Chapter 10 - The Woman Who Refused to Be RescuedThe document Orsino brought to the café was a letter written by his father less than a week before Matteo Bellafonte died.
It was addressed to an unnamed recipient.
The first half concerned ordinary business matters: a delayed shipment, an overdue invoice, a dispute about warehouse access.
The final paragraph was different.
Matteo has become convinced that the records can expose everyone involved. He believes the authorities will protect him once the truth is known. I have warned him that the people he intends to accuse will not wait for a formal investigation.
I read the paragraph twice.
“Your father knew my father was in danger.”
“Yes.”
“Did he warn him?”
Orsino nodded.
“He apparently did.”
“Then why didn't my father stop?”
“Because he believed the records were the only way to prevent the operation from continuing.”
I looked at the letter again.
The next sentence had been written in a darker ink.
If anything happens to Matteo, the original ledger must never reach Vernon.
I raised my eyes.
“Richard Vernon.”
“Yes.”
“Your father was trying to keep the ledger away from him?”
“That is what the letter suggests.”
I leaned back.
For the first time, the pieces seemed to form something resembling a coherent picture.
Richard Vernon had wanted control of the properties and the shipping operation. My father had discovered evidence of wrongdoing. Elias Moretti had been involved in the dispute. And Orsino, who had inherited his father's business interests, had spent years trying to understand what happened without knowing that the woman he would eventually meet at a wedding was the daughter of the man who died.
But the letter did not answer the most important question.
“What happened at Pier 17?”
Orsino shook his head.
“I don't know.”
I looked down at the document.
“Did your father ever explain why he was there that night?”
“No.”
“Did he ever admit to doing anything illegal?”
“Not to me.”
“Did you believe he was innocent?”
Orsino took a long breath.
“When I was young, I believed that my father was the kind of man who could do anything necessary to protect his family. I did not always ask what necessary meant.”
The admission unsettled me.
“Do you still believe that?”
“No.”
He looked directly at me.
“I believe he loved us. I believe he was capable of generosity. I also believe he was capable of making decisions that hurt other people and convincing himself that the ends justified the means.”
I thought about Nonna Celia.
About the way she had hidden my father's notebook because she was frightened of what it contained.
About how love could make a person protect someone without understanding whether that protection was deserved.
“I think most families are more complicated than we want them to be,” I said.
Orsino nodded.
“Especially when money and power become involved.”
We sat quietly for a moment.
Then he reached into his coat and removed a second envelope.
“This is a copy of the letter my father wrote to Adrian's predecessor. It refers to a meeting scheduled for October 17, 2012.”
I opened it.
The letter contained a location.
Pier 17.
And a time.
11:30 p.m.
I felt my pulse quicken.
“My father died that night.”
“Yes.”
“Do you know whether they met?”
“No. But I think the police may be able to establish that from the original port records.”
I folded the letter carefully.
“Then we need to give them everything.”
“I agree.”
I looked at him.
“Even the documents that might implicate your family?”
“Especially those.”
For several seconds, I could not think of anything to say.
Then I smiled faintly.
“You're becoming almost reasonable.”
“I shall try not to let it go to my head.”
I laughed.
The sound surprised both of us.
It was the first genuine laugh I had shared with him since the wedding.
For a moment, the tension between us eased.
He looked at me with an expression I had not seen before.
Warmth.
Not the calculating attention of a man trying to understand a problem. Not the quiet authority that made people step aside when he entered a room.
Something gentler.
Something personal.
I became aware of the distance between our hands on the table.
It was less than a foot.
I could have reached across it.
I did not.
“Orsino,” I said quietly, “I need you to understand that I cannot build a relationship with someone while I am still trying to discover whether his family had a role in my father's death.”
His expression became serious.
“I understand.”
“I am not accusing you of anything. But I cannot pretend this is ordinary.”
“I wouldn't ask you to.”
“And I cannot be the woman who waits for a powerful man to solve every problem.”
“I know.”
I studied his face.
“Do you?”
He nodded.
“You have spent your entire life taking care of other people. You are accustomed to measuring your worth by how much you can carry without asking anyone to help. I don't want to become another person who adds weight to your shoulders.”
The words struck closer to home than I expected.
I looked away.
“That sounds suspiciously perceptive.”
“I have had time to think about you.”
My heart skipped.
I turned back.
“You have?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He was silent for a moment.
Then he said, “Because you are difficult to forget.”
I felt heat rise into my face.
I wanted to dismiss the remark as charm.
