Chapter 2 - The Recording That Shouldn't ExistNobody spoke.
Luca stood at the head of the table with both hands resting against the polished walnut.
"Name them."
Marco shook his head.
"Not until you hear the recording."
"You just told me someone in this family ordered our father killed."
"Yes."
"Then give me the name."
"If I give you a name without showing you why, you'll do exactly what I was afraid you'd do."
Luca stepped toward him.
Marco lifted both hands.
"Hit me again if you want. I deserve it for Elena. But I'm not giving you another piece of this story without proof."
Matteo smiled.
"How noble."
Marco looked at him.
"You should be more nervous."
Matteo's smile vanished.
Luca ordered everyone except Matteo, Marco, Dante, and me out of the room.
No one argued.
Within minutes, the dining room that had held twenty people contained five.
Marco reached into his jacket.
Two guards reacted instantly.
"It's a recorder," Marco said.
One guard removed a small digital device from the inside pocket and handed it to Luca.
Marco nodded toward it.
"Track twelve."
Luca pressed play.
Static.
Then voices.
Marco's.
Matteo's.
The recording had apparently been made in a restaurant or private club. Glasses clinked in the background.
Marco's recorded voice said, "I found the transfer."
Matteo answered, "Then you should've destroyed it."
"You paid Vincent Caruso two hundred thousand dollars two days before Dad died."
Silence.
Then Matteo said, "Your father was going to get everyone killed."
My skin prickled.
Marco's voice sharpened.
"So you murdered him?"
"I solved a problem."
Luca stopped the recording.
His face was terrifyingly calm.
Matteo leaned back.
"An edited conversation proves nothing."
Marco nodded.
"Keep listening."
Luca resumed.
Matteo's voice returned.
"I paid Caruso because I was told to."
"By who?"
A long silence followed.
Marco's recorded voice repeated the question.
"Who ordered it?"
Matteo laughed.
"You still think your father's death began with me?"
Another pause.
"You were a child, Marco."
"I was eighteen."
"You were a spoiled eighteen-year-old who thought your father was immortal."
"Name them."
Matteo's voice lowered.
"Some truths kill more people than bullets."
The recording ended.
Luca stared at his uncle.
Matteo didn't look afraid anymore.
He looked tired.
"You want the truth?" Matteo asked.
"Yes."
"No, you don't."
Luca took one step forward.
Matteo continued.
"Antonio was preparing to dismantle agreements that had kept this family alive for twenty years. He wanted out of certain businesses. He wanted to turn everything legitimate."
Marco frowned.
"He deserved to die for that?"
"I didn't say that."
"You paid the killers."
"I followed an order."
"From who?"
Matteo looked directly at Luca.
"I won't tell you."
Luca's voice was nearly emotionless.
"You will."
Matteo smiled sadly.
"That's what your father used to say."
Luca's hand curled into a fist.
I stood.
"Luca."
He looked at me.
It was enough.
He stepped back.
Matteo noticed.
His eyes moved between us.
That frightened me more than anything he'd said.
Because he'd just discovered I could stop Luca from doing something his anger wanted him to do.
And men like Matteo remembered weaknesses.
Or what they believed were weaknesses.
Luca ordered Matteo taken to a secured guest suite.
As guards led him away, Matteo stopped beside me.
"Black suits you, Elena."
I stared at him.
He glanced at my bruises.
"But next time, wear something with a higher collar."
Luca moved.
Two guards caught him before he reached Matteo.
Matteo laughed all the way down the corridor.
I couldn't stop shaking.
Luca turned to Dante.
"I want two men outside Elena's door."
"Four," Dante said.
"Good."
Marco spoke.
"Don't use anyone who worked for Matteo before you took over."
Dante looked offended.
"I know how to choose security."
"Do you?"
Their eyes met.
Something passed between them.
Luca noticed.
"So did I," he said quietly.
Dante looked away first.
Later that night, I stood in my bedroom staring into the mirror.
Without the scarf, the bruises looked worse.
Four fingerprints.
Dark purple against my skin.
Evidence.
That was what Luca had called them.
Not shame.
Not something to hide.
Evidence.
I washed my face and reached for the lamp.
Something white caught my attention.
An envelope sat on my pillow.
My name was written across it.
ELENA.
I froze.
There were four guards outside my door.
My room had been searched.
Nobody should have been able to enter.
I opened the envelope.
Inside was a photograph.
It had been taken three days earlier.
Luca and I were walking through the mansion garden.
I was laughing at something he'd said.
He was looking at me instead of the path.
Someone had drawn a red X over my face.
On the back were seven words.
YOU HEARD THE WRONG CONFESSION.
Underneath:
THE TRAITOR SITS AT LUCA'S RIGHT HAND.
My blood turned cold.
I ran to the door.
The guards immediately turned.
"Where's Luca?"
"In his study."
I didn't wait.
I walked quickly through the hallway, then faster.
When I reached the study, Luca was inside with Marco.
Marco sat in a chair with no weapon and a bruise forming along his jaw.
Luca stood near the fireplace.
I handed him the photograph.
His expression changed.
"Where did you get this?"
"My pillow."
Marco stood.
"What?"
Luca opened the door.
The guards outside my room were questioned within minutes.
None had seen anyone enter.
