Chapter 8 - My Sister Was Never HelplessHelena’s empty chair became the most terrifying object in New York.
The photograph arrived 23 minutes after Sofia’s call.
No message.
No demand.
Only Helena sitting inside a room with unfinished concrete walls.
Her wrists were not tied.
That bothered Dante more than ropes would have.
I knew because he stared at the image for approximately 6 seconds before placing the telephone carefully on the table.
“They want us to notice she is not restrained,” he said.
“Why?”
“To imply she is cooperating.”
I took the phone.
Helena wore the gray sweater I purchased during a clearance sale in September.
Her hair was tied loosely.
No blood.
No visible bruises.
Her face appeared angry.
Not frightened.
That was Helena.
At 13, she had stared down a landlord twice her size after he attempted to charge us for repairing a pipe that had burst inside the wall.
At 16, she had walked 11 blocks after a man followed her from the subway because she refused to lead him to our building.
At 19, she was clever enough to understand that panic entertained bad people.
But she was still my little sister.
Every protective instinct inside me had become a blade.
“Zoom in.”
Renzo enlarged the photograph on a screen.
I examined everything.
Wall.
Floor.
Chair.
Light.
A metal pipe.
Helena’s hands.
Her sweater.
Shoes.
“Stop.”
Dante looked at me.
“Her left hand.”
Renzo enlarged it.
Helena’s fingers rested against her knee.
Index finger extended.
Middle curled.
Ring extended.
Little curled.
I leaned closer.
“She is counting.”
“What?”
“Helena and I used hand signals when we were children.”
Dante approached the screen.
“What does that mean?”
“Depends.”
I reproduced the position with my hand.
“2, then 4.”
Renzo looked at me.
“24?”
“No.”
I stared.
“She is telling me to look twice at 4.”
“4 what?”
I scanned the image again.
4 corners.
4 visible pipes?
4 objects?
Then I saw it.
A small white mark behind the chair.
Paint.
A number.
“Zoom.”
Renzo did.
The wall showed a faded industrial stencil.
B-4.
Dante immediately looked toward Renzo.
“Warehouses.”
“Hundreds.”
“Bellini holdings?”
“26 active, 11 abandoned.”
I continued staring.
Helena’s right shoe was untied.
She never left her shoes untied.
Never.
Even as a child.
I taught her after she fell on subway stairs.
The lace pointed left.
“Look at the floor.”
Dante did.
“What?”
“Dust.”
A line had been drawn near her shoe.
Perhaps accidentally.
Perhaps not.
It resembled a wave.
“Water.”
Renzo began typing.
“Bellini warehouses with B-4 markings near water.”
3 results appeared.
Brooklyn.
Red Hook.
New Jersey.
Dante studied them.
“Send teams to all 3.”
“No.”
Both men looked at me.
“If Helena wanted only the location, she would have made it simpler.”
“She has limited options.”
“She knows I notice details.”
I moved closer.
Her sweater sleeve had been rolled once.
Underneath, someone had drawn something against her wrist with dark ink.
A line.
Then 2 dots.
I swallowed.
“That is a subway map.”
Renzo enlarged it.
“It could be anything.”
“No.”
I pointed.
“She used to draw route lines on her wrist during finals because she lost flashcards.”
Dante looked at the shape.
“Which route?”
I traced it in the air.
“Waterfront. 2 stops after a split.”
I closed my eyes.
Helena and I had taken the G line countless times when younger.
But this was not subway geography.
Maybe bus.
Maybe something else.
Then I remembered a summer when we were children.
Our father had taken us to a warehouse district once.
Only once.
He said the company hosted a family picnic.
There had been a ferry horn.
A large red crane.
A water tower.
And Helena had become lost for approximately 7 minutes near a building marked B-4.
My eyes opened.
“Red Hook.”
Dante was already moving.
“How certain?”
“Enough.”
“That is not the same.”
“No.”
I met his gaze.
“It is all you have.”
He nodded.
“Renzo.”
