Chapter 8 - The Lie Inside the Truth
I found Stefano’s file on me by accident.
At least, I wanted to believe it was an accident.
Three days after Carlo’s confession, I walked into Stefano’s study looking for a charger.
A folder sat open on his desk.
My photograph was clipped inside.
Not the birthday photograph.
My driver’s-license photograph.
Below it:
MARA ELAINE BELL
AGE: 37
EMPLOYMENT: Development coordinator, Franklin Community Arts
ADDRESS
BANK
SISTER: ELIZABETH BELL
KNOWN ASSOCIATES
FINANCIAL STATUS
MEDICAL—
I stopped reading.
My entire life reduced to twelve pages.
I heard Stefano behind me.
“Mara.”
I turned.
“How long?”
He looked at the file.
Then at me.
“How long did you have this?”
“Since before I reached St. Bridget’s.”
The room went silent.
“Before?”
“Yes.”
“You told me you recognized my name.”
“I did.”
“No. You investigated me.”
“I confirmed who you were.”
“Those are different sentences describing the same violation.”
His jaw tightened.
“When your message reached Paula’s line, my security system flagged the surname Bell.”
“Automatically?”
“Yes.”
“How long before you texted me?”
He hesitated.
That hesitation answered everything.
“How long?”
“Seven minutes.”
My stomach dropped.
“You already knew I was Rose’s daughter when you wrote ‘Wear red.’”
“Yes.”
I laughed.
It hurt.
“You let me believe it was spontaneous.”
“The message was spontaneous.”
“But coming to the church wasn’t.”
“No.”
“What did you think I had?”
“Information.”
“Evidence?”
“Possibly.”
“The dress?”
“I didn’t know about the dress.”
“But you thought I might lead you to whoever killed your father.”
“Yes.”
Every tender moment rearranged itself.
His laugh.
The cake.
The prayer.
The terrace.
The kiss.
“Was any of it real?”
His face changed.
“Mara.”
“Answer me.”
“The reason I came was complicated.”
“That is rich-man language for yes.”
“The reason I stayed was not.”
I looked at him.
He stepped closer.
“I came because your name connected to my father’s death.”
“And stayed?”
“Because you asked me whether I performed standing.”
I almost laughed.
That made me angrier.
“Don’t.”
“I’m not making light of this.”
“You should have told me.”
“Yes.”
The immediate admission stole momentum from my anger.
I hated that too.
“You lied.”
“By omission.”
“Only liars care about the distinction.”
He accepted it.
“You’re right.”
I grabbed my coat.
“Where are you going?”
“Home.”
“No.”
I turned.
“Rule one.”
“This is different.”
“Because now you’re scared?”
“Yes.”
His honesty stopped me.
“I am frightened enough to lock every door in Philadelphia if it keeps you alive.”
“And that is exactly why my mother warned me.”
His expression hardened.
“What?”
“Goodness that demands obedience is not goodness.”
“That is not fair.”
“No. It’s painfully fair.”
“I am trying to protect you.”
“And you still think protection gives you ownership.”
“I have never—”
“You investigated my bank account before meeting me.”
He went silent.
I walked toward the door.
His guards looked at him.
Stefano stared at me for several seconds.
Then said the hardest thing a powerful man can apparently say.
“Let her go.”
Nobody moved.
“Mara will have two security cars at a distance,” he continued. “She chooses whether they remain.”
I looked at him.
“That’s still surveillance.”
“You know they’re there.”
He reached into a drawer and placed two photographs on the desk.
The men assigned to me.
Names beneath them.
Rule three.
“Your choice.”
I wanted to hate him.
Instead, against my will, I understood what he was trying to do.
Not enough to stay.
But enough not to slam the door.
My apartment had been repaired.
I spent the afternoon cleaning things that were already clean.
At six, Elizabeth called.
My younger sister.
One of the people who had canceled my birthday.
“I heard something happened at your building.”
“How?”
“Mrs. Alvarez.”
Of course.
“Are you okay?”
“I don’t know.”
A pause.
“I’m sorry about your birthday.”
“Were you really working?”
Silence.
