Chapter 7 - The Man Who Was Supposed to Be DeadI called the number back 17 times.
The 1st call produced nothing.
The 2nd produced a recording stating that the number was unavailable.
By the 5th, my fingers had begun shaking.
By the 10th, I had memorized the automated woman’s voice.
By the 17th, I understood that the number had never been intended to receive calls.
I placed the receiver down.
Then picked it up again.
My father was alive.
That sentence refused to become real.
It floated near the ceiling.
It sat beside the refrigerator.
It waited inside the dark television screen.
My father was alive.
The man whose debt had shaped every job I accepted.
The man whose absence had forced me to become Helena’s parent before I finished being a sister.
The man I had buried approximately 400 different ways without a body.
Alive.
I sat on the kitchen floor.
Cold tile pressed through my jeans.
The telephone cord hung beside my shoulder.
I remembered his voice differently.
Memory had preserved it younger.
Warmer.
The voice from the telephone sounded scratched by years.
But it had been him.
No one else said my name with the stress placed incorrectly on the 2nd syllable.
Iss-ah-DOR-ah.
My father had always said it like an Italian man pretending our surname was not English.
I lowered my head against the cabinet.
Do not trust Dante Moretti.
Of all possible things Richard Veil could have said after 8 years, he had chosen that.
Not I am sorry.
Not Helena.
Not your mother.
Not I am alive.
A warning.
And then disappearance again.
Anger arrived before tears.
It was useful.
I stood.
I checked the windows, front door, hallway, and fire escape.
Renzo would be nearby.
The thought created a problem.
If I told him, Dante would know within approximately 30 seconds.
If I did not tell him and Richard was in danger, I might lose the only chance to find him.
My father had instructed me not to trust Dante.
My father had also abandoned 2 daughters.
His advice did not arrive with an excellent record.
I opened the notebook.
At the bottom of the page, I wrote:
DAD ALIVE?
The question mark looked cowardly.
I crossed it out.
DAD ALIVE.
Then:
WHY CALL NOW?
I stared at the words.
Because I left Dante.
That was the obvious answer.
Whoever had been watching me knew I was no longer inside the penthouse.
The call arrived approximately 40 minutes after I entered the apartment.
Too fast for coincidence.
I walked to the window.
A black sedan stood 3 blocks away.
Renzo believed distance made him subtle.
Perhaps it usually did.
I stepped back.
The telephone rang again.
I answered immediately.
No breathing.
A different voice.
Female.
“You need to leave.”
“Who is this?”
“Your father cannot call again.”
“Who are you?”
“Take the rear stairs. Do not bring the Moretti man.”
“Tell me your name.”
A pause.
“Your mother called me Sofia.”
The line ended.
I stood motionless.
My mother.
The word struck differently.
I knew no Sofia.
Or believed I did not.
I opened the old mental cabinet where childhood memories lived.
Birthday tables.
Church basements.
Women smoking beside fire escapes.
My mother speaking Italian quietly when she thought Helena and I were asleep.
Sofia.
Nothing.
I approached the door.
Then stopped.
This was precisely how stupid people entered basements and disappeared.
A mysterious caller invoked a dead mother.
I was emotional.
Alone.
Convenient.
I went to the window again.
Renzo’s car remained visible.
I hated the obvious answer.
I hated needing the man connected to Dante.
I opened the apartment door and walked downstairs instead of using the rear staircase.
Renzo saw me before I crossed half the street.
He exited the vehicle immediately.
“What happened?”
“My father called.”
His face changed.
That was the 1st useful reaction.
“You are certain?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Approximately 10 minutes ago.”
“What did he say?”
“Do not trust Dante.”
Renzo’s expression became absolutely blank.
It was impressive.
I almost respected it.
“Then a woman called. She said my mother called her Sofia.”
Renzo’s eyes moved toward the surrounding rooftops.
“Inside the car.”
“No.”
“Isidora.”
“I am not returning to the penthouse.”
“I did not say you were.”
“You were about to.”
“I was about to say a woman using the name of your dead mother is an excellent reason not to remain on a sidewalk.”
I entered the car.
He entered the driver’s side.
The locks engaged.
“Call Dante,” I said.
Renzo looked at me.
“You said—”
“I said call him. I did not say I trust him.”
He dialed.
Dante answered after less than 1 ring.
Renzo switched to speaker.
