Chapter 9 - My Father’s LedgerAt 11:43 p.m., I stood inside a church bathroom wearing a bulletproof vest beneath a black dress while Dante Moretti checked the window for snipers.
It was not how I imagined reconciliation with religion.
“You understand how ridiculous this looks,” I said.
Dante continued examining the window frame.
“You wearing armor beneath a dress?”
“You inspecting stained glass for gunmen.”
“Stained glass does not stop bullets.”
“Neither does Catholic guilt.”
He looked at me.
The corner of his mouth moved.
Approximately half a millimeter.
I hated how relieved I felt.
We had not discussed the kiss.
Or the lie.
Or the apology.
Or whether I would return to the penthouse after Helena was safe.
Those questions belonged to a future where my sister was not being held by people who believed I possessed something capable of collapsing organized crime across New York.
The absurdity had become so complete that it no longer felt absurd.
I adjusted the dress.
Renzo had selected it from a store that apparently sold funeral clothing to women expecting gunfire.
Long sleeves.
High neckline.
Enough space for body armor.
Practical elegance.
I did not ask how he knew.
“Bellini men are entering,” Renzo’s voice said through Dante’s earpiece.
“How many?”
“8 visible.”
Dante checked his weapon.
“Moretti positions?”
“12 exterior. 6 inside.”
I looked at him.
“You brought 18 men to church.”
“20.”
“Of course.”
“2 are on rooftops.”
“God appreciates preparation.”
He faced me.
“Listen carefully.”
“I have been doing that since Tuesday.”
“If Bellini presents Helena, you do not move until I confirm there is no device on her.”
My stomach tightened.
“Device?”
“Explosive.”
I stopped.
He saw my face.
“I need you to understand possibilities before they happen.”
“You could have used beautiful silence once.”
“No.”
He was right.
I swallowed.
“Fine.”
“If Richard appears—”
“He comes with us.”
“If he threatens you—”
“He comes with us.”
“Isidora.”
“Alive.”
His jaw tightened.
“Alive unless I have no alternative.”
I stared.
He did not change it.
I nodded.
It was the most honest agreement available.
The church was old.
Stone columns.
Dark wood.
Hundreds of candles turning the air warm near the altar.
I had attended mass in a place like this as a child.
My mother sat straight.
My father left before communion approximately half the time.
I used to think he disliked waiting.
Now I wondered whether he had been receiving calls.
Everything became suspicious after secrets.
Dante entered the nave beside me.
Not in front.
Not behind.
Beside.
I noticed.
Bellini occupied the front pews.
An older man stood near the altar.
Tall.
Silver hair.
Black suit.
No priest.
“Vittorio Bellini,” Dante said quietly.
The name possessed gravity.
Vittorio smiled when we approached.
“Dante.”
“Vittorio.”
“Your father would be disappointed by your manners.”
“My father is dead.”
“So is mine. We can compare disappointments later.”
His gaze moved to me.
“Isidora Veil.”
I resisted the instinct to step closer to Dante.
Vittorio studied me.
“You resemble Lucia.”
“People keep showing me photographs.”
His smile widened.
“Same tongue too.”
Dante’s hand remained near my back without touching.
“Helena.”
Vittorio sighed.
“Always business.”
“Yes.”
“She is safe.”
“Show me.”
Vittorio lifted 2 fingers.
A side door opened.
Helena entered between 2 men.
My entire body moved forward.
Dante’s hand caught my wrist.
Not hard.
Enough.
I stopped.
Helena saw me.
Her face changed.
“Issa.”
I examined her.
No visible vest.
No wires.
No blood.
Her hands free.
Dante’s eyes moved over her too.
One of his men passed behind the side aisle.
A microscopic nod.
Clear.
Dante released my wrist.
I crossed the church.
Helena ran.
We collided halfway.
Her arms closed around me.
I held the back of her head.
She smelled like dust, shampoo, and the strawberry gum she bought by the box.
Alive.
Warm.
Infuriating.
I pulled back.
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
I checked anyway.
Her face.
Arms.
Hands.
“Did they touch you?”
“No.”
“Did Dad?”
Helena froze.
I knew.
“You knew.”
“Issa.”
“You knew he was alive.”
