Chapter 8 - The Blue Door
Salvatore did not bring Matteo.
He brought a gun, two knives, a tracking device sewn beneath his collar, and the kind of anger that made careful men nervous.
He also brought Carmine despite the order to come alone.
Carmine followed two hundred yards behind through the woods.
“You understand,” Carmine had said, “that if she’s really Maria Moretti, she knows every trick you know.”
“She taught half of them to my father.”
“Exactly.”
The family mausoleum stood beyond three stone pools at the northern edge of the property.
Three rivers.
The lion crossed three rivers.
Matteo’s story.
The bronze doors were oxidized blue.
He sleeps under a blue door.
Salvatore stopped.
Elena had hidden instructions inside a bedtime story.
He entered.
Candles burned.
Fresh.
His grandmother’s marble sarcophagus stood in the center.
Empty for twelve years.
A woman sat beside it.
Maria Moretti was eighty-two.
Smaller than he remembered.
Her white hair was pinned neatly behind her head. She wore a dark wool coat and held a cane with a silver wolf’s head.
Beside her, Sister Margaret sat tied to a chair.
Alive.
Maria smiled.
“You have your mother’s impatience.”
“You murdered Elena.”
“Straight to accusation. Antonio’s temperament.”
“Don’t compare me to him.”
“Then don’t behave like him.”
Salvatore raised his gun.
“Release the nun.”
Maria did not look concerned.
“Where is the boy?”
“Safe.”
“No one is safe around you.”
“Interesting coming from a dead woman.”
She smiled.
“I missed you.”
“I didn’t.”
A lie.
Worse, she knew it.
Maria looked at Sister Margaret.
“Tell him.”
The nun’s eyes filled.
“Elena asked me to hide Matteo.”
“I know.”
“No. Before that.”
Salvatore frowned.
“She came to me the night your mother died.”
Maria watched his face.
“She was eighteen,” Margaret continued. “Terrified. She had seen Antonio instruct a nurse to replace Sofia’s medication.”
Salvatore’s throat closed.
“She tried to warn your mother.”
“Too late,” Maria said.
Salvatore turned on her.
“You knew?”
“I discovered it afterward.”
“And let Antonio live?”
“For a time.”
That answer was too calm.
Salvatore understood.
“You killed my father.”
Maria said nothing.
Officially Antonio Moretti had died from complications after surgery.
Another death.
Another lie.
“You poisoned him.”
“I balanced a debt.”
Sister Margaret whispered a prayer.
Salvatore lowered his gun slightly.
“Why did Elena run?”
“Because she discovered something worse.”
Maria tapped her cane once.
“Antonio had been selling children.”
Everything in the mausoleum went cold.
“What?”
“Not literally at street corners. Through adoption agencies. Foster systems. Illegal placements. Children of witnesses, rivals, women who owed money.”
Salvatore felt sick.
“My father?”
“Your father.”
“And you?”
Maria’s expression hardened.
“I spent twelve years destroying what he built.”
“By hiding?”
“By surviving.”
“Then why threaten Matteo?”
“I didn’t.”
“You called me.”
“Yes.”
“You demanded him.”
“To learn whether you would obey.”
Salvatore stared.
“This is a test?”
“Everything is.”
He raised his gun again.
“You endangered a child for a test?”
“No. I confirmed whether Antonio truly died with you.”
“And?”
“You came without the boy.”
Maria smiled faintly.
“Good.”
A shot exploded.
Sister Margaret screamed.
Maria fell sideways.
Blood spread across her shoulder.
Salvatore fired toward the upper gallery.
A shadow moved.
Carmine’s rifle answered from outside.
The attacker vanished.
Salvatore dragged Maria behind the sarcophagus.
“You planned this?”
Her face was tight with pain.
“No.”
“Then who knew we were here?”
Maria looked genuinely frightened for the first time.
“Only one person.”
“Who?”
“My lawyer.”
Another shot struck the marble.
Sister Margaret shouted:
“The blue door!”
Salvatore looked.
“What?”
“Elena hid something under the blue door!”
He remembered the story.
He sleeps under a blue door.
Salvatore kicked at the threshold.
A metal plate loosened.
Beneath it was a waterproof envelope.
He grabbed it.
Inside was a key.
A bank key.
And one sentence.
THE MAN WHO RAISED SALVATORE IS NOT HIS FATHER.
Salvatore read it.
Then read it again.
Maria saw his face.
“What is it?”
He turned the paper toward her.
The old woman’s expression collapsed.
Not surprise.
Recognition.
Salvatore’s voice became almost soundless.
“You knew.”
Maria looked away.
“You knew.”
“Salvatore—”
“Who is my father?”
Before she could answer, a new voice spoke from the mausoleum entrance.
“Perhaps I should answer that myself.”
A man stood there in a raincoat.
Late sixties.
Tall.
Gray-eyed.
Holding a pistol.
Salvatore recognized him instantly.
Everyone in America would.
Former United States Senator Gabriel Vale.
The man who had delivered the eulogy at Antonio Moretti’s funeral.
May you like
He smiled at Salvatore.
“Hello, son.”
