Chapter 5 - Rosalie Opened Her Father’s File—and Found Alessandro’s Name InsideAt 9:00 the following morning, a black file appeared outside Rosalie’s door.
No guard knocked.
No message accompanied it.
Her father’s name was stamped across the front.
MICHAEL BENNETT.
She stared at it for nearly a minute.
Then she carried it inside.
The guesthouse was larger than her old apartment by a humiliating margin. It had two bedrooms, a kitchen, a fireplace, and windows overlooking the eastern gardens.
Rosalie ignored all of it.
She sat at the kitchen table and opened the file.
The first photograph showed her father entering a downtown office building.
The date was fourteen years earlier.
The second showed him sitting in a restaurant with Vittorio Rossi.
Her father looked nervous.
Vittorio did not.
Rosalie turned the page.
Bank transfers.
Shell companies.
Shipping manifests.
A handwritten list.
HAYES SHIPPING.
ROSSI CONSTRUCTION.
CARLUCCI IMPORTS.
MERCER MUNICIPAL CONTRACTING.
At the bottom:
A.R. TRUST — BENEFICIARY UNKNOWN.
Rosalie frowned.
A.R.
Alessandro Rossi.
She continued.
The deeper she went, the less recognizable her father became.
Michael Bennett had kept encrypted records.
He had met federal investigators.
He had been followed.
He had withdrawn twenty thousand dollars in cash three days before his death.
Then Rosalie reached the final section.
A police photograph.
Her father’s destroyed sedan wrapped around a concrete divider.
She covered her mouth.
She had never seen the crash.
Her aunt had refused to let her.
Rosalie forced herself to continue.
Toxicology report.
No alcohol.
No drugs.
Brake line damage.
Her pulse accelerated.
The official conclusion beneath it read:
Mechanical failure cannot be conclusively established due to post-impact fire.
Then she found a handwritten note.
Vittorio Rossi’s handwriting, according to the file.
MICHAEL BELIEVES A.R. ACCOUNT CONNECTED TO INSIDE LEAK. ALESSANDRO DOES NOT KNOW. KEEP HIM OUT OF THIS.
Rosalie read it twice.
Alessandro does not know.
She sat back.
A.R. did not mean Alessandro.
Or Vittorio believed it did not.
She kept reading.
A second note.
IF BENNETT IS RIGHT, THE MONEY IS NOT LEAVING THE FAMILY.
IT IS BEING MOVED FOR A SUCCESSION.
Rosalie’s stomach tightened.
A succession.
Someone had been preparing to overthrow Vittorio Rossi.
Her father had discovered it.
Then he died.
Four years later, Vittorio Rossi was murdered.
Rosalie stood so quickly that the chair scraped backward.
She needed air.
She walked outside.
Two security men stood thirty yards away pretending not to watch her.
She ignored them.
The autumn air burned her lungs.
“Bad?”
Leo’s voice came from behind.
Rosalie turned.
He stood beside a black SUV carrying two coffees.
She stared at him.
“Do all mobsters appear silently, or is that specialized training?”
“Mostly genetics.”
He offered her a cup.
She hesitated.
“It’s plain. Two sugars.”
“How do you know?”
“Hospital.”
Of course.
Everyone had been watching.
Rosalie accepted the coffee anyway.
“Did you know my father?”
Leo’s humor disappeared.
“A little.”
“How little?”
“I was twenty-one. Driver. Security. Nobody important.”
“You’re still a driver.”
“Now I drive people I’m allowed to shoot for.”
She almost smiled.
Almost.
“Tell me about him.”
Leo looked toward the estate.
“He was scared.”
Rosalie’s chest tightened.
“But he wasn’t weak,” Leo continued. “Important difference.”
“What was he scared of?”
“He thought someone inside the Rossi family had compromised everything.”
“Who?”
“He never told me.”
“Did he tell Vittorio?”
“Parts.”
“Why only parts?”
“Because he didn’t know who to trust.”
Rosalie folded her arms.
“Did he trust Alessandro?”
Leo looked at her.
“Your father met Alessandro once.”
She froze.
“When?”
“Two weeks before he died.”
“Why isn’t that in the file?”
“It is.”
“No, it isn’t.”
Leo frowned.
Rosalie’s blood chilled.
They returned to the guesthouse.
Leo flipped through the folder.
His expression hardened.
“There’s a page missing.”
“Which page?”
“Photograph and field report.”
“Of their meeting?”
“Yes.”
