Chapter 4 - THE MAN MATTEO FEAREDAdrian Rossi had always been easy to like.
That was his most dangerous quality.
At forty-two, he had the polished confidence of a surgeon and the manners of a politician. He remembered birthdays, sent expensive wine at Christmas, and had held Vincent upright at Elena’s funeral when grief made standing almost impossible.
He also ran the hospital that had destroyed Matteo’s blood samples.
Vincent watched his cousin cross the bedroom.
“Look at you,” Adrian said warmly. “I hear someone’s making progress.”
Matteo stared at the blanket.
Clara moved beside his wheelchair.
Adrian noticed her.
“You must be the miracle worker.”
“Caretaker,” Clara corrected.
“I’ve heard impressive things.”
Vincent studied Matteo.
The boy’s breathing had changed.
Fast.
Shallow.
Adrian reached toward his shoulder.
Matteo recoiled so violently his wheelchair struck the bedside table.
A glass shattered.
Everyone froze.
Adrian withdrew his hand.
“Easy, buddy.”
Matteo began trembling.
Clara crouched immediately.
“Look at me.”
Matteo’s eyes locked on hers.
“You’re here.”
His breathing hitched.
“You’re safe.”
Vincent saw Adrian watching.
Not concerned.
Assessing.
That expression lasted less than a second.
It was enough.
Vincent stepped between his cousin and the boy.
“He’s tired.”
Adrian smiled.
“Of course.”
Vincent escorted him downstairs.
Inside the study, he poured two drinks.
His own remained untouched.
Adrian accepted his.
“You seem tense.”
“My son spoke.”
Adrian looked genuinely surprised.
“That’s wonderful.”
“He said he was scared.”
Adrian’s hand paused near the glass.
Vincent saw it.
“Any idea why?”
“After what he survived? I’m surprised he isn’t terrified of everything.”
“Were you at the charity event before the explosion?”
Adrian looked at him.
“Yes.”
“You saw Matteo?”
“For five minutes.”
“Did you give him anything?”
The silence changed.
Adrian smiled carefully.
“Is this an interrogation?”
“Conversation.”
“You’re terrible at those.”
Vincent almost smiled.
Adrian sipped his drink.
“I gave him chocolate cake. Elena was angry because it was close to bedtime.”
“Anything else?”
“No.”
Vincent nodded.
“Why?”
“Just trying to remember that night.”
Adrian’s expression softened.
“Don’t do that to yourself.”
“What?”
“Go backward looking for something you missed. I watched you spend a year blaming yourself.”
“I should have been in that car.”
“And then you’d be dead too.”
“Maybe.”
Adrian leaned forward.
“Matteo needs the father he has. Not the dead one you think would have been more useful.”
It sounded compassionate.
Once, Vincent would have believed it.
Now all he heard was skill.
After Adrian left, Clara emerged from the adjoining room.
“You heard?”
“All of it.”
“Chocolate cake.”
“Could have carried a drug.”
Vincent’s face hardened.
“We need proof.”
“We need Matteo.”
“No.”
“He remembers something.”
“He also nearly had a panic attack.”
“I’m not suggesting we interrogate him.”
“Then what?”
“Let him tell us in his own way.”
The next morning, Clara brought art supplies.
Matteo looked offended.
She placed crayons on the table.
“You hate these.”
He nodded.
“Good. So do I.”
Vincent watched from the doorway.
Clara drew an awful-looking horse.
Matteo stared.
“What?”
He pointed.
“You think it’s bad?”
Another nod.
“It’s clearly magnificent.”
Matteo rolled his eyes.
Vincent covered a smile.
Clara drew a stick figure beside a black car.
“Sometimes memories are easier when we don’t use words.”
Matteo went still.
She did not push.
She slid the paper toward him.
“Draw anything.”
For twelve minutes, nothing happened.
Then Matteo chose a red crayon.
He drew a rectangle.
A table.
Then a cake.
A man beside it.
Black hair.
Glasses.
Adrian wore glasses only for reading.
Vincent’s pulse increased.
Matteo changed crayons.
He drew a cup.
Then a hand.
Then something small above the cup.
A circle.
Clara whispered, “A pill?”
