Chapter 5 - The Wrong Man at the Table
Luca did not call Marco back.
That frightened me more than if he had.
We left the bank with copies of the most important records divided between us. The originals remained in the box.
That was my decision.
"If someone wants them," I said, "they can fight the bank's lawyers instead of me."
Luca nodded. "Good."
I looked at him. "You sound surprised."
"I am learning not to be."
Outside, a black sedan waited at the curb.
Not one of Luca's.
I knew that because Luca stopped walking.
The rear window lowered.
Matteo Ferraro sat inside.
My pulse jumped.
Matteo had been the youngest of the five men at the table, maybe early forties, with careful hair, expensive glasses, and the polished calm of someone who could discuss a billion-dollar loan without raising his voice.
He opened the door.
"Get in."
Luca's expression chilled.
"That is not how you speak to me."
"Then let me phrase it better. If you want Dylan alive by dinner, get in the car."
I glanced at Luca.
He made the smallest movement with his head.
Wait.
Matteo looked at me.
"Ms. Hart, the accounts in that box make me look guilty."
"How do you know what is in the box?"
His jaw tightened.
"Because someone sent me photographs twenty minutes ago."
He held out his phone.
On the screen were grainy images taken through the bank viewing-room window.
Me.
Luca.
The files.
Someone inside the bank had photographed us.
Under the images was a message.
FERRARO IS NEXT. LEAVE THE CITY IF YOU WANT TO LIVE.
Matteo lowered the phone.
"I assume you received something similar?"
"No," I said.
"Then whoever is doing this wants me to run."
Luca's gaze sharpened.
"Why?"
"Because running makes me look guilty."
That was exactly what I had thought.
Matteo looked toward the bank entrance.
"I did not authorize the transfers your grandmother found. My father's company name was used, but the approval codes came from an internal administrator account created after he retired. Rebecca Shaw discovered that."
Luca stepped closer to the car.
"You knew Rebecca?"
"I met her once."
"You never told me."
"Because she told me not to. She said she had already trusted the wrong person."
My pulse quickened.
"Who?"
Matteo looked directly at Luca.
"Marco."
The sidewalk seemed to tilt under my feet.
Luca's face gave nothing away.
"Proof?"
"Not enough."
"Then why come here?"
"Because Marco called me this morning and told me Grant Holloway was dead."
Everything inside me went cold.
My grandmother's warning.
Do not trust the man who is first to tell you Grant Holloway is dead.
The fake detective had technically been first to tell me.
But among Luca's circle, Marco had apparently been the first.
Matteo continued.
"He said Grant's death proved someone was cleaning up old connections. Then he suggested I leave New York for a few days."
"And you thought that was strange."
"I thought it was a warning."
Luca glanced at me.
We were both thinking the same thing.
Marco had arranged my security.
Marco had checked the fake detective call.
Marco had asked about the brass key.
Marco had met Grant in Boston.
And Marco had told Matteo that Grant was dead.
Still, Elena's recording echoed in my mind.
Do not condemn a son only for his father's sin.
Someone could be using that history.
I looked at Matteo.
"Who else knew you met Rebecca?"
"No one."
"Not your assistant?"
"No."
"Your father?"
"He was dead by then."
"Your bank's legal counsel?"
Matteo hesitated.
That was enough.
"Who?"
He looked at Luca.
"Bellini Legal Partners."
Marco again.
Luca opened the sedan door.
"We are not getting in your car. You are coming with us."
Matteo gave a humorless laugh.
"There is the Luca Rossi I recognize."
"Be grateful."
We returned to Bellissimo through the service entrance shortly before noon.
Michael nearly dropped a tray when he saw us.
Marco was gone.
He had left ten minutes earlier.
"Did he say where?" Luca asked.
"No, sir. He just kept asking whether Dylan had contacted anyone in Italy."
I felt sick.
"Did you tell him about my grandmother?"
Michael's face fell.
"I told him she died. I'm sorry. I thought he already knew."
Luca's eyes closed briefly.
"It's not your fault, Michael."
That surprised the manager so much he looked speechless.
We went upstairs to the same private room where everything had begun.
Within an hour, Enzo Greco, Carlo Ventresca, and Adrian DeSantis arrived.
Marco did not.
Matteo sat at the far end of the table under Luca's watch.
I stood near the sideboard.
Luca had told me I did not need to be there.
I told him my grandmother had spent twenty-two years protecting evidence and I was not leaving the room while men decided what it meant.
He had not argued.
Progress.
Luca looked at the four men.
"Someone has been accessing accounts under Matteo's authority. Someone met Grant Holloway in Boston. Someone knew Elena Valenti had evidence."
Enzo's face changed at the name.
Carlo swore softly.