Tears appeared immediately.
“Not here.”
I almost shouted.
Vittorio’s voice moved across the church.
“Family arguments are best postponed until after exchanges.”
I turned.
“Where is my father?”
A new voice answered behind the altar.
“Here.”
I had imagined this moment for years.
In some versions, I punched him.
In others, I collapsed.
Sometimes I walked away.
Sometimes I begged.
Reality was quieter.
Richard Veil stepped from the side chapel wearing a gray coat and carrying approximately 8 years across his face.
His hair had become mostly silver.
He was thinner.
The left side of his mouth pulled slightly downward.
A scar crossed his neck.
But he was my father.
I knew from the way he stood with one shoulder lower.
From the eyes.
From hands identical to Helena’s.
My body forgot anger for exactly 1 second.
“Dad.”
He looked at me.
“Isidora.”
I struck him.
The church echoed.
Helena gasped.
Richard did not defend himself.
I struck his chest with both hands.
“You left us.”
He remained still.
“You left us.”
My voice broke.
“You let me think you were dead.”
“I know.”
“You do not get to say that.”
Dante shifted behind me.
I almost laughed at the repetition.
Apparently every man in my life had learned the same wrong sentence.
Richard looked at Helena.
Then me.
“I was trying to keep you alive.”
I slapped him again.
“Congratulations.”
My eyes burned.
“You failed differently.”
Vittorio cleared his throat.
“This is touching.”
Dante turned his head slightly.
“Speak again and I remove your ability.”
Vittorio smiled.
There it was.
The dangerous room.
The church had only disguised it.
I looked at my father.
“You told Bellini I have the ledger.”
“No.”
Vittorio’s smile disappeared.
Richard continued.
“I told them you could find it.”
My stomach dropped.
“Can I?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
He looked toward Dante.
“Not with him listening.”
I laughed.
“You abandoned me for 8 years and believe you are choosing who stands beside me?”
Richard’s face changed.
“He is a Moretti.”
“I noticed.”
“His father ordered your uncle killed.”
Silence.
Dante became still.
I looked at him.
“What?”
He did not deny it.
My father continued.
“Matteo Ferraro did not die because Bellini killed him. Alessandro Moretti ordered the hit. Bellini carried it out.”
I turned fully toward Dante.
“You said Bellini killed him.”
“They did.”
“At whose order?”
Dante’s face hardened.
“My father’s.”
I almost laughed.
Another truth sliced into pieces.
“You knew.”
“Yes.”
“Of course.”
“Isidora—”
“No.”
Vittorio spoke.
“Now perhaps we can continue.”
I turned.
“What do you want?”
“The ledger.”
“I do not have it.”
“Your father says otherwise.”
“My father has poor communication skills.”
Vittorio’s eyes narrowed.
Richard stepped closer.
“The ledger is not paper.”
Dante looked at him.
Richard almost smiled.
“It never was.”
Renzo’s voice came through Dante’s earpiece, but I could not hear the words.
Dante’s gaze moved toward the upper balcony.
Something was wrong.
Richard continued.
“I encoded the accounts into a physical key.”
“What key?”
He looked at Helena.
Then at me.
“Your mother’s recipe book.”
I stopped.
“What?”
“The red book.”
Memory arrived immediately.
A cloth-bound notebook in our apartment.
My mother’s handwriting.
Tomato sauce.
Bread.
Soup.
Measurements.
Helena and I kept it in a kitchen drawer.
I had carried it through 3 moves because it was one of the few objects remaining from her.
“That book is in Queens.”
“No,” Helena whispered.
I looked at her.
She wiped tears from her cheek.
“I took it.”
“Why?”
“Dad asked me.”
I stared.
3 months.
Meetings.
Secrets.
My sister had removed our mother’s recipe book without telling me.
“Where is it?”
Helena looked toward Richard.
He shook his head.
She looked back at me.
“I hid it.”
“Where?”
“Issa, I did not trust him enough to give it.”
Despite everything, pride moved painfully through me.
Good girl.
Vittorio’s patience ended.
“Enough.”
His men shifted.
Dante moved approximately half a step closer.
Richard looked toward Vittorio.
“You agreed they leave after I explain.”
