Chapter 3 - My Mother Was Supposed To Be Dead
I spent the night staring at a photograph of my mother.
She looked younger than I remembered.
Happy.
Alive.
Standing beside Lorenzo's mother.
I couldn't stop wondering what happened after that photograph was taken.
If my mother survived Saint Verena, where did she go?
Why did she never come back?
Why did she let me believe she was dead?
And who had convinced everyone otherwise?
At 6:30 a.m., I found Lorenzo in the library.
He hadn't slept.
Neither had I.
“You heard the call,” I said.
“Yes.”
“I want answers.”
“I know.”
“Did you believe him?”
“I believe someone wants you to believe your mother is alive.”
“That's not the same thing.”
“No.”
He pushed a folder toward me.
Inside were old hospital records.
Saint Verena.
Twenty-six years ago.
I read them.
Patient: Elena Romano.
Status: deceased.
Time: 11:43 p.m.
Cause: cardiac arrest.
I stared at the page.
“That's my mother.”
“Yes.”
“The record is real.”
“Yes.”
“But the photograph…”
“Was taken three days before the reported death.”
My stomach twisted.
“Then someone changed the records.”
“Most likely.”
I looked at him.
“How much have you investigated?”
“Twenty-six years.”
I blinked.
“You've spent that long?”
“Whenever you believe someone killed your mother, you don't stop.”
I folded the paper.
“Why were you looking for her?”
“Because she was the last person my mother spoke to.”
“What did your mother say?”
Lorenzo hesitated.
“She told me to find Elena.”
“What exactly?”
“Find the woman who remembers.”
“Remembers what?”
“The ledger.”
“What ledger?”
He looked at the old photograph.
“My family's money wasn't built only on legitimate businesses.”
I said nothing.
“I knew that when I was seventeen.”
“You're telling me now?”
“I didn't want you to know.”
“Why?”
“Because knowing made people disappear.”
I looked down.
“Like my mother?”
“Yes.”
“And yours?”
“Yes.”
We sat in silence.
Then the library doors opened.
Claudio entered.
“We found the sender.”
Lorenzo stood.
“Who?”
“An old nun at Saint Verena.”
We drove there immediately.
The abandoned hospital sat outside Queens, surrounded by overgrown trees.
An elderly woman waited inside the chapel.
Her name was Sister Beatrice.
She looked at me and started crying.
“You have Elena's eyes.”
I couldn't speak.
“You knew my mother?”
“Yes.”
“Did she survive?”
Sister Beatrice looked toward Lorenzo.
“Your mother survived that night.”
My chest tightened.
“What happened?”
“She was taken.”
“By whom?”
“Men who worked for a company called Black Meridian.”
Lorenzo's jaw clenched.
“That name again.”
“You know it?”
“I've been tracking them for years.”
Sister Beatrice continued.
“They wanted the ledger.”
“What ledger?”
“The one your mother had found.”
“Why was it important?”
“It listed every shipment, every payment, every official who had been bought.”
I looked at Lorenzo.
A web.
A network.
Power.
Money.
Murder.
“What happened to my mother?”
“She escaped.”
My breath stopped.
“Where did she go?”
Sister Beatrice hesitated.
“Boston.”
“Why?”
“To protect you.”
“Where is she now?”
The nun looked at me.
“She was alive twelve years ago.”
My knees weakened.
“Twelve years?”
“She sent letters.”
“To me?”
“No.”
“To whom?”
Sister Beatrice looked at Lorenzo.
“To his father.”
He went still.
“My father knew.”
“Yes.”
“Where are the letters?”
The nun reached into a wooden box.
“Your mother left one for you.”
I opened it.
The handwriting was unmistakable.
Julia,
If you are reading this, I failed to come home.
But please understand.
Leaving you was the only way I could keep you alive.
There are people who believe you carry something that belonged to me.
Do not trust anyone who says your past is buried.
It isn't.
And if you ever meet Lorenzo Greco—
The letter stopped.
A tear stain covered the final line.
I whispered:
“What does that mean?”
Sister Beatrice looked terrified.
“She never finished the letter.”
“Why?”
“She was taken.”
Lorenzo looked at me.
“When?”
“Twelve years ago.”
The same year my mother supposedly died.
I stared at him.
“You knew.”
“No.”
“You knew she might be alive.”
“I suspected.”
“You hired me because of her.”
“Yes.”
“Did you ever love my mother?”
His eyes widened.
“What?”
“My mother. Did you know her personally?”
“No.”
Then Sister Beatrice spoke.
“He did.”
We both turned.
“What?”
The nun looked at Lorenzo.
“Your father brought young Lorenzo to Saint Verena the night Elena saved him.”
I stared.
“You?”
Lorenzo's face had gone pale.
“I don't remember.”
“You were fourteen.”
He closed his eyes.
“My father said my mother died there.”
Sister Beatrice nodded.
“Your mother didn't die alone.”
She looked at me.
“Elena was the one who stayed with her.”
I felt tears rise.
Our mothers had known each other.
And both men had lied about the night they died.
Then Sister Beatrice pulled out a second object.
A small black leather notebook.
“This belonged to Elena.”
I opened it.
Inside were handwritten notes.
Names.
Dates.
Locations.
Then I saw one name repeated over and over.
Greco.
Greco.
Greco.
But not Lorenzo's father.
Another.
Matteo Greco.
Lorenzo's uncle.
The same man everyone believed died twenty-two years ago.
Lorenzo looked at the pages.
“My uncle was responsible.”
Sister Beatrice nodded.
“He still is.”
A sound came from outside.
A car door slammed.
Then gunfire shattered the stained-glass windows.
Lorenzo pulled me down.
Claudio returned fire.
Sister Beatrice screamed.
Someone shouted:
“Take the notebook!”
Lorenzo looked at me.
“They know we found it.”
I grabbed the notebook.
“Then let's make sure they don't get it.”
We ran through the underground passage beneath the chapel.
Behind us, the old hospital erupted with gunfire.
And as we fled, Lorenzo looked at me with an expression I had never seen before.
Not fear for himself.
Fear for me.
Because the notebook had confirmed something neither of us wanted to hear.
May you like
My mother's disappearance was connected to the Greco family.
And the man who sent the roses knew it.