Adrian stared at me.
"Elena Valenti? She is your grandmother?"
"Was," I said.
His expression softened. "I am sorry."
Carlo leaned forward.
"Luca, where is Marco?"
"I was going to ask you."
"He called me at eight this morning. Wanted to know whether I had heard from Matteo."
Matteo laughed once. "Of course he did."
Enzo looked between them.
"What exactly are you accusing Marco of?"
"Nothing yet," Luca said.
I watched faces.
My grandmother used to say language was more than words. It was timing, breath, what people chose to translate and what they pretended not to hear.
Luca placed one copied page from Elena's file on the table.
Not the most important page.
A harmless transaction list.
"This was recovered from a location Elena kept secret," he said.
Carlo picked it up.
"These are old vendor transfers."
Adrian nodded.
"Nothing here proves anything."
Enzo said, "If la traduttrice kept originals, there may be more."
The room changed.
I looked at him.
He looked back.
Luca's eyes narrowed.
"What did you call her?"
Enzo frowned. "What?"
"Elena. What did you call her?"
"La traduttrice. The translator."
My pulse accelerated.
Luca's voice became very still.
"I did not say Elena was a translator."
Enzo's face went pale.
Carlo stopped moving.
Matteo leaned back slowly.
Adrian whispered, "Jesus."
Enzo stood.
Two men near the door immediately moved forward.
"Sit down," Luca said.
"Luca, I can explain."
"Then explain sitting down."
Enzo sat.
His forehead had begun to shine with sweat.
"My father mentioned her years ago. Arturo knew your father. Everyone knew Elena translated foreign contracts."
"Everyone?" I asked.
He looked at me.
"People who were around then."
"You were twenty-four when Sofia died," Luca said. "You were around."
Enzo's eyes moved toward the door.
That was his mistake.
Luca saw it.
So did everyone else.
For one terrifying second I thought the room would explode into violence.
Instead, Enzo sagged.
"I did not kill Sofia."
"I did not ask whether you did."
"My father drove the second car that night."
No one breathed.
Enzo looked at Luca.
"He told me before he died. He worked for Alessandro Bellini. He was told the route had changed. He did not know Sofia and you would be in the car until it was too late."
Luca's knuckles whitened on the table.
"Your father helped kill my mother."
"Yes."
"And you never told me."
"I was ashamed. I was afraid you would punish me for what he did."
"Did you know Marco's father was involved?"
"Yes."
The word fell like a stone.
Luca turned away.
I saw pain move across his face before he hid it.
Enzo continued quickly.
"But Marco did not know then. I swear. He found out years later."
I stepped closer.
"How do you know?"
"Because he came to me after Alessandro died. He had found papers. He asked whether my father had ever confessed anything."
"When was this?" Luca asked.
"Six years ago."
Rebecca Shaw disappeared five years ago.
I felt cold.
"What did Marco do after you told him?" I asked.
Enzo looked at me.
"He said the past needed to stay buried."
My phone vibrated.
Everyone looked at it.
Unknown number.
A photograph loaded.
Grant Holloway stood beside a newspaper vending machine.
Alive.
Today's date was visible on the front page.
Below it was a message.
I LIED TO YOU, DYLAN. BUT NOT ABOUT EVERYTHING.
COME TO THE PARK WHERE WE FIRST MET.
THIRTY MINUTES.
IF ROSSI COMES, I DISAPPEAR FOR GOOD.
I looked at Luca.
"Absolutely not," he said.
"I didn't ask."
"Good. Then we agree."
"We don't."
"Dylan."
I held up the phone.
"Grant knows what Marco wanted from my grandmother. He may know who broke into my apartment."
"And he manipulated you for two years."
"Which is why I know when he's scared."
I enlarged the photograph.
Grant was smiling.
But his left hand was clenched against his coat.
He always did that when he was afraid.
"He is terrified," I said.
Luca's expression changed.
"That does not make him safe."
"No. It makes him useful."
Matteo muttered, "She really is Elena's granddaughter."
This time Luca did smile.
Only for a second.
Then he looked at me.
"You are not going alone."
"He said -"
"I heard what he said."
"Then trust me."
That stopped him.
I stepped closer.
"Not your men. Not a convoy. Me. You stay out of sight. If I signal, you come. If I don't, you let me talk."
He studied my face for a long time.
Then he nodded.
"Fine."
It was the first time Luca Rossi had trusted me with the risk instead of trying to take it from me.
I wish I could say that trust made the next hour easier.
It did not.
Because when I reached the park, Grant was already waiting.
And the first words out of his mouth were not an apology.
They were:
"Dylan, Marco Bellini didn't hire me to find your grandmother."
May you like
He looked over my shoulder, terrified.
"He hired me to find you."
