Chapter 7 - The Worst Thing Carlo Moretti Ever Did
Carlo asked us to meet at the Moretti family chapel.
Of course the Mafia had a family chapel.
I had stopped being surprised.
It stood behind an old estate outside the city, small and stone, surrounded by bare winter trees.
Stefano entered first.
I followed despite his objections.
Carlo Moretti waited beside the altar.
Seventy-two.
Gray hair.
Impeccable suit.
He looked less like a traitor than someone’s retired dentist.
That bothered me.
I wanted villains to look like villains.
Life rarely cooperates.
“Why is she here?” Carlo asked.
“Because her mother died carrying your secret,” Stefano replied.
Carlo looked at me.
Pain entered his eyes.
“Rose’s daughter.”
“Mara.”
“I remember you.”
“I don’t remember you.”
“You were sixteen. You wore braces.”
“Fantastic.”
A ghost of a smile.
Then Stefano stepped between us.
“Luca.”
Carlo’s face collapsed.
For the first time, I understood that whatever happened nineteen years ago had never ended for him either.
“Tell me.”
Carlo sat.
“Barone took Luca because Salvatore planned to testify.”
Stefano remained standing.
“I know.”
“He called me.”
“When?”
“The night before your father died.”
“What did he want?”
“The meeting location.”
“And you gave it.”
“Yes.”
The word seemed to strike the walls.
Stefano’s hands curled.
I moved closer, not touching him.
Carlo saw.
“Your father ordered me not to.”
Stefano laughed once.
Cold.
“Yet here we are.”
“Barone put Luca on the telephone.”
Carlo’s voice broke.
“He was crying.”
Stefano turned away.
Carlo continued because stopping would have been cowardice.
“He said they would kill him unless I told them where Salvatore was meeting the federal agent.”
“And you believed them.”
“I wanted to.”
“You traded my father.”
“I traded my brother for your brother.”
“No.”
Stefano turned.
“You traded both.”
Carlo flinched.
“Yes.”
Silence.
“Did my father know?”
Carlo nodded.
“I told him.”
“When?”
“Twenty minutes before he left.”
Stefano stared.
“He knew you betrayed him?”
“Yes.”
“And he went anyway?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Carlo began crying again.
“Because he thought if he canceled the meeting, Barone would know the location had been compromised and kill Luca immediately.”
Stefano looked almost physically struck.
“He walked into it?”
“To buy time.”
My throat tightened.
“What happened at the meeting?” I asked.
Carlo looked at me.
“Harker was waiting. The federal agent never arrived.”
“Why?”
“Bought.”
“Everyone?”
“Almost.”
Stefano moved closer.
“And my father?”
“Salvatore had a gun.”
Carlo swallowed.
“He could have killed Harker.”
“Why didn’t he?”
“Because Harker told him Luca would die before he reached the parking lot.”
Stefano’s eyes filled.
“He surrendered?”
Carlo nodded.
“Your father’s last words to me came in a voicemail.”
“What did he say?”
Carlo looked directly at Stefano.
“He said, ‘Don’t let my sons become me.’”
That broke something.
Not loudly.
Stefano simply sat in the nearest pew.
For nineteen years, he had built himself in the image of a father who apparently died trying to stop his sons from inheriting that exact life.
I sat beside him.
Carlo reached into his coat.
Every guard moved.
He raised empty hands.
“Letter.”
He produced an envelope.
Old.
Yellowed.
Stefano recognized the handwriting.
“My father.”
“He gave it to Rose two weeks before he died. Rose gave it back to me after the funeral because she feared your house would be searched.”
“Why didn’t you give it to me?”
“Because I was a coward.”
At least he knew the word.
Stefano opened it.
He read silently.
Then handed it to me.
Stefano,
If you inherit what I built, you will think that makes you powerful.
It does not.
Power that cannot be surrendered owns the man holding it.
If I fail, leave this life before it teaches you that fear is respect and obedience is love.
Take care of Luca.
The final line nearly destroyed him.
Stefano folded the letter.
Carlo stared at the floor.