The room activated.
Men spoke into telephones.
Screens changed.
Cars moved.
Weapons appeared from cabinets disguised as ordinary storage.
I followed Dante toward the rear exit.
He stopped.
“No.”
I stared.
He closed his eyes briefly.
“We discussed this.”
“We did.”
“I am going.”
“You are not trained.”
“I found the building.”
“That does not make bullets respectful.”
“Helena will be frightened if strange armed men enter before she sees someone she knows.”
“She is not—”
“I am going.”
Dante’s jaw hardened.
We stood 2 feet apart.
Renzo passed between us without looking directly at either person.
“Armored vehicle departs in 90 seconds.”
Dante looked toward him.
Renzo continued walking.
The betrayal was magnificent.
I raised 1 eyebrow.
Dante noticed.
“You have corrupted him.”
“Apparently your organization lacks discipline.”
We entered the vehicle.
The drive toward Red Hook lasted 18 minutes.
It felt like 18 years.
I wore a ballistic vest over black clothes Renzo found somewhere.
It was heavy.
Too large.
Dante adjusted the straps personally.
His hands worked near my ribs without tenderness.
This was not intimacy.
This was fear translated into practical movement.
“Stay behind me.”
“I know.”
“If I say down—”
“I know.”
“If anything happens—”
“I know.”
His hands stopped.
“Do not say you know when you cannot know.”
I looked at him.
His face had become almost pale beneath the controlled expression.
“You are afraid.”
“No.”
“Ugly truth.”
His jaw tightened.
“Yes.”
The answer quieted me.
The vehicle turned.
Renzo’s voice came through the earpiece.
“Warehouse visual in 30 seconds.”
Dante checked his weapon.
I held nothing.
He had refused that entirely.
I agreed because I knew enough to understand that unfamiliar weapons inside frightened hands created more danger.
The warehouse appeared between shipping containers.
Brick.
Faded blue door.
B-4.
A ferry horn sounded in the distance.
My father had brought us here.
I was certain.
Memory returned strangely.
Helena eating an orange popsicle.
My father speaking with 2 men behind a truck.
My mother had not attended.
She had claimed a migraine.
At the time, I believed her.
The team separated.
Dante touched my arm.
“Stay in the vehicle until the outer perimeter is cleared.”
This time I obeyed.
Approximately 3 minutes passed.
Then gunfire began.
I ducked reflexively.
The driver remained composed.
Men moved outside.
A figure ran between containers.
Another fell.
I heard Dante’s voice through the radio.
Short commands.
Italian and English mixed.
Then:
“Clear.”
The driver unlocked the door.
I exited before he could open it.
The air smelled of salt, diesel, and old metal.
A Moretti soldier attempted to stop me.
I showed him the expression I had used with managers for years.
He moved.
The warehouse interior was enormous.
Dust hung inside shafts of light.
Boxes were stacked along one wall.
Dante stood beside a body.
He looked up.
“Back room.”
I ran.
Renzo reached the door first.
It was locked.
He shot the mechanism.
The door opened.
The room inside was empty.
One chair.
Gray concrete.
Metal pipe.
Exactly the photograph.
No Helena.
I stopped so abruptly Dante struck my shoulder from behind.
“No.”
The word came from somewhere beneath my stomach.
“No.”
I crossed the room.
The chair was still warm.
I touched it.
Warm.
“They just moved her.”
Dante examined the floor.
“Approximately 5 minutes.”
Renzo found a secondary door.
Fresh tire marks outside.
I pressed both hands against my head.
“No, no, no.”
“Isidora.”
I turned.
“They knew.”
Dante’s eyes hardened.
“Yes.”
“They knew we chose this warehouse.”
“Yes.”
“How?”
Silence.
Every person in the room stopped.
The answer was immediate and impossible.
A leak.
Again.
Tomaso had not been the only one.
Dante’s face became terrifyingly calm.
He looked at each of his men.
No one moved.
Then a sound came from behind the metal pipe.
Small.