I wanted to remind myself that men like Orsino Valcante had probably learned to say exactly the right thing at exactly the right moment.
But he did not look pleased with himself.
He looked almost uncomfortable.
And that made the words harder to ignore.
“I don't know what to say,” I admitted.
“You don't have to say anything.”
I glanced at the letter.
“Good. Because I have several unpleasant questions left.”
“I would expect nothing less.”
The meeting at the police station lasted nearly three hours.
Detective Brooks examined the documents and asked Orsino detailed questions about his father's business dealings. Adrian provided additional records, including correspondence that established the connection between Elias Moretti and the shipping company.
I sat beside them, answering questions about my father's notebook and the storage unit.
The detective did not accept every explanation at face value.
She questioned dates, challenged assumptions, and repeatedly reminded us that a document showing contact between two people did not prove that either had committed a crime.
I appreciated her caution.
The investigation needed facts, not a story that merely felt satisfying.
Before we left, she asked to speak with me privately.
“Miss Bellafonte, I want to discuss your relationship with Mr. Valcante.”
I stiffened.
“What about it?”
“You have become a central witness in an investigation that may involve his family's business interests. I need to know whether he has pressured you to withhold information or encouraged you to alter your statement.”
“No.”
“Has he offered you money?”
“He paid an invoice that was owed to me for work I completed. He also offered to cover legal consultation related to the accusation.”
“Did he ask you to do anything in exchange?”
“No.”
“Have you accepted any personal gifts?”
“No.”
She watched me carefully.
“Do you trust him?”
I thought about the question.
“I trust him to tell me when he doesn't know something. I don't yet know whether I trust everything he tells me.”
Detective Brooks nodded.
“That is a reasonable distinction.”
“I want the truth about my father. If the evidence implicates him, I will cooperate with you.”
“Even if it damages your relationship?”
I looked through the glass wall toward the corridor.
Orsino stood beside Adrian, listening while the attorney explained something on a tablet. He was not watching me or attempting to interrupt the interview.
“Yes,” I said.
“Good. Then we understand each other.”
When I returned to the corridor, Orsino looked up.
“Everything all right?”
“Yes.”
He waited, but I did not elaborate.
He accepted that.
We walked out of the station together.
Outside, the afternoon was cold and bright. Traffic moved along the street, and a bus hissed to a stop at the corner.
Orsino offered to have his driver take me home.
I declined.
He nodded without arguing.
Then he asked, “Would you allow me to walk you to your car?”
I considered the request.
“Yes.”
We crossed the parking lot together.
Halfway there, he said, “You handled the interview well.”
“I answered questions.”
“You answered difficult questions without trying to protect me.”
“You told me not to lie.”
“I did.”
“Then don't complain when I follow your advice.”
He smiled.
“I wouldn't dream of it.”
We stopped beside my car.
I reached for the door handle, then turned back.
“Orsino?”
“Yes?”
“Would you like to have dinner with me?”
The question escaped before I had fully decided to ask it.
He looked genuinely surprised.
I immediately regretted everything.
“I mean, not tonight necessarily. And not because I owe you anything. I just thought that perhaps we could have one conversation that doesn't involve murder, missing jewelry, or financial documents.”
For several seconds, he said nothing.
Then his expression softened.
“I would like that very much.”
“Good.”
“Would Saturday suit you?”
“I have a client until six.”
“Seven?”
“Seven is fine.”
He nodded.
“No lawyers. No business discussions unless you want to have them.”
“And no mysterious envelopes.”
“I will do my best.”
I laughed.
Then, before I could lose my nerve, I reached for his hand.
It was a small gesture.
My fingers touched his, and for a moment neither of us moved.
His hand was warm.
He looked down at our joined fingers, then back at me.
I felt the sudden, ridiculous awareness of how close he was.
Of the silver at his temples.
Of the lines around his eyes.
Of the fact that he was older than any man I had seriously considered dating and that none of the reasons I had once used to dismiss men like him seemed particularly persuasive now.
I had mocked him for being past his prime.
I was beginning to suspect that I had misunderstood what a prime actually was.
Orsino did not pull me closer.
He did not use the moment to claim anything.
He simply held my hand until I released it.
“Saturday,” he said.
“Saturday.”
I got into my car and drove away.
At the first traffic light, I looked at myself in the rearview mirror.
I was smiling.
I stopped immediately.
Then I started again.
Saturday evening arrived with rain.
I spent an unreasonable amount of time deciding what to wear.