Rosalie stared at him.
“Who had access to this file?”
“Vittorio. Me. Alessandro. Two former lieutenants.”
“Names.”
“Carlo Ventresca and Matteo Rossi.”
“Rossi?”
“Alessandro’s uncle.”
Rosalie had never heard the name.
“Where is he?”
Leo’s face became unreadable.
“Dead.”
“How?”
“Supposedly.”
She stared.
“That is not an answer.”
“No body was recovered.”
Rosalie’s skin prickled.
“What happened?”
“Matteo disappeared after Vittorio was murdered.”
“And Carlo?”
“Still alive.”
“Where?”
Leo looked uncomfortable.
“That depends how angry Alessandro is with him.”
Rosalie placed the file on the table.
“I want to meet Carlo.”
“No.”
She looked at him.
Leo sighed.
“Sorry. Been around the boss too long.”
“Clearly.”
“Carlo is dangerous.”
“So is Alessandro.”
“Different kind.”
“How?”
“Alessandro kills people because he thinks it’s necessary.”
“That is not reassuring.”
“Carlo enjoys necessity.”
Rosalie considered that.
“Take me to him.”
“I enjoy having functioning legs.”
“Then tell Alessandro.”
“He’ll say no.”
“I’ll go without you.”
Leo closed his eyes.
“You two deserve each other.”
An hour later, Alessandro entered the guesthouse.
Rosalie was waiting.
He saw the open file.
Then her face.
“What’s missing?”
“A meeting between you and my father.”
Alessandro stopped.
“Leo told you.”
“Yes.”
He looked irritated.
“Don’t punish him for answering a question.”
“I won’t.”
“Good.”
Rosalie pushed the file toward him.
“Tell me.”
Alessandro remained standing.
“I was twenty-seven. My father asked me to deliver documents to your father.”
“What documents?”
“I didn’t know.”
“Did you ask?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because at twenty-seven, I still believed my father was immortal and always right.”
That answer was painfully human.
“What happened?”
“We met in a diner outside the city. Your father looked exhausted.”
“Did he say anything?”
Alessandro’s eyes narrowed with memory.
“He asked me whether I trusted my uncle Matteo.”
Rosalie’s pulse jumped.
“What did you say?”
“I said yes.”
“And?”
“He looked disappointed.”
“Anything else?”
“He asked whether I had ever signed documents for companies I didn’t recognize.”
Alessandro walked toward the window.
“I had.”
Rosalie’s breath caught.
“A.R.”
“Yes.”
“You were the beneficiary.”
“On paper.”
“But you didn’t know?”
“No.”
“My father discovered someone was moving stolen money through accounts in your name.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“To make it look like I was stealing from Vittorio.”
Rosalie understood.
“A succession.”
Alessandro nodded.
“Someone was building evidence that you were betraying your father.”
“Yes.”
“Your uncle?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where is Carlo Ventresca?”
Alessandro turned slowly.
“No.”
Rosalie almost laughed.
“Leo predicted that.”
“Then Leo is becoming annoyingly perceptive.”
“I’m meeting Carlo.”
“No.”
“My father died over this.”
“Exactly.”
“I’m not asking permission.”
“You are under threat.”
“So are you.”
“I have twenty armed men.”
“I have you.”
The words escaped before she could stop them.
Silence.
Alessandro’s expression changed.
Rosalie looked away.
“That didn’t mean—”
“I know what it meant.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
His voice softened.
“You’re furious with me. You don’t trust me completely. But when you think about danger, some part of you still thinks I’ll stand between you and it.”
Rosalie swallowed.
“That part of me may have poor judgment.”
“Probably.”
He approached slowly.
“Carlo lives at a private care facility outside the city.”
“Care facility?”
“He had a stroke six years ago.”
“Can he speak?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’m going.”
Alessandro studied her.
“Together.”
“No intimidation.”
“I make no promises regarding my face.”
“Alessandro.”
“I won’t threaten him unless necessary.”
“That sentence is exactly why normal people don’t date you.”
“Are we dating again?”
Rosalie glared.
His mouth almost curved.
She pointed toward the ring still absent from her finger.
“Do not push your luck.”
Three hours later, they arrived at Saint Gabriel’s Rehabilitation Residence.
Carlo Ventresca was seventy-six.
He sat in a wheelchair near a large window overlooking a lake.
His left side remained partially paralyzed.
His right eye, however, was bright and intelligent.
When Alessandro entered, Carlo smiled.