“She received a call.”
Silence.
“From whom?”
“Richard Veil.”
The silence changed.
“Isidora.”
Hearing my name in Dante’s voice made the anger return immediately.
“I’m here.”
“Tell me exactly what he said.”
“Hello would be a traditional beginning.”
“Hello.”
“Charming.”
“Isidora.”
I looked out the windshield.
“My father said not to trust you.”
Another silence.
Dante did not defend himself.
That disturbed me.
“Anything else?”
“No. A woman called afterward and told me to leave. Said my mother called her Sofia.”
This time Dante swore in Italian.
I understood none of it and all of it.
“Do you know her?”
“Yes.”
My hand tightened around the telephone.
“Who?”
“Sofia Caruso.”
“Who is she?”
“Your mother’s sister.”
I stopped breathing.
Renzo did not turn his head.
“What?”
Dante spoke carefully.
“Lucia Veil had a younger sister.”
“My mother had no sister.”
“She did.”
“No.”
“She did.”
“You have a remarkable habit of giving me relatives after breakfast.”
“Isidora—”
“Why was she never mentioned?”
“Because Sofia Caruso was Bellini.”
The word settled over everything.
I looked toward Renzo.
He continued watching the road.
“What does that mean?”
“She married Carlo Caruso, one of Bellini’s senior captains.”
“And my mother?”
“Lucia was born Lucia Ferraro.”
My mouth became dry.
“No.”
“Her family had connections to Bellini before she met Richard.”
“Was my entire childhood a criminal organization?”
“No.”
“It is beginning to feel very organized.”
“Your mother left that world.”
“How do you know?”
“My father helped her.”
I laughed.
Naturally.
Every path returned to a Moretti.
“Dante.”
“Yes.”
“If you have another photograph of a family member I do not know exists, now would be an excellent time.”
“There is 1.”
I closed my eyes.
Renzo made a sound suspiciously similar to a cough.
“Who?”
“Your mother’s brother.”
“Alive?”
“No.”
“Name?”
“Matteo Ferraro.”
“What happened to him?”
Dante did not answer immediately.
“Bellini killed him.”
I pressed my fingers against my forehead.
“Why?”
“He attempted to leave.”
“Like my mother.”
“Yes.”
“And your father helped her.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because Matteo had saved his life years earlier.”
The families were not a tree.
They were a knot.
I opened my eyes.
“What does Sofia want?”
“I do not know.”
“She wants me to leave without Renzo.”
“Do not.”
“Excellent advice.”
“Isidora.”
“I said it was excellent.”
“I want you somewhere secure.”
“No penthouse.”
“I know.”
“No Moretti compound.”
“Fine.”
“No kidnapping disguised as transportation.”
“I deserve that.”
The quiet acceptance struck harder than an argument.
I looked away.
“Where?”
“Victoria.”
I almost laughed.
“Your answer to every problem is that restaurant.”
“It has new security.”
“Because people were shot there.”
“Yes.”
Renzo started the engine before I agreed.
“Traitor.”
He raised 1 eyebrow.
We drove.
The Victoria remained closed.
Construction crews had gone.
The back entrance opened before we reached it.
Dante stood inside.
He had dressed quickly.
Black trousers.
White shirt.
No tie.
Shoulder holster visible because his jacket remained unbuttoned.
He looked at me first.
Not Renzo.
Not the street.
Me.
He appeared to begin moving forward.
Then stopped himself.
The restraint was deliberate.
“Are you all right?”
“No.”
“Did he sound injured?”
“My father?”
“Yes.”
“Older.”
Dante’s jaw moved.
“He is older.”
“Thank you for the mathematics.”
His mouth nearly changed.
It did not.
We entered.
The dining room was dark except for the lights above the bar.
The table beside the window waited in the same place.
I refused to sit there.
Dante led us toward the private room behind the wine cellar.
I had served parties inside it before.
I had never known the rear bookshelf concealed a second door.
Of course it did.
Behind it was a narrow office filled with screens.
Security cameras.
Street views.
Telephone equipment.
Renzo began examining the apartment call records remotely.
Dante placed a folder on the desk.
Another folder.
I stared.
“If my grandmother appears next, I am setting it on fire.”
“This one is about Sofia.”
“Progress.”
I opened it.
The 1st photograph showed 2 young women standing outside a church.
My mother was approximately 23.