My wardrobe contained several professional dresses, a black skirt, two pairs of trousers, and a collection of blouses that had survived years of long workdays.
Nothing seemed right.
I did not want to look as though I had dressed for a romantic evening. That would suggest expectations I was not prepared to admit.
I also did not want to look as though I were attending a job interview.
Eventually, I chose a dark green dress that fell just below my knees, paired with simple earrings and low heels.
I applied my makeup carefully.
Not because I wanted to impress Orsino.
Because I wanted to feel like myself.
At 6:48, my phone rang.
It was Orsino.
“I'm downstairs.”
I looked out the window.
A black sedan waited at the curb.
Of course.
I went outside with an umbrella and found him standing beside the car.
He wore a dark coat and no tie. Rain had gathered on his shoulders, and his hair was slightly damp.
When he saw me, he stopped speaking.
I raised an eyebrow.
“Something wrong?”
“No.”
“You look as though you've forgotten your own name.”
“I was considering whether to say something complimentary or risk embarrassing myself.”
“That is a surprisingly difficult decision for a man who controls half of Chicago.”
He laughed.
“I don't control half of Chicago.”
“Only a quarter?”
“Perhaps a particularly inconvenient third.”
I smiled.
He opened the car door for me.
The restaurant was a small Italian place in Lincoln Park, far removed from the extravagant hotel where we had met. The tables were close together, the lighting was warm, and the walls were covered with photographs of families who had probably been eating there for generations.
Orsino had reserved a table in the corner.
He did not request a private dining room.
He did not ask the manager to clear the restaurant.
He did not behave as though his presence required the world to rearrange itself.
I found that more attractive than I wanted to admit.
We ordered pasta, grilled vegetables, and a bottle of sparkling water.
For the first half hour, we discussed ordinary things.
My work.
His sister.
The neighborhood where I had grown up.
The restaurant's terrible attempt at modern jazz.
He told me that he had once tried to learn the piano and abandoned the effort after six months because he lacked patience.
I told him that I had taken ballet lessons as a child and spent most of the classes wondering when the instructor would allow us to sit down.
He laughed so hard that the couple at the next table turned to look.
It was strange to see him like that.
The man who could silence a ballroom had a warm, unexpectedly irreverent sense of humor. He was still reserved, still careful with his words, but he no longer seemed to be measuring every conversation for strategic value.
At one point, he asked whether I had ever wanted to do something other than makeup.
I considered the question.
“When I was younger, I wanted to own a beauty studio.”
“What stopped you?”
“Money. Rent. Equipment. The usual practical obstacles.”
“Do you still want it?”
I looked down at my glass.
“Yes.”
“Then why haven't you pursued it?”
“Because wanting something and being able to afford it are different things.”
He nodded.
“That's true.”
I glanced at him.
“Please don't offer to finance it.”
“I wasn't going to.”
“You were thinking about it.”
“I was thinking that you should not have to abandon something you want simply because you have spent years looking after everyone else.”
The words made me uncomfortable because they were too close to something I rarely admitted.
I had built my life around necessity.
There had always been another bill, another appointment, another reason to postpone my own plans until things became easier.
Things rarely became easier.
They simply changed.
“I don't know whether I would be good at running a business,” I admitted.
“Then learn.”
“It's not that simple.”
“No. But it is possible.”
I looked at him.
“You make everything sound possible.”
“Only because I have spent a great deal of money learning how often I can be wrong.”
I laughed.
Then I reached across the table and touched his hand.
“Thank you for not offering to solve my life.”
His expression softened.
“You don't need someone to solve your life, Mireia. You need someone who understands that it belongs to you.”
I felt a familiar warmth rise behind my eyes.
This time, I did not look away.
For a moment, the restaurant seemed to recede around us.
Then Orsino turned his hand beneath mine, allowing our fingers to meet.
He did not kiss me.
He did not make a declaration.
He simply sat with me, holding my hand across a small restaurant table while rain moved down the windows.
And somehow, that felt more intimate than anything else he could have done.
The evening ended shortly after nine.
Orsino drove me home himself.
When we reached my street, he parked beside the garden wall and turned off the engine.
Neither of us moved immediately.
“I had a good time,” I said.
“So did I.”
“Despite the lack of criminal investigations.”
“I admit I found it refreshing.”
I smiled.
Then my expression became serious.
“Orsino, I need to tell you something.”
He turned toward me.
“Go ahead.”
“I am attracted to you.”
The words hung between us.
I had not planned to say them.