“The prince.”
Alessandro’s expression turned cold.
“Carlo.”
Then the old man saw Rosalie.
His smile disappeared.
“Michael’s girl.”
Rosalie stopped.
“You knew my father.”
Carlo looked toward Alessandro.
“You finally told her.”
“Not enough,” Rosalie said.
Carlo studied her.
“You have his eyes.”
“Everyone says that when they want to avoid answering questions.”
Carlo laughed.
Then coughed.
Rosalie waited.
“Who killed my father?”
The old man’s amusement vanished.
“I don’t know.”
“Who ordered it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who wanted him dead?”
Carlo looked at Alessandro.
“That list is longer.”
“Start talking,” Alessandro said.
Carlo’s gaze sharpened.
“You still command rooms like Vittorio.”
“And you still waste time.”
Carlo smiled.
“Michael discovered the theft. But money wasn’t the real problem.”
“What was?” Rosalie asked.
“Names.”
“What names?”
“Judges. Police. Union leaders. Customs officials. Men your father paid and men the Hayes family paid. Someone was building a second organization beneath both families.”
Rosalie leaned closer.
“Matteo?”
Carlo’s face changed.
Tiny.
Enough.
Alessandro saw it.
“So he’s alive,” Alessandro said.
Carlo looked away.
“Answer.”
The old man remained silent.
Alessandro stepped forward.
Rosalie touched his arm.
“No.”
He stopped.
She crouched beside Carlo’s wheelchair.
“My father died because he discovered something. Vittorio died four years later. Thomas Bell was murdered yesterday and delivered to our gate.”
Carlo’s head snapped toward her.
“Bell is dead?”
“Yes.”
Fear appeared.
Real fear.
Carlo looked toward the door.
“We shouldn’t be talking.”
“Why?”
“Because if Bell is dead, Matteo is cleaning the board.”
Alessandro became perfectly still.
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re lying.”
“I haven’t seen him in nine years.”
“But you know something.”
Carlo’s fingers tightened around the wheelchair arm.
“He came to me after Vittorio died.”
“What did he want?”
“The Bennett ledger.”
Rosalie frowned.
“What ledger?”
Carlo looked at her.
“Your father kept a second record.”
“Where?”
“He never told anyone.”
“Then why does Matteo think you know?”
“Because I helped Michael create it.”
Rosalie’s heart hammered.
“What’s inside?”
“Everything.”
Carlo’s voice fell to a whisper.
“Every payment. Every account. Every politician. Every murder disguised as an accident.”
He looked directly at Alessandro.
“Including Vittorio’s.”
Silence swallowed the room.
Alessandro’s face became stone.
“My father’s murder is in that ledger?”
“If Michael finished it.”
Rosalie stood.
“My father died four years before Vittorio.”
Carlo shook his head.
“Michael didn’t create it alone.”
“Who helped him?”
The old man looked at her.
“Your mother.”
Rosalie stopped breathing.
“My mother was sick.”
“Yes.”
“She could barely walk.”
“She could still think.”
Carlo smiled sadly.
“Your father collected the evidence. Your mother hid it.”
“Where?”
Carlo’s gaze moved toward Rosalie’s left hand.
The finger where Alessandro’s ring had been.
Then he said something that made every hair rise along her arms.
“Michael told me that if anything happened to him, the truth would stay with Rosalie.”
Rosalie frowned.
“I was twenty-three. He never gave me anything.”
Carlo’s expression became strange.
“He already had.”
Rosalie stared.
“What?”
“Think.”
She did.
Her childhood home.
Her father.
Her mother.
College.
Hospital.
Possessions.
Then a memory struck her.
A birthday gift.
Her father had given it to her on her twenty-first birthday.
An old wooden music box that had belonged to her grandmother.
Rosalie had hated it.
Too sentimental.
Too fragile.
She had stored it away.
For years.
Her face changed.
Alessandro noticed.
“What?”
Rosalie looked at him.
“My storage unit.”
“What’s there?”
She was already reaching for her phone.
“A music box.”
Carlo closed his eyes.
“Then pray nobody else remembers it.”
Rosalie called the storage facility.
No answer.
She called again.
Nothing.
Alessandro was already moving toward the door.
“Leo.”
His phone was against his ear.
“Get a team to Rosalie’s storage unit now.”
Rosalie followed.
Alessandro’s voice hardened.
“And tell them not to touch anything.”
May you like
He glanced at her.
“Especially a music box.”
Related Stories
