Chapter 6 - The DeLuca Family Dinner
Carlo DeLuca arrived at the mansion at six that evening carrying a bottle of wine.
That was how men like him entered a confrontation.
Not with guns.
With manners.
He was sixty-two, broad through the shoulders, silver-haired, and handsome in the polished way older rich men often were. He wore a navy suit and kissed Dante's aunt on both cheeks before walking into the dining room as if he had not spent the last twelve years protecting the man who destroyed my family.
Dante had invited him.
I thought that was insane.
"You have proof," Dante told me an hour earlier. "But proof is more useful if he doesn't know how much we have."
"So you're going to feed him dinner?"
"I'm going to let him lie."
"And if he realizes you know?"
"He will. Eventually."
"Comforting."
Dante had arranged the table carefully.
His aunt Teresa sat at one end.
Marco sat beside her.
Two older cousins were across from us.
Carlo sat to Dante's right.
I sat to Dante's left.
That placement made Carlo notice me immediately.
His eyes moved over my face.
Then my dress.
Dante had offered me anything from the guest closets.
I refused.
I wore my own black pants, a clean cream sweater Sasha loaned me, and the only pair of boots I owned without flour on them.
I wanted Carlo to see exactly who my mother had left behind.
"And who is this?" he asked.
Dante poured water into his glass.
"Nerissa Vane."
Carlo's hand stopped halfway to his wine.
Only for a fraction of a second.
But I saw it.
So did Dante.
"Vane," Carlo repeated. "Should I know the name?"
I smiled.
"My mother was Elena."
His eyes sharpened.
Then softened with impressive speed.
"Elena Vane. My God. Salvatore's accountant. I heard about the accident. Terrible thing."
I wanted to throw my water in his face.
Instead I said, "It was."
Dinner began.
Pasta first.
Then roasted fish.
Then vegetables no broke bakery worker should have been expected to identify.
Carlo talked about real estate.
Marco talked about port contracts.
Teresa complained about a charity board.
I sat in the middle of a family that knew how to discuss murder with its eyes while speaking about zoning permits.
Halfway through the second course, Dante said, "We went to a bank today."
Carlo cut his fish.
"Did you?"
"Old safe deposit box."
The knife paused.
"How interesting."
"Very."
Carlo looked at me.
"Something your mother left?"
"A few things."
"Sentimental?"
I smiled.
"Some."
Dante took a sip of water.
"Some financial."
Silence spread around the table.
Carlo set down his knife.
"Dante, if this is business, perhaps we should discuss it privately."
"Why?"
"Because guests don't need family details."
Dante glanced at me.
"She's not a guest to this matter."
Something warm and dangerous moved through me.
Carlo noticed.
"I see."
He smiled at me.
"You and my nephew are close?"
I opened my mouth.
Dante answered first.
"Closer than you should be comfortable with."
My heart stumbled.
Carlo leaned back.
"What exactly did Elena leave?"
Dante smiled without warmth.
"You tell me."
The room went quiet.
Carlo's face changed.
Not much.
Enough.
"I'm afraid I don't understand."
"I think you do."
Aunt Teresa put down her fork.
"Dante."
He ignored her.
"March fourth, 2007. St. Vincent's parking garage."
Carlo went pale.
"What about it?"
"My driver died. I nearly did. Father blamed the Marzanos."
"Because the Marzanos did it."
"Elena disagreed."
Carlo looked at me.
For the first time, the charming uncle disappeared.
His eyes became flat.
"Elena believed many things."
There.
He knew too much.
I said quietly, "You told us you barely remembered her."
Carlo realized the mistake.
Too late.
Dante leaned back.
"Keep talking."
"This is absurd."
"Is it?"
"You're accusing family because a dead accountant left notes?"
I stood.
"My mother had a name."
Carlo looked at me.
"Sit down, girl."
Dante's chair moved back with a soft scrape.
The entire table froze.
He did not raise his voice.
"Do not speak to her like that again."
Carlo stared at his nephew.
"You barely know her."
"I know enough."
"Do you?"
Carlo laughed once.
"Or did the pretty baker whisper something sweet and make you forget what family means?"
Heat rushed to my face.
Marco's eyes widened slightly.
Dante became terrifyingly still.
"How do you know she works at a bakery?"
Carlo stopped smiling.
Nobody moved.
I felt the trap close.
Dante had never told him.
I had not told him.
No one at the table had mentioned it.
Carlo's gaze flicked toward Marco.
Then the door.
Dante stood.
"Sit down."
Carlo rose anyway.
Two security men appeared in the doorway.
"This is my brother's house," Carlo snapped.
"My father is dead," Dante said. "It's mine now."
Carlo's face twisted.
There was the real man.
The one beneath the expensive suit.
"You think that makes you Salvatore?"
"No."
"Good. Because your father understood something you never have. Family survives by keeping its sins inside the walls."
Dante's expression hardened.
"That's why Elena died."
"Elena died because she couldn't stop digging."
My breath stopped.
Carlo realized what he had said.
I stepped toward him.
"You killed her."
He looked at me with contempt.
"I didn't touch your mother."
"You paid Bellini."
"You have no idea what you're talking about."
"Clean Winter. Two hundred fifty thousand dollars. Three days before her crash."
His face lost color.
That was enough.
Dante's voice went quiet.
"We have the ledger."
Carlo's eyes closed for a second.
When they opened, the fight was gone.
Or hidden.
"Then you understand why this cannot become public."
Aunt Teresa whispered, "Carlo, what did you do?"
He ignored her.
"Dante, listen to me. Bellini handled things that kept this family alive. Your father knew. He benefited. We all did. If you give that ledger to authorities, you don't only destroy me. You destroy companies. Contracts. Men loyal to us for decades."