“You misunderstand your position.”
“No.”
My father smiled faintly.
“I understand it perfectly.”
His hand moved into his coat.
Every weapon inside the church appeared.
Dante pushed me and Helena behind a pillar.
Gunfire exploded.
Candles shattered.
Stone dust filled the air.
I pulled Helena down.
“Stay.”
“You stay.”
“Not now.”
A man ran along the side aisle.
Dante fired twice.
Richard disappeared behind the altar.
Vittorio’s men fired from the pews.
Moretti soldiers answered from the balcony.
The church became hell decorated with saints.
Helena grabbed my arm.
“Issa.”
“What?”
“The book.”
“What?”
“It is not in Queens.”
A bullet struck the column.
We ducked.
“Where?”
“The Victoria.”
I stared.
“What?”
“I hid it inside the baseboard.”
The bullet marks.
The repaired wood Dante had refused to replace.
Of course.
Of course.
“What part?”
“Under Table 7.”
The table beside the window.
Everything returned there.
Dante moved toward us.
Blood marked his sleeve.
“Are you hit?”
“Not mine.”
“Dante.”
“Move.”
“My book is at Victoria.”
He stopped.
“What?”
“The ledger.”
Understanding transformed him.
He looked toward Renzo.
Then shouted:
“Victoria.”
Renzo disappeared through a side door with 4 men.
Dante grabbed Helena’s shoulder and directed us toward the sacristy.
My father appeared from behind the altar.
He carried a gun.
Dante raised his.
“No!”
I stepped between them.
Both men froze.
“This is becoming a family tradition,” I said.
Richard breathed heavily.
“You cannot give Moretti the ledger.”
“You do not decide.”
“He will use it.”
Dante’s weapon remained steady.
“So will Bellini.”
“I know.”
“Then why call her?” Dante asked.
Richard looked at him.
“Because I am dying.”
Silence.
Even gunfire seemed distant.
I stared.
“What?”
Richard’s face changed.
The left side of his mouth.
The thinness.
The scar.
“It is cancer.”
I hated the immediate grief.
I hated my body for recognizing father before betrayal.
“How long?”
“Months.”
Helena began crying.
Richard looked at her.
“I wanted to finish it.”
“By kidnapping Helena?”
“I did not kidnap her.”
Vittorio’s voice sounded from the nave.
“You certainly failed to prevent it.”
We all turned.
Vittorio stood between pillars, gun raised.
A Moretti soldier lay behind him.
Dante moved in front of me.
Vittorio fired.
Everything became movement.
Dante’s body struck mine.
A shot.
Another.
Richard fired.
Vittorio staggered.
Dante fired once.
Vittorio fell.
Silence arrived slowly.
My ears rang.
Dante remained against me.
Too heavy.
I touched his side.
Warm blood covered my hand.
“No.”
He looked downward.
A dark stain spread beneath his ribs.
“No.”
“Through.”
His voice was strained.
“What?”
“The bullet went through.”
“You do not know that.”
“I do.”
“How?”
“I felt it.”
I almost laughed and cried simultaneously.
Richard approached.
Dante raised his weapon despite the blood.
My father stopped.
“Issa,” Helena whispered.
“Pressure.”
I placed both hands against Dante’s wound.
His face tightened.
I remembered the kitchen.
Gauze.
Antiseptic.
His refusal to get stitches.
“Try not to require a 3rd rescue,” I said.
His mouth moved.
“This would be 3.”
“Then I am charging you.”
“Fair.”
Sirens sounded outside.
Too many.
Renzo returned through the sacristy.
His face changed when he saw Dante.
“Vehicle.”
We moved.
Richard followed.
Dante noticed.
“No.”
“He comes.”
“Isidora.”
“He comes.”
Dante looked at my father.
Then at me.
“Alive?”
“Yes.”
“Fine.”
My father almost smiled.
“I remember Moretti men being more difficult.”
Dante pressed 1 hand over mine against the wound.
“You have not met her before.”
We left the church together.
Dante bleeding.
Helena crying.
My father alive.
May you like
Bellini’s leader dead.
And somewhere beneath an old restaurant floor, my mother’s recipes waited to expose every monster who had ever believed women in kitchens noticed nothing.
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