Chapter 8
There were twelve men who might have inherited Antonio Rossi’s private accounts.
Three were dead.
Four had left the organization years ago.
Two were in prison.
One lived in Switzerland.
One was Dominic.
And one was my uncle, Gabriel Rossi.
My father’s younger brother.
The man who had disappeared from family affairs after Antonio died.
The man who sent Matteo a birthday card every year but had not visited the mansion since Elena’s funeral.
I did not accuse him.
That mattered.
The old Vincent would have.
Instead, we verified.
Lucia pulled financial records.
Dominic contacted an attorney I trusted outside the organization.
We traced shell companies.
Old security retainers.
Property ownership.
Nothing directly connected Gabriel to the attack.
But one account appeared repeatedly.
Arco Meridian Holdings.
It had paid Andre Bellini.
It had paid Samuel Costa.
And six months before Matteo’s fall, it had purchased the villa where the accident occurred.
Through three shell companies.
“Who owns Arco?”
I asked.
Lucia turned the screen.
A corporate trust.
Beneficiary hidden.
Dominic leaned back.
“Professional.”
“Can you break it?”
“Eventually.”
“We don’t have eventually.”
Clara had been silent for nearly an hour.
She sat beside Matteo, helping him eat soup.
Then she said, “Why are you assuming the owner is a man?”
Everyone looked at her.
“What?”
I asked.
“You keep saying ‘he.’”
“Costa said man.”
“No. Costa said ‘the man who inherited your father’s private accounts.’ That could be a messenger. A manager. A lawyer.”
Dominic nodded slowly.
“She’s right.”
I looked at Clara.
“How do you think about things like this?”
“My mother watched detective shows.”
“That’s your explanation?”
“No.”
She smiled.
“It’s the one you’re getting.”
Matteo laughed.
The sound changed the room.
For several hours, we had forgotten he was a child.
That frightened me.
I closed the laptop.
“We stop.”
Dominic stared at me.
“What?”
“Matteo needs rest.”
“I’m fine,” Matteo said.
“No.”
He frowned.
“You’re doing it again.”
I caught myself.
“What do you want?”
“To know.”
“You can know tomorrow.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re exhausted.”
“So are you.”
He had me.
Clara hid a smile.
I tried again.
“What would make you comfortable stopping tonight?”
Matteo thought.
“Tell me one thing.”
“What?”
“Was Mom leaving because of me?”
The question erased everything else.
I moved beside him.
“No.”
“You don’t know.”
“I know enough.”
“How?”
I took Elena’s note from my pocket.
I had carried it since finding it.
I read him the line.
Please make sure Matteo knows he was never the reason I left.
His eyes filled.
He looked down at his hands.
“She wrote that?”
“Yes.”
“For me?”
“Yes.”
His mouth trembled.
Then he cried.
Quietly.
No dramatic collapse.
No sound except breath catching in his chest.
I wanted to pull him into my arms.
I waited.
That was another thing Clara had taught me.
Love did not always mean touching someone before they asked.
Matteo reached first.
I held him.
His body felt frighteningly light.
He pressed his face against my shoulder.
“I thought she died because she took me.”
“No.”
“She wouldn’t have been there.”
“No.”
“If I wasn’t hurt—”
“Matteo.”
I pulled back enough to see him.
“Your mother made choices because she loved you. Other people made choices because they wanted power. You do not carry their choices.”
His eyes searched mine.
“Do you?”
The question broke something open.
“Do I what?”
“Carry them.”
I understood.
Did I blame myself?
Every day.
“Yes.”
“Then why can’t I?”
Because you’re a child.
Because I’m your father.
Because I would carry every terrible thing in the world if it meant you didn’t have to.
All those answers came.
None were honest enough.
“Maybe neither of us should.”
Matteo wiped his face.
“Clara says surviving isn’t something you apologize for.”
I looked at her.
She looked away.
Elena had once asked Clara whether people could forgive themselves for surviving.
Now Clara had given the answer to my son.
Perhaps that was how people remained alive after death.
Not through photographs.
Through sentences.
Through habits.
Through kindness passed from one person to another.
That night, Matteo slept in the guest room upstairs.
I sat on the porch.
Clara joined me.
California air smelled different from home.
Salt.
Dry wood.
Flowers I couldn’t identify.
“You did well,” she said.
“At what?”
“Not turning the basement into a command center.”
“High praise.”
“I’m serious.”
I looked at her.
Moonlight softened her face.
“You knew Elena better than you admitted.”
“Three meetings.”
“That’s enough to change a life?”
“Sometimes.”
“Did she change yours?”
Clara considered.
“Yes.”
“How?”
“She made me understand that fear can look competent.”
I smiled faintly.
“That sounds directed at me.”
“It wasn’t.”
“But it applies.”
“Yes.”
We sat quietly.
Then I asked the question I had avoided.
“Why didn’t you leave after your mother died?”
“What do you mean?”
“You could have gone somewhere easier.”
“Than your mansion?”
“Than Matteo.”
Her expression sharpened.
I regretted the wording.
“I didn’t mean—”
“Yes, you did.”
She stood.
“Matteo is not difficult.”
“I know.”
“No. You’re learning.”
She walked toward the door.
“Clara.”
She stopped.
“I’m sorry.”
Her shoulders relaxed slightly.
“I know you love him.”
“I do.”
“But sometimes you talk about loving him like it’s a burden you deserve credit for carrying.”
The words landed hard.
“I don’t.”
“You do.”
She faced me.
“Your son spent fourteen months believing his existence destroyed his family. He doesn’t need people who stay because they’re noble. He needs people who stay because he’s worth staying for.”
I had no defense.
She opened the door.
“Clara.”
She looked back.
“Why are you staying?”
This time, her expression changed.
Not anger.
Something more vulnerable.
“Because he’s worth staying for.”
Then she went inside.
I remained outside long after the lights went dark.
At 2:13 a.m., Dominic came onto the porch.
“You look terrible.”
“Thank you.”
He sat.
“Lucia cracked the trust.”
I straightened.
“Arco Meridian?”
“Yes.”
“Owner?”
“Not exactly.”
He handed me the tablet.
The beneficiary had changed three times.
Originally Antonio Rossi.
Then, after his death, control passed to a private executor.
The executor was a law firm.
I recognized it.
Marchetti, Vale & Kline.
Dominic’s family firm.
I looked at him.
He did not flinch.
“My brother works there.”
I knew.
Anthony Marchetti.
Older by four years.
Polished.
Educated.
Never joined our operations.
He had handled my father’s estate.
“Did you know?”
“No.”
“Does Anthony have access?”
“Yes.”
I felt the old instinct rise.
Suspicion.
Violence.
Certainty.
Then I remembered Matteo.
No accusations without truth.
“Call him.”
Dominic did.
Anthony answered immediately.
“Dominic?”
“Where are you?”
“At home.”
“Stay there.”
A pause.
“Why?”
“Vincent needs to ask you something.”
Another pause.
Longer.
Then Anthony said:
“You found Arco.”
Dominic’s face went white.
I took the phone.
“What did you do?”
Anthony breathed out.
“I kept your father’s accounts alive.”
“Why?”
“Because he told me to.”
“He’s dead.”
“I know.”
“Then who gave the orders?”
Silence.
“Anthony.”
“You’re asking the wrong question.”
“What’s the right one?”
“Who convinced Antonio Rossi that his son was too weak to inherit?”
My blood chilled.
“Who?”
Anthony whispered:
May you like
“Your mother.”
Then the line disconnected.