"Then they can answer for what they did."
Carlo stared.
"You would choose this girl over your blood?"
Dante looked at me.
Then back at him.
"No. I'm choosing truth over cowards who use blood as an excuse."
My mother's words.
A family name is only worth what you refuse to do for it.
Carlo laughed bitterly.
"Salvatore would be ashamed."
Dante's eyes went cold.
"Maybe."
That answer shocked everyone.
Even Carlo.
"But Elena was right about him. He protected you too long. I won't repeat it."
Carlo's hand moved.
Fast.
Toward his jacket.
Security raised weapons.
I flinched.
Dante stepped in front of me.
But Carlo did not draw a gun.
He pulled out his phone and threw it onto the table.
"Call the police. Call the FBI. Call God if you want. You think Victor Bellini is going to let you reach tomorrow morning with that ledger?"
Dante's eyes narrowed.
"Where is he?"
Carlo smiled.
"I don't know. That's the problem."
"You worked with him."
"Worked. Past tense."
"Since when?"
"Since he decided your father's death made him more powerful than the family that created him."
Dante froze.
"My father died of a heart attack."
Carlo's smile disappeared.
"Did he?"
Silence.
The room shifted again.
Dante's face went white.
"What are you saying?"
Carlo looked suddenly older.
"I'm saying Victor stopped needing me three years ago. Salvatore was preparing to expose him. Two weeks later, your father collapsed at dinner."
"Autopsy said cardiac failure."
"Who arranged the private physician?"
Dante knew the answer.
I saw it in his face.
"Bellini."
Carlo nodded.
"I helped a thief because I wanted influence. I helped cover what happened to Elena because I was afraid she'd expose me too. I have carried that sin for twelve years. But I did not kill my brother."
Dante looked as if someone had struck him.
For all his control, for all his power, he was suddenly just a son learning his father's death might have been murder.
Carlo was escorted out under guard.
Not to police yet.
To a secured room while attorneys contacted federal authorities.
Aunt Teresa left crying.
Marco went with her.
The dining room emptied.
Dante stood alone at the window.
I stayed.
For several minutes, neither of us spoke.
Then he said, "You should hate my family."
"Some of them."
He gave a humorless laugh.
"That's generous."
"I don't blame children for their parents."
"I'm not a child."
"No. But you weren't the one who made those choices."
He turned.
There was pain in his eyes now.
"I spent three years thinking my father died because he refused to slow down. I was angry at him for leaving me everything before I was ready."
"You loved him."
"Yes."
"Then you're allowed to grieve twice. Once for the man you lost. Once for the truth you didn't have."
His throat moved.
I stepped closer.
"My mother lied to me. My father abandoned us. I can still love parts of them and hate what they did. People aren't clean enough for simple grief."
Dante looked at me for a long time.
"How are you doing that?"
"Doing what?"
"Standing here comforting me when this started with your mother."
"Because pain isn't a competition."
Something broke in his expression.
He reached for me, then stopped himself.
"Can I?"
I knew what he meant.
I nodded.
He pulled me into his arms.
I had imagined being held by him in the elevator, because apparently exhaustion had destroyed my dignity.
Reality was nothing like the fantasy.
It was quieter.
His chin rested above my hair.
My cheek pressed against his chest.
His heart was beating fast.
That surprised me.
Dante DeLuca, who made ballrooms go silent, was nervous holding me.
I leaned back enough to look at him.
His eyes dropped to my mouth.
Mine did the same.
"Nerissa," he whispered.
"What?"
"If I kiss you, I don't want it to be because you're scared, grateful, trapped in my house, or because you called me your dream man before you knew my name."
My heart slammed against my ribs.
"That's a very long sentence for a man asking permission."
His mouth almost smiled.
"I'm trying to be clear."
"Then be clear."
He took a breath.
"Do you want me to kiss you?"
"Yes."
He kissed me.
Softly at first.
Almost carefully.
Then I touched the back of his neck and the careful part disappeared.
For a few seconds, there was no ledger.
No Bellini.
No dead parents.
Just warmth and the impossible fact that the stranger from the elevator was kissing me like he had been trying not to all night.
When we separated, I was breathless.
He rested his forehead against mine.
"Still your dream man?"
I smiled.
"Pending investigation."
He laughed quietly.
Then his phone rang.
Again.
I stared at it.
"I officially hate your phone."
"So do I."
He answered.
The smile disappeared.
"Marco?"
A pause.
Then Dante's face went blank.
"When?"
He listened.
"Lock every exit."
He hung up.
"What happened?"
His eyes met mine.
"Carlo is gone."
"Gone?"
"The guard outside his room was found unconscious."
"He escaped?"
Dante shook his head.
"No. Security footage shows someone escorted him out through the service tunnel."
"Who?"
He held out his phone.
A frozen surveillance image filled the screen.
Carlo was walking beside a woman in a security uniform.
Red hair.
My stomach dropped.
"Lena."
The woman who had rescued Sasha.
Dante was already moving.
I grabbed his arm.
"Where's Sasha?"
He stopped.
His face changed.
We both knew.
I called her.
No answer.
Again.
No answer.
Dante shouted for Marco.
I ran toward the guest wing.
Sasha's door was open.
Her room was empty.
On the bed lay her inhaler.
And beside it, a folded note.
I opened it with shaking hands.
May you like
One sentence was written inside.
BRING ELENA'S LEDGER TO THE OLD BAKERY AT MIDNIGHT, OR YOUR SISTER STOPS BREATHING BEFORE YOU GET HER BACK.