I had intended to leave the car, go inside, and spend the rest of the night analyzing every sentence we had exchanged.
Instead, I had decided to be honest.
“But I'm frightened of what that attraction could mean,” I continued. “Your life is complicated. My life is complicated. And we haven't discovered the truth about my father.”
He listened without interrupting.
“I don't want to begin something that depends on secrets. I don't want to be protected from information because someone thinks it will hurt me. And I don't want to become another person who is expected to accept your decisions because you're used to making them.”
Orsino looked down at our hands.
Then he said, “I cannot promise that my life will become simple.”
“I wouldn't believe you if you did.”
“I cannot promise that the truth about my father will be painless.”
“I know.”
“But I can promise that I will not ask you to remain with me if you believe I have betrayed your trust.”
I swallowed.
“And what do you want?”
He looked at me.
“You.”
The answer was so direct that I forgot how to breathe.
“Not because I can protect you. Not because you need money. Not because you are connected to a problem I want to solve.”
His thumb moved lightly over the back of my hand.
“Because you challenge me when I am wrong. Because you refuse to be impressed by things that impress everyone else. Because you have a remarkable ability to remain kind without allowing people to treat you as though kindness makes you weak.”
He paused.
“And because when you are in a room, I find myself wanting to know what you think.”
I stared at him.
I had spent years believing that love was something that happened when circumstances became favorable.
When the bills were paid.
When the family was healthy.
When there was enough time, enough money, enough certainty to make room for another person.
But life had never offered me those conditions.
Perhaps love did not wait for certainty.
Perhaps it required something more difficult.
A willingness to remain honest when certainty was impossible.
I leaned toward him.
“Can I kiss you?”
For the first time since I had met him, Orsino looked completely unprepared.
“Yes,” he said softly.
I kissed him.
It was gentle at first, almost tentative. His hand rose to my cheek, but he did not pull me closer until I moved toward him. The kiss deepened, carrying the warmth of the evening and the uncertainty of everything waiting beyond it.
When I drew back, his forehead rested briefly against mine.
I could feel his breath.
I could hear the rain.
For a few seconds, I forgot the documents, the threats, the missing ledger, and the possibility that the man I had kissed might eventually become the person I had to confront.
Then I remembered.
And I knew the kiss had not made the problems disappear.
It had simply made the stakes more personal.
Orsino brushed a strand of hair away from my face.
“Are you all right?”
I smiled faintly.
“No.”
His expression changed.
I laughed.
“But I'm glad I did that.”
He exhaled, and the tension in his shoulders eased.
“So am I.”
I opened the car door.
Before stepping out, I looked back at him.
“Good night, Orsino.”
“Good night, Mireia.”
I walked up the path and let myself into the house.
Nonna Celia was waiting in the living room.
She took one look at my face and set down her book.
“Oh, dear.”
I froze.
“What?”
She smiled.
“You kissed him.”
I covered my face.
“How do you know everything?”
“Because you look as though someone has just rearranged your entire understanding of the world.”
I sank onto the sofa beside her.
“It's complicated.”
“Of course it is.”
“I don't know what I'm doing.”
“That's all right.”
She took my hand.
“You don't need to know everything tonight. You only need to know whether the next step is one you want to take.”
I thought about Orsino.
About the way he had listened.
About the way he had held my hand without trying to own the moment.
About the possibility that his family might be connected to the death of mine.
“I want to see him again,” I admitted.
Nonna nodded.
“Then see him again.”
She squeezed my fingers.
“But keep your eyes open, Mireia. A good kiss is not a character reference.”
I laughed so hard that I had to lean against her shoulder.
For a moment, everything felt almost normal.
Then my phone rang.
Detective Brooks.
I answered immediately.
“Hello?”
“Mireia, I'm sorry to call so late. We've received the preliminary results from the records archive.”
My smile disappeared.
“What did you find?”
“The lockbox contained copies of the original shipping manifests, several financial records, and a handwritten statement from your father.”
I stood.
“What did he say?”
Detective Brooks paused.
“His statement identifies the person who ordered the records altered.”
My heart began to pound.
“Who?”
“The document names Richard Vernon.”
I closed my eyes.
Beatrice had been telling the truth.
But Detective Brooks was not finished.
“There is also a second name on the statement.”
I gripped the phone.
“Whose?”
“The document says that Elias Moretti attended the meeting at Pier 17 and helped arrange the transfer of the original ledger.”
I felt the room tilt.
“Did he know my father was going to die?”
“We haven't established that.”
