Chapter 7 - The Woman Buried Without a Body
Salvatore had attended his grandmother’s funeral.
He remembered the black car.
The priest.
The roses.
His father standing beside the coffin without shedding a tear.
He remembered touching the polished wood.
He remembered believing Maria Moretti lay inside.
“You’re telling me we buried an empty box?”
Vittorio sat in the library, looking twenty years older.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because Maria wanted the world to believe she was gone.”
“Why?”
“To build something Antonio could not steal.”
Salvatore paced.
“What?”
“A second organization.”
Carmine muttered a curse.
Vittorio nodded.
“Police. judges. unions. shipping. hospitals. Foster agencies. Churches. Some legitimate. Some not.”
“And Elena found it.”
“She found part.”
“Enough to get killed.”
“Yes.”
Salvatore stopped at the window.
“Where is Maria?”
“I don’t know.”
“That answer is becoming dangerous.”
“I’m telling you the truth.”
“You lied to me for eight years.”
“To keep you alive.”
“Everyone who lies to me says that.”
A small voice came from the doorway.
“My mother said lying to protect someone still hurts them.”
They turned.
Matteo stood barefoot in borrowed pajamas.
His hair stuck up on one side.
Doctor Russo stood behind him looking annoyed.
“He refuses to stay in bed.”
“I’m not sick anymore.”
“You have a fever of one hundred.”
“One hundred is a big number.”
Russo sighed.
Salvatore walked over.
“You should rest.”
“I heard shouting.”
“You’ll hear a lot of that here.”
Matteo considered this.
“Okay.”
Salvatore nearly smiled.
Then Matteo noticed Vittorio.
“You.”
Vittorio stiffened.
“You were in my mother’s picture.”
“What picture?”
Matteo walked closer.
“The birthday picture.”
Salvatore looked at Vittorio.
“What birthday?”
Matteo said, “Mine.”
The room went silent.
“You were there?” Salvatore asked.
Vittorio’s eyes closed.
“Once.”
“You met my son?”
The word escaped before Salvatore could stop it.
My son.
Matteo heard it.
His eyes lifted.
Salvatore felt the weight of what he had just said.
Vittorio answered quietly.
“Elena allowed me to see him when he turned five.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because Antonio’s people were still watching you.”
“My father was dead.”
“His people weren’t.”
Salvatore moved toward him.
“Three years. You let me lose three more years.”
Matteo suddenly stepped between them.
Both men froze.
The child looked up at Salvatore.
“Don’t hit him.”
Salvatore stared down.
“I wasn’t going to.”
“You had the face.”
Carmine coughed to hide a laugh.
Salvatore glared at him.
Matteo turned to Vittorio.
“My mother said you were scared.”
Vittorio’s eyes filled.
“She was right.”
“She said scared people make bad choices.”
“She was right about that too.”
Matteo nodded.
Then swayed.
Salvatore caught him.
Russo pointed toward the stairs.
“Bed.”
This time Matteo did not argue.
Salvatore carried him.
Halfway upstairs, Matteo whispered:
“Are you really my dad?”
Salvatore stopped.
Everyone below pretended not to listen.
“Yes.”
“How do you know?”
“I don’t know for certain.”
“Then why did you say it?”
Because he had known the moment those eyes looked at him through the rain.
Because Elena had chosen him as Matteo’s final refuge.
Because some truths entered the body before proof reached the mind.
“I think I am.”
Matteo rested his cheek against Salvatore’s shoulder.
“My mother said you might not want me.”
Salvatore’s chest tightened.
“She was wrong.”
“She was usually right.”
“Not this time.”
They continued upstairs.
That afternoon, Salvatore ordered a DNA test.
Not because he needed it.
Because Matteo someday might.
At six o’clock, Carmine entered with news.
“We traced the orphanage records.”
Salvatore looked up.
“And?”
“Matteo was never officially admitted.”
“What?”
“Saint Agnes has no file on him.”
“Then why did he say he came from there?”
Carmine glanced toward the sleeping boy.
“Because someone hid him there unofficially for four days.”
“Who?”
“A nun. Sister Margaret.”
“Find her.”
“We did.”
Salvatore read Carmine’s expression.
“Dead?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“She disappeared this morning.”
Salvatore stood.
“Before or after Matteo reached us?”
“After.”
“Someone knows she helped him.”
“Yes.”
Salvatore reached for his coat.
“We go to Saint Agnes.”
Vittorio appeared in the doorway.
“You’re not going anywhere.”
Salvatore looked at him.
“Try stopping me.”
“Matteo said Elena hid a red envelope there.”
Salvatore nodded.
“And if Elena left it, whoever killed her knows that too.”
“Exactly.”
“That’s why I’m going.”
Vittorio shook his head.
“No. That’s why they want you to go.”
The phone rang.
An old landline.
One no outsider had used in years.
Salvatore answered.
A woman spoke.
Her voice was elderly.
Steady.
Familiar in a way that made the skin on Salvatore’s arms rise.
“Hello, grandson.”
Salvatore stopped breathing.
Across the room Vittorio closed his eyes.
The woman continued.
“If you want Sister Margaret alive, bring Elena’s boy to the family mausoleum.”
A pause.
“Come alone.”
Then the line went dead.
Salvatore stared at the receiver.
May you like
His grandmother had just risen from the grave.
And she wanted his son.