That hurt more than expected.
“Liz?”
“No.”
I sat down.
“Why?”
“My marriage is falling apart.”
Everything in me softened.
“What?”
“I didn’t want to come and spend three hours pretending I was happy.”
“You could have told me.”
“I was embarrassed.”
I almost laughed.
There it was again.
Loneliness wearing a disguise.
“I thought nobody came because nobody cared.”
“I cared.”
“You still didn’t come.”
“I know.”
For the first time, I understood that people could love you and fail you simultaneously.
Maybe that was adulthood.
Maybe that was what my mother meant.
After the call, I pulled the red dress from its garment bag.
Stefano’s people had returned it.
I laid it across my bed.
One seam near the hem looked different.
Newer thread.
I remembered Anthony mentioning it.
I found scissors.
Carefully, I opened three stitches.
Something metallic clicked onto the floor.
A tiny silver key.
Then a rolled strip of photographic film.
And a folded note.
My hands shook as I opened it.
Mom’s handwriting.
Sweetheart,
If you find this, then you finally wore the dress again.
I sat on the floor.
I’m sorry that grief kept it hidden longer than fear ever could.
The key opens the music cabinet at St. Bridget’s.
What is inside does not belong to the Morettis or the Barones. It belongs to the families they hurt.
Do not give it to the strongest man.
Give it to the man willing to become weaker in order to do what is right.
My eyes filled.
Below that was one final line.
The prayer was never a code. It was a promise.
A noise came from the hallway.
I froze.
Someone knocked.
Three times.
I reached for my phone.
“Mara Bell?”
Male voice.
Polished.
Calm.
I looked through the peephole.
The man outside was in his sixties.
Silver hair.
Camel coat.
I recognized him from newspapers.
Vittorio Barone.
The man who had ordered Stefano’s father killed.
The man threatening Paula.
He smiled directly at the peephole as though he knew I was there.
“I’m not armed,” he said.
I did not open the door.
“What do you want?”
“To save your life.”
I almost laughed.
“Interesting strategy.”
“Stefano Moretti is using you.”
My hand tightened around the hidden key.
“I already figured that out.”
Barone smiled.
“Then perhaps we have something to discuss.”
“No.”
“Mara.”
Hearing my first name in his voice made my skin crawl.
“Your mother made the same mistake you’re making.”
“What mistake?”
“Believing Salvatore Moretti wanted redemption.”
I held my breath.
“He wanted immunity.”
Barone continued.
“He was selling everyone to save himself.”
“Go away.”
“I can prove it.”
“I said go away.”
Another pause.
Then Barone’s voice softened.
“Ask Stefano why Paula’s old number became his personal line.”
My pulse jumped.
“It wasn’t merely monitored.”
I said nothing.
“He requested that exact number eighteen years ago.”
Cold moved through me.
“Why?”
“Because Paula called him from it the night his father died.”
My heart stopped.
Barone stepped closer to the door.
“Stefano has known Paula was alive all along.”
I nearly opened the door.
Nearly.
Then I remembered my mother.
Do not give it to the strongest man.
I backed away.
Barone sighed.
“Ask him.”
Then he walked off.
I immediately called Stefano.
He answered on the first ring.
“Mara.”
“Did Paula call you the night your father died?”
Silence.
That was answer enough.
My eyes closed.
“Stefano?”
“Yes.”
“And you never told me.”
“No.”
“What did she say?”
Another silence.
Then his voice changed.
“She said three words.”
“What?”
“She said, ‘Rose has proof.’”
I looked at the red dress on my bed.
The tiny silver key lay beside it.
“Then you’ve known my mother had evidence for nineteen years.”
“Yes.”
My chest tightened.
“And when my birthday invitation arrived, you didn’t think it was fate.”
“No.”
“What did you think?”
His voice dropped.
“I thought someone had finally opened a door my father died trying to reach.”
I looked toward my apartment door where Barone had been standing.
“And now?”
A long pause.
“Now I wish I had never walked through it.”
“Why?”
“Because before I met you, Mara, I only had something to gain.”
May you like
His voice became quieter.
“Now I have something Barone can take.”