“Does the statement say anything else?”
“Yes.”
The detective's voice grew quieter.
“Your father wrote that he had agreed to meet someone after the transfer. He believed that person could help him deliver the evidence safely to the authorities.”
I could barely speak.
“Who was it?”
Detective Brooks read the final line.
“Orsino Valcante.”
The phone slipped slightly in my hand.
I looked toward the window.
Across the street, a car moved slowly through the rain.
For a moment, I could not tell whether it was the same black sedan I had seen before.
I only knew that the truth about my father had finally begun to emerge.
And that the man I had kissed less than an hour earlier was now at the center of it.
I called Orsino three times.
He did not answer.
On the fourth attempt, the call went directly to voicemail.
I stood beside the window with my phone pressed against my ear, listening to the recorded message until the automated voice instructed me to leave a message.
I ended the call without speaking.
Nonna Celia watched me from the sofa.
“What happened?”
I turned toward her.
“The police found my father's statement.”
“And?”
“He named Orsino as the person who was supposed to help him deliver the evidence to the authorities.”
Nonna's expression changed.
“Does that mean Orsino betrayed him?”
“I don't know.”
The answer came out almost desperately.
I did not know.
That was the problem.
I had spent the previous evening kissing a man who had promised to face the truth, even if it destroyed his family. I had believed him when he said he would not ask me to lie for him.
Now I had to consider the possibility that my father had trusted him on the night he died.
And that trust might have been misplaced.
I sat beside Nonna and placed my phone on the table.
“What if he knew?” I whispered.
She took my hand.
“Then you will have to decide what that knowledge means.”
“What if he didn't know?”
“Then you will have to decide whether you can trust him again.”
I looked at her.
“How do you make a decision like that?”
Nonna was quiet for a long time.
“When your grandfather died, I discovered that he had hidden a debt from me for nearly a year. I was furious. I thought about all the things we might have done with that money if he had told me the truth.”
She rubbed her thumb over my knuckles.
“But he was also the man who sat beside me through every difficult night, who held my hand when I was frightened, and who never allowed me to believe that I was facing the world alone.”
She smiled sadly.
“People are rarely one thing, Mireia. That does not excuse what they do. It simply means you must look at the whole truth before deciding what to do next.”
I leaned against her shoulder.
For the first time that evening, I allowed myself to cry.
Not because I had lost Orsino.
I had not lost him.
I did not yet know whether there was anything to lose.
I cried because I had spent 14 years grieving my father without knowing that there might have been a choice involved in his death. I cried because I had begun to imagine a future with a man who might be connected to the worst thing that had ever happened to me.
And I cried because, despite everything, I still wanted to believe he had tried to help.
At 11:36 p.m., my phone rang.
Orsino.
I answered immediately.
“Where are you?”
“At my office.”
“Why haven't you answered my calls?”
“I was with Adrian and Detective Brooks.”
“Did you know about the statement?”
“No.”
“Did you know my father expected you to help him deliver the evidence?”
“Yes.”
I closed my eyes.
The honesty hurt.
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because I didn't know the police had recovered the statement. I knew your father had asked to meet me that night. I did not know he had recorded my name in his documents.”
“What happened at Pier 17?”
Orsino took a breath.
“I was supposed to meet Matteo at 11:30. He wanted to give me copies of the records and ask me to arrange a safe transfer to the authorities. I arrived late.”
“How late?”
“Approximately 20 minutes.”
My throat tightened.
“Why?”
“There was a confrontation at one of the warehouses. I received a call saying that a shipment had been compromised. I went to investigate.”
“And when you arrived at Pier 17?”
“Your father was gone.”
“Gone?”
“His car was still there. The documents he had intended to give me were missing. I searched the area, then called him repeatedly. He didn't answer.”
I gripped the phone.
“What did you do?”
“I went to the police the following morning and reported that he had disappeared. Later that day, I learned that his car had been found after the crash.”
“Did you tell them about the meeting?”
“Yes.”
“Did they investigate you?”
“They questioned me. I provided the records I had. They could not establish a connection between me and the accident.”
I pressed my fingers against my forehead.
“Why didn't you tell me when we first met?”
“Because I didn't recognize the date until I saw your father's notebook. I knew Matteo had died in October, but I had not connected his daughter with the woman I met at the wedding until afterward.”
“And then you said nothing.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
His answer was almost a whisper.
“Because I was afraid that the truth would make you look at me exactly as you are looking at me now.”
I could not speak.
He continued.