Matteo shook his head violently.
He drew lines.
Drops.
Liquid.
Vincent clenched his jaw.
“Someone put something in your drink?”
Matteo froze.
Clara looked toward Vincent.
Too direct.
Vincent cursed himself.
He stepped back.
Matteo’s hand shook.
Then slowly, he nodded.
Vincent felt murder become very simple.
Clara placed her hand over the paper.
“Was this before the cake?”
Matteo nodded.
“Did you drink it?”
Another nod.
“Did you feel sick?”
Matteo touched his legs.
Clara’s eyes met Vincent’s.
Then Matteo did something unexpected.
He chose another crayon.
He drew a second man behind Adrian.
Taller.
A scar across the face.
Vincent’s blood turned cold.
He knew that scar.
Dominic Vale.
His security chief.
His oldest friend.
The man currently investigating Clara.
Vincent stared at the drawing.
“Matteo.”
Clara warned him with her eyes.
But he couldn’t stop.
“Was Dominic there?”
Matteo looked at him.
Then shook his head.
Vincent frowned.
Matteo pointed repeatedly at the drawing.
Not the man.
The scar.
Then he drew a line through it.
Wrong.
Not Dominic.
Someone who looked like him?
Clara studied the picture.
“Are you saying the man wore something?”
Matteo hesitated.
Then nodded.
“A mask?”
Nod.
Vincent’s mind began racing.
A disguise.
Someone wanted witnesses to remember Dominic.
Before he could continue, the estate alarm sounded.
A sharp electronic shriek.
Vincent turned.
Dominic’s voice came through his radio.
“Security breach. East garden.”
Vincent drew his pistol.
Clara immediately moved Matteo away from the windows.
A gunshot cracked outside.
Then another.
“Lock the room,” Vincent ordered.
“I’m staying with him.”
Vincent ran.
His guards spread through the estate.
Near the east wall, one attacker lay dead.
Another escaped over the outer fence.
Dominic stood above the body, breathing hard.
Vincent looked down.
The dead man wore tactical clothing.
No identification.
But inside his jacket was a photograph.
Clara.
Crossed out in red.
Vincent’s rage sharpened.
“They came for her.”
Dominic nodded.
“Looks that way.”
Vincent looked toward the house.
Someone knew Clara was investigating.
Which meant the threat was already inside the family.
That night, Vincent moved Clara into a bedroom beside Matteo.
“You’re not sending me away?”
“No.”
“That would be safer.”
“For whom?”
“Everyone.”
“No.”
Clara studied him.
“You don’t trust me.”
“I trust someone wants you dead.”
“That isn’t the same thing.”
“It’s enough tonight.”
She looked toward Matteo’s closed door.
“He needs stability.”
“So do I.”
The admission escaped before Vincent could stop it.
Clara looked at him.
For once, neither had a sharp response.
Vincent lowered his voice.
“When Elena died, I built walls around him.”
“And cameras.”
“And guards.”
“And rules.”
“I thought if I controlled everything, nothing else could happen.”
Clara nodded gently.
“But something still happened.”
“Yes.”
“And now?”
Vincent looked at Matteo’s door.
“Now I don’t know who I’m protecting him from.”
Clara’s voice softened.
“Start with the people he’s afraid of.”
Vincent looked at her.
“And who are you afraid of?”
She did not answer.
Instead she entered her room.
Vincent stood there several seconds before walking away.
Inside, Clara locked the door.
Then opened the bottom drawer.
Hidden beneath folded clothing was an old photograph.
Her father.
Arthur Bellamy.
Beside him stood Gabriel Rossi.
And beside Gabriel stood one other man.
Adrian.
On the back, her father had written:
If anything happens to me, do not trust the Rossi doctor.
Clara had spent six years believing that warning meant Gabriel.
Now she knew better.
But beneath the photograph was something even more terrifying.
A recent envelope.
Postmarked three weeks before she accepted the caretaker job.
Inside was a handwritten message.
Claire, Matteo is alive because the dose was incomplete. Finish what I started before Adrian realizes you know. — Dad
Clara stared at the note.
Her father was not missing.
May you like
He was alive.
And somehow he knew exactly what had happened to Matteo.
Related Stories