“I failed both of you.”
“Yes,” Stefano said.
No comfort.
No easy forgiveness.
Just truth.
“Why are your men still helping Barone?” I asked.
Carlo looked up sharply.
“They aren’t.”
“Elias Trent reported to you.”
“He reported through my office.”
“Difference?”
“Yes.”
Carlo stood.
“Someone has been using my authorization.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
Stefano laughed bitterly.
“Convenient.”
Carlo looked offended.
“You think after telling you this I would lie about that?”
“I think nineteen years makes habits.”
Carlo accepted the blow.
Then he looked at me.
“Rose believed the second recording would identify the person inside Barone’s organization who handled the payments.”
“Paula said she gave it to someone.”
“Rose.”
I frowned.
“Paula gave it back to Mom?”
“Yes.”
“Then where is it?”
Carlo’s gaze moved to me.
“Rose said she would put it somewhere nobody would search unless Mara chose to remember her.”
My skin prickled.
“What does that mean?”
“I never knew.”
We returned to Stefano’s townhouse after dark.
He barely spoke.
At midnight, I found him standing on the terrace without a coat.
Snow had started.
“You’ll freeze.”
“I’ve survived worse.”
“That is not a health plan.”
He glanced at me.
I held out his coat.
He took it.
“Why red?” I asked.
“What?”
“The text.”
His expression softened.
“You said you didn’t know who I was when you replied.”
“I didn’t.”
“So why ‘wear red’?”
He looked toward the city.
“Your message arrived while I was sitting in my car outside this chapel.”
“Why?”
“It was Luca’s birthday.”
I understood.
“He would have been forty-one.”
“Yes.”
“And you were alone.”
“Yes.”
I almost smiled.
“So the lonely woman texted the lonely Mafia boss.”
“Apparently.”
“Still doesn’t explain red.”
He was quiet.
“After my father died, I came to St. Bridget’s looking for Rose.”
“Why?”
“I was eighteen. Angry. Drunk.”
That was difficult to imagine.
“She found me behind the church again.”
He gave a faint laugh.
“Same alley. Different wound.”
“What did she do?”
“Told me my father was dead and I was trying very hard to join him.”
That sounded exactly like Mom.
“She was wearing that red coat.”
He looked at me.
“She told me red was a useful color.”
“For what?”
“She said, ‘When everything in your life turns black, wear something that proves you’re still willing to be seen.’”
My eyes burned.
“That sounds like her.”
“So when your message arrived…”
“You told a stranger to wear red.”
“Yes.”
We stood in silence.
Then he said, “I’m sorry your birthday was empty.”
“It wasn’t.”
He looked at me.
“Not eventually.”
Something changed between us.
No music.
No cinematic wind.
Just a tired woman in borrowed clothes and a dangerous man holding an old letter from his dead father.
I touched his face.
He could have kissed me.
I think part of him wanted to.
Instead he covered my hand with his and asked, “Are you sure?”
Nobody had asked me that in a long time.
I leaned closer.
“Yes.”
The kiss was quiet.
Brief.
Nothing like the dramatic romances I had spent my life distrusting.
When we separated, Stefano rested his forehead against mine.
Then Anthony opened the terrace door.
He immediately regretted existing.
“Sorry.”
Stefano closed his eyes.
“What?”
“We repaired part of Rose’s cassette.”
I stepped away.
Anthony held up a digital recorder.
“There’s another sentence after Carlo’s name.”
We went inside.
He played it.
My mother’s damaged voice crackled through the speaker.
“Carlo knew Salvatore’s location…”
Static.
Then—
“…but he was not the man I feared most.”
Stefano’s face changed.
The recording continued.
“If Mara ever becomes involved, tell her this:
“The man responsible will already know who she is.”
A pause.
“And Stefano must never learn that we kept records on him too.”
I looked at Stefano.
He looked at me.
Whatever had begun on the terrace vanished beneath a new question.
Records on him.
“What did your mother know about me?” he asked.
I had no idea.
May you like
But somebody did.
And that somebody had just broken into my apartment searching for a red dress.