“I should have told you when you asked about your father. I was wrong to withhold that information. I thought I could establish the facts first, but that was an excuse. You had a right to know.”
I stared at the dark window.
“Did you kill him?”
“No.”
The answer was immediate.
“Did you arrange for someone else to kill him?”
“No.”
“Can you prove it?”
“I can prove where I was during part of that evening. I can provide the records of the warehouse incident. I can show you the reports I made to the police.”
“Then do that.”
“I will.”
I wiped my face.
“Orsino, I need time.”
“I understand.”
“I don't want you coming to my house. I don't want you sending anyone to check on me. And I don't want you asking me to believe you simply because you say you're innocent.”
“I won't.”
“I need to examine the evidence myself.”
“Then I will make sure you have access to it.”
I took a shaky breath.
“And the dinner?”
He was silent for a moment.
“If you no longer want to see me, I will respect that.”
I closed my eyes.
That was the worst part.
He did not threaten to withdraw his assistance. He did not tell me I was being unreasonable. He did not remind me that he had helped me when no one else would.
He simply allowed me to make the decision.
“I don't know what I want,” I admitted.
“Then don't decide tonight.”
I pressed the phone closer to my ear.
“I'm frightened of you.”
“I know.”
“And I'm angry with you.”
“You have every right to be.”
“And I still—”
The words stopped.
I could not say them.
Not yet.
Orsino waited.
When I finally spoke, my voice was barely audible.
“I need to know what happened to my father.”
“So do I, Mireia.”
The call ended a few minutes later.
I remained beside the window, listening to the rain.
For the first time since the wedding, I understood that the truth might not set me free immediately.
It might make every decision harder.
It might destroy the possibility of a relationship I had barely begun to imagine.
It might force Orsino to confront the legacy of his father and me to confront the possibility that my own father had trusted the wrong people.
But I was no longer willing to accept silence as protection.
I wanted the truth.
All of it.
Even if I had to stand alone to hear it.
At 8:00 the following morning, I arrived at the police station with my father's notebook, the copies of the recovered documents, and a list of questions I had written during the night.
Detective Brooks met me in the lobby.
“We've reviewed the statement,” she said. “There are several details that support parts of Mr. Valcante's account, but we need additional records before drawing conclusions.”
“Can I see the full statement?”
“Not yet. The original is evidence, and some sections refer to people whose identities have not been verified. However, you can review the portions directly related to your father.”
She led me into an interview room and placed a copy on the table.
I read every line.
My father had documented the altered shipping records, the missing containers, and the financial transfers. He had also recorded his attempts to persuade the company to investigate.
The final section described the meeting at Pier 17.
He wrote that Orsino had agreed to help him transfer the evidence to an attorney who would contact federal investigators.
He wrote that Elias Moretti had insisted on attending the meeting.
And he wrote that Richard Vernon had learned about the transfer.
The statement ended abruptly.
There was no explanation of what happened afterward.
No final accusation.
No declaration that someone had killed him.
Only a line written in the margin.
If the evidence does not reach the authorities, the operation will continue.
I sat back.
“Did my father write this before he died?”
“The forensic examination suggests the statement was written shortly before the meeting, although we are still verifying the exact date.”
“Could someone have added the reference to Orsino afterward?”
“It's possible. We haven't established the provenance of every page.”
I looked at the document again.
“Then we still don't know.”
“Not yet.”
Detective Brooks closed the folder.
“But we know considerably more than we did a week ago.”
I nodded.
It was not enough.
It was, however, a beginning.
As I left the station, my phone vibrated.
A message from Orsino.
I've sent Adrian the records from the warehouse incident. He will deliver copies directly to Detective Brooks. I won't contact you again unless you ask me to.
I read it twice.
Then I typed a reply.
Thank you.
I hesitated before sending another message.
I don't know what happens next.
His answer came a minute later.
Neither do I. But whatever happens, you deserve the truth.
I put the phone away.
For the first time in days, I did not feel the need to answer immediately.
There was work to do.
My clients were waiting. Nonna needed her medication. My bills still existed, indifferent to the revelations that had transformed my life.
I would continue working.
I would continue asking questions.
And I would not allow either my fear or my attraction to Orsino Valcante to decide what I believed.
As I reached my car, I looked toward the city skyline.
Somewhere beyond those buildings, people were still conducting business, arranging meetings, and making decisions that affected lives they would never have to see.
My father had tried to expose them.
May you like
Now it was my turn.
And this time, I would not mistake silence for safety.