Beside her stood another woman with the same eyes.
Different mouth.
Darker hair.
But unmistakable.
My aunt.
I sat slowly.
“She was real.”
“Yes.”
I hated Dante for being correct.
The next photograph showed Sofia beside an older man I assumed was Carlo Caruso.
Then younger photographs.
My mother.
Matteo.
Sofia.
3 siblings.
A family before mine existed.
“Why did my mother never tell us?”
“I cannot answer.”
“You have answers for everything else.”
“Not that.”
I looked at him.
“Did she know who your family was when she married my father?”
“Yes.”
“Did my father know who she was?”
“Yes.”
“Did Helena know anything?”
“No.”
“You are certain?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Because we checked.”
I almost struck him again.
He saw it.
“I understand.”
“You do not.”
“No.”
His voice softened.
“But I understand why you want to.”
Renzo turned from the screens.
“The calls bounced through 4 relays. Final origin appears to be an abandoned exchange building in Brooklyn.”
“Appears?” I asked.
“Too easy.”
Dante nodded.
“A lure.”
“Probably.”
I closed the folder.
“Sofia told me to use the rear stairs.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“She may have wanted to avoid Renzo.”
“Or whoever was watching him.”
Both men became still.
I continued.
“If Bellini can see Renzo, then they already know I am with Moretti again.”
Dante looked toward the camera screens.
“Unless Sofia is hiding from Bellini too.”
Renzo turned.
“Caruso has not been seen publicly in 11 months.”
Dante’s face changed.
“What?”
“Bellini reports him ill. No verified sighting since last October.”
I looked between them.
“You people have newsletters?”
Neither answered.
Renzo continued.
“Sofia has attended 2 family funerals alone.”
Dante crossed his arms.
“If Carlo is dead, she may be operating without protection.”
“Or held.”
Renzo nodded.
I stood.
“Then we find her.”
“No.”
Dante said it automatically.
I looked at him.
His eyes closed for approximately half a second.
He knew.
He rubbed his thumb along the side of his index finger.
Then tried again.
“We find her. You do not come during the first contact.”
“Better.”
Renzo looked between us as though observing children learning a difficult instrument.
“I want to speak to my father.”
“We find Sofia first.”
“Why?”
“Because Richard contacted you through a channel she apparently controlled.”
I thought about it.
He was probably correct.
I hated that too.
The lights flickered.
Every person in the room stopped.
Once.
Twice.
Then darkness.
Dante’s gun appeared in his hand.
Renzo moved toward the hidden door.
Emergency lights should have activated.
They did not.
“Stay behind the desk,” Dante said.
I almost protested.
Then I heard the front glass break.
The sound transported me instantly to Tuesday.
My muscles recognized it before thought.
Dante looked toward me.
“Isidora.”
“I heard.”
He moved through the bookshelf door.
Renzo followed.
I remained exactly 4 seconds.
Then the private telephone rang.
Inside a dark secure room.
I stared at it.
It rang again.
I answered.
A woman whispered:
“Your father is not the one you need to save.”
My heartbeat stopped.
“Sofia?”
“They took Helena.”
The line disconnected.
I did not scream.
I did not drop the telephone.
I did not breathe.
I opened the hidden door.
Dante stood inside the wine room with a weapon raised toward the corridor.
“Dante.”
He looked at my face.
Everything in him changed.
“What?”
“They have Helena.”
He crossed the space between us.
“Who said that?”
“Sofia.”
His hand came toward my shoulder.
I moved away.
“No.”
“Isidora.”
“Find her.”
“We will.”
“No.”
My voice became cold.
The exact kind of cold I had once believed belonged only to men like him.
“You are going to find my sister.”
Dante stared at me.
Then he nodded once.
The Don returned completely.
Not the man who had touched his forehead to mine over coffee.
Not the man who had apologized beside an elevator.
The man capable of moving 20 armed people with 1 sentence.
He turned toward Renzo.
“Seal every bridge, station, airport, Bellini address, Caruso property, and private garage between here and New Jersey.”
Renzo was already dialing.
Dante continued.
“No one moves Helena Veil.”
His voice lowered.
“No one breathes near her without my permission.”
I looked at him.
May you like
For the 1st time since learning he had lied, I did not care whether I trusted Dante Moretti.
I only cared that someone would soon learn why everyone else feared him.
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