Electronic.
Renzo crossed to it.
A telephone had been taped beneath the pipe.
It began ringing.
Dante looked toward me.
I answered.
My father’s voice.
“You still follow Morettis into rooms.”
Anger exploded.
“Where is Helena?”
“Safe.”
“I want to hear her.”
“You will.”
“Now.”
A pause.
Then another voice entered the line.
“Issa?”
My knees weakened.
“Helena.”
“I’m okay.”
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Where are you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Look around.”
A male voice interrupted.
“That is enough.”
“No.”
I shouted.
“Helena, listen to me.”
“I am listening.”
“Do you remember the yellow umbrella?”
Silence.
Then:
“Yes.”
Good girl.
Yellow umbrella meant leave information.
Anything.
Everything.
“Do you remember how Dad used to whistle when he parked?”
My father’s breathing changed on the line.
Helena was telling me something.
A vehicle.
Parking.
Sound.
“He still whistles badly.”
Then the line cut.
I stared at the telephone.
Dante watched me.
“What does that mean?”
“My father is with her.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
I thought.
“He is moving her himself.”
“Probably.”
“And she heard him park.”
“Meaning?”
I closed my eyes.
Dad’s whistle.
He always whistled inside tunnels and garages because the echo amused him.
Helena remembered.
“Underground.”
Dante immediately turned to Renzo.
“Bellini underground facilities.”
Renzo shook his head.
“Too many.”
I held the dead phone.
Yellow umbrella.
Helena knew she had only seconds.
She had said he still whistles badly.
Still.
Meaning she recognized our father.
She had already seen him.
Not a stranger claiming the name.
I felt unexpectedly sick.
“Helena knew he was alive.”
Dante looked at me.
“What?”
“She did not sound surprised.”
I replayed the conversation.
Dad used to whistle.
He still whistles badly.
Not he whistles like Dad.
Still.
My sister had met our father.
“When?”
I whispered.
Dante had no answer.
A Moretti soldier entered.
“We found this in the front office.”
He handed Renzo a photograph.
I saw it from across the room.
My father.
Helena.
A diner.
Date stamp: 3 months earlier.
The room became silent.
Helena had been meeting him.
My 19-year-old sister who told me everything.
My sister who had claimed she spent Thursday nights in the library.
My sister who asked me for subway money.
My sister who still called when she reached home after dark because she knew I worried.
She had been seeing the father who abandoned us.
3 months.
The betrayal was smaller than Dante’s.
It hurt more.
I sat on the empty chair.
The same chair from the photograph.
Dante approached but did not touch me.
“She may have had a reason.”
I laughed weakly.
“You sound like Renzo.”
“Unfortunate.”
I looked up.
“Did you know?”
“No.”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes.”
I searched his face.
I believed him.
That frightened me.
Trust had returned before forgiveness.
Perhaps they were not the same thing.
“We find her,” I said.
“Yes.”
“And my father.”
“Yes.”
“Alive.”
Dante’s expression changed.
“If possible.”
“No.”
I stood.
“Alive.”
“Richard may not permit that choice.”
“Then make him.”
His eyes held mine.
“You believe I can control everything.”
“No.”
I stepped closer.
“I believe you have spent your entire life making people believe you can.”
Something almost moved across his face.
“Use it.”
The telephone rang again.
This time Renzo answered.
He listened.
His eyes narrowed.
He handed it to Dante.
Dante said nothing for approximately 10 seconds.
Then:
“Understood.”
He disconnected.
“What?”
Dante looked toward me.
“Bellini requested a meeting.”
“With whom?”
“You.”
I felt no surprise.
“Where?”
“St. Michael’s Church.”
“When?”
“Midnight.”
“What do they want?”
Dante’s face became colder.
“The ledger.”
I laughed.
“We do not have it.”
“No.”
“Do they know that?”
“They believe you do.”
“Why?”
May you like
He looked toward the photograph of Helena and my father.
“Because Richard told them you inherited it.”
Related Stories
