
Catherine pushed it toward me.
"Dominic returned three weeks ago."
"Why?"
"Because Sophia is turning twenty-one."
"And?"
"Because if Vittorio can't obtain her signature before her birthday, the trust becomes irrevocable."
Isabella whispered, "Four hundred million."
Catherine shook her head.
"No."
Marco looked at her.
"What?"
"You only found the first ledger."
"How much?"
Catherine's answer came quietly.
"Today?"
She looked directly at me.
"Closer to 1.3 billion."
The door behind me opened.
Sophia stood there.
She had tears on her face.
She had heard enough.
But she wasn't alone.
A tall man in his late sixties stood beside her.
Scar across his jaw.
Gray hair.
I recognized him immediately despite seventeen years.
Dominic Serra.
He looked at me.
"Your father didn't kill Lucia Bellucci."
I stood.
Sophia moved beside him.
Dominic continued.
"He died protecting the secret of what really happened."
I felt the room tilt.
"What secret?"
Dominic reached inside his coat.
Marco's hand moved toward his gun.
Dominic slowly removed a photograph instead.
He placed it on the table.
Sophia made a broken sound.
The picture was recent.
A woman sat on a porch somewhere sunny.
Older now.
But unmistakably the same face from Lucia Bellucci's wedding portraits.
Sophia's mother.
Alive.
May you like
Dominic looked at Sophia.
"Your mother has been waiting fourteen years for someone strong enough to get you out."