The housekeeper hadn't changed the sheets.
Dante checked the cameras.
Nothing.
No hallway movement.
No suspicious door access.
Which meant whoever had entered my bedroom knew exactly where the blind spots were.
Marco looked at the note.
"The traitor sits at Luca's right hand."
Luca glanced toward him.
Marco gave a bitter smile.
"Technically, that's usually Matteo."
"Or you."
"Also true."
Then both men looked toward the doorway.
Dante stood there.
His face unreadable.
I wished I hadn't noticed.
At 2:13 in the morning, Luca ordered another complete security sweep.
At 3:02, one of the kitchen staff was discovered unconscious in a pantry.
At 3:16, security found a small bottle hidden near the upstairs service elevator.
At 3:28, a doctor confirmed what it contained.
A powerful sedative.
The cup it had been added to was sitting beside my bed.
The tea I'd been about to drink.
Luca stared at the cup.
Then he picked it up and threw it against the wall.
Porcelain shattered.
"Someone inside this house is trying to take her."
Marco stood behind him.
"Not kill her."
Luca turned.
"What?"
"If they wanted Elena dead, they'd use something else."
Marco nodded toward the broken cup.
"They want her unconscious."
"Why?"
Marco looked at me.
"Because she heard Matteo."
He paused.
"And because whoever ordered Dad's murder now knows we're looking."
I hugged my arms around myself.
Luca noticed.
He took off his jacket and placed it around my shoulders.
It was warm.
It smelled like cedar and him.
"We're leaving."
Marco frowned.
"Where?"
Luca looked at his brother.
"You said you had original payment records."
"I have copies."
"Where are the originals?"
Marco hesitated.
"St. Agnes."
Luca stared.
"Our father's church?"
"There's an old safety deposit room beneath the rectory."
"You hid evidence there?"
"Dad trusted Father Brennan."
"Brennan died six years ago."
"Exactly. Nobody checks the dead man's basement."
Despite everything, I almost smiled.
Luca didn't.
"We go now."
Dante stepped forward.
"Boss, that's not smart."
Luca looked at him.
"Why?"
"We don't know who's watching."
"Then they can watch us leave."
Dante shook his head.
"Let me send a team first."
Marco laughed softly.
"What? So the evidence can disappear before we arrive?"
Dante's hand moved toward his gun.
Luca's voice cut through the room.
"Enough."
He looked at Dante.
"You stay here."
Dante seemed surprised.
"Boss—"
"That's an order."
For the first time, I saw something like hurt in Dante's expression.
He had served Luca for eleven years.
Luca had trusted him with everything.
Now trust itself had become dangerous.
Twenty minutes later, Luca, Marco, and I were in the back of an armored SUV heading downtown.
Rain streaked the windows.
No one spoke.
Then Marco looked at me.
"Elena."
I turned.
"I'm sorry."
Luca stared straight ahead.
Marco continued.
"I don't expect you to forgive me. I shouldn't have touched you."
"No."
"I was scared."
"So was I."
He nodded.
"I know."
"No, Marco. You don't."
My voice shook.
"You were afraid your plan would fall apart. I was afraid you were going to kill me."
He looked down.
I had never seen him ashamed before.
"I know that now."
Luca finally spoke.
"If you ever touch her again, you won't need to worry about forgiveness."
Marco nodded.
"I understand."
We reached St. Agnes shortly before four.
The old church stood between two apartment buildings, its stone steps shining beneath the rain.
Marco led us through a side entrance.
Downstairs.
Past a storage room.
Behind a metal cabinet was a narrow steel door.
Marco entered a code.
The door opened.
Inside were old records, locked drawers, and a single black case.
Marco lifted it onto a table.
"Here."
Inside were bank documents.
Photographs.
A handwritten ledger.
And a sealed envelope.
Luca picked it up.
His name was written across the front.
LUCA.
The handwriting was old.
Luca stared at it.
"My father's."
Marco looked shocked.
"I've never seen that."
Luca opened it.
Inside was one sheet of paper.
His eyes moved across the words.
Then stopped.
"What does it say?" I asked.
He handed it to me.
The letter was brief.
Luca,
If something happens to me, do not look first at my enemies.
Look at the man who taught you that blood must never be questioned.
Trust Thomas Marlowe. He knows where the numbers lead.
—Dad
My hands went numb.
Luca stared at me.
Marco stared at me.
I looked down again.
Thomas Marlowe.
My father's name.
A man I'd been told had died in a construction accident when I was nine years old.
My father.
I heard myself whisper, "Why is my father's name in Antonio DeSantis's last letter?"
Nobody answered.
Because none of us had one.
Then Luca turned another page in the ledger.
A payment sheet.
Two hundred thousand dollars to Vincent Caruso.
Fifty thousand to an offshore account.
And another series of transfers marked only with initials.
D.R.
Marco went pale.
Luca slowly raised his eyes.
"Dante Rossi."
My phone rang.
Unknown number.
I looked at Luca.
He nodded.
I answered.
Silence.
Then a man's voice said,
"You should have drunk the tea."
The call ended.
We rushed back to the mansion.
Dante was gone.
His office had been emptied.
May you like
And on the wall above my bed, someone had written one sentence in black marker.
NEXT TIME, THE SCARF WON'T SAVE YOU.
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