Chapter 3 - THE ROOM WITH THE RED WALLS
Bianca slapped Tony before Rico did anything.
That probably saved someone from making a much worse decision.
“You kissed Elena?”
Tony grabbed his wife’s wrist.
“Don’t.”
Rico’s voice changed.
“Let her go.”
Tony did.
Slowly.
Every man in the restaurant understood that the evening had moved into territory where mistakes became permanent.
Tony looked toward the private corridor where Clara had disappeared with Leo.
“He’s three, Rico.”
Rico’s expression remained still.
“I heard you the first time.”
“He doesn’t know what kissing means.”
“Then explain it.”
Tony laughed.
“Explain what?”
“The red room.”
“I don’t know what he’s talking about.”
Bianca stared at her husband.
“You know exactly where there’s a red room.”
Tony turned.
“Bianca.”
“Your apartment.”
Silence.
Rico’s eyes narrowed.
“What apartment?”
Bianca laughed once.
No humor.
“The one Anthony told me was for visiting executives.”
Tony’s face hardened.
Rico asked, “Where?”
“Tribeca.”
Tony said:
“This is ridiculous.”
Bianca ignored him.
“West Broadway.”
Red lacquer walls.
Vintage bar.
Private entrance.
Tony bought the apartment through Moretti Development four years earlier.
Corporate asset.
Rico vaguely remembered approving it as executive housing.
He had never visited.
Elena apparently had.
“Leo was there?” Rico asked.
Tony looked at him.
“I don’t know.”
“Wrong answer.”
“Rico.”
“Was my son in your apartment while you were sleeping with my wife?”
Bianca covered her mouth.
Tony’s composure cracked.
“It wasn’t like that.”
There it was.
The universal phrase of people caught in precisely what something looked like.
Rico stepped closer.
“How was it?”
Tony lowered his voice.
“Elena was unhappy.”
Rico’s face became empty.
Clara would later learn that this was when Marco moved two steps closer.
Not because Rico threatened.
Because he didn’t.
“She was lonely,” Tony continued.
“Your marriage wasn’t what people thought.”
“And you were helping.”
Tony flinched.
“I didn’t plan it.”
“How long?”
Silence.
Bianca whispered:
“Anthony.”
Tony looked at his wife.
“Eight months.”
Bianca staggered backward.
Rico did not.
Eight months.
Elena had died six months ago.
Which meant for most of her final year alive, she had been sleeping with Rico’s cousin.
The room shifted beneath him.
He remembered Elena becoming distant.
Taking longer showers.
Sleeping with phone facedown.
He thought grief over her mother’s illness.
Then charity work.
Then his own absences.
He had spent nights at docks, clubs, meetings.
He had failed to ask.
But betrayal belonged to the person who chose it.
He refused to make her affair automatically his fault.
That lesson would take longer.
For now, he asked:
“Did she love you?”
Tony hesitated.
Bianca closed her eyes.
Rico repeated.
“Did Elena love you?”
“She said she did.”
That hurt.
Not visibly.
But something inside Rico broke.
“Did you love her?”
Tony looked toward Bianca.
Worst possible direction.
Bianca saw.
She removed her wedding ring.
Tony said:
“Don’t be dramatic.”
She laughed.
“You slept with your cousin’s wife for eight months.”
“I made a mistake.”
“No.”
Bianca placed the ring on the table.
“You made appointments.”
The line landed harder than shouting.
“You rented rooms.”
“You deleted messages.”
“You lied to my face.”
“You kissed her while her child watched.”
She stepped back.
“Those are scheduled mistakes.”
Tony’s jaw tightened.
“You’ve enjoyed everything my name bought you.”
Bianca looked at him.
“Yes.”
That surprised him.
“I liked the penthouse.”
“The clothes.”
“The Hamptons house.”
“The invitations.”
“I ignored rumors because I liked my life.”
Her eyes filled.
“That is my shame.”
Then she pointed at him.
“Your adultery is yours.”
Rico almost respected her for the distinction.
Then Leo screamed from the hallway.
Clara appeared carrying him.
“What happened?”
The boy pointed toward Tony.
“He mad.”
Tony hadn’t raised his voice.
Children read posture.
Rico crossed room.
“Leo.”
He took his son.
“Where was the red room?”
Leo pointed vaguely.
“Car.”
“You went there with Mama?”
“Yes.”
“Who drove?”
“Mr. Pete.”
Rico froze.
Peter Sloane.
Elena’s driver.
Killed in the same shooting.
Tony’s face changed.
Another detail.
Leo continued in fragments.
Mama brought him once.
He sat in car with Peter.
Then Mama came downstairs angry.
Tony followed.
They argued.
Then Tony kissed her.
Or maybe she kissed him.
Leo saw from car.
“Was that the night Mama died?” Rico asked.
Clara immediately interrupted.
“Too much.”
Rico stopped.
Right.
Leo’s eyes had gone glassy.
Clara said:
“Let him draw it tomorrow.”
Tony scoffed.
“You’re treating a toddler like a witness.”
Clara turned.
“He is a traumatized child who saw something adults hid.”
Tony moved toward her.
Rico stepped between them.
“Don’t.”
One word.
Tony stopped.
Rico looked at Marco.
“Get independent security.”
Tony stared.
“What?”
“Not Moretti.”
“What are you doing?”
“Preserving evidence.”
Tony laughed.
“You sound like a prosecutor.”
“Tonight that may keep you alive.”
That shut him up.
Rico called Detective Evelyn Shaw.
Not one of the officers who occasionally accepted Moretti favors.
A homicide detective who disliked him personally.
Perfect.
She answered.
“Moretti.”
“I need you to reopen Elena’s case.”
Long silence.
“Why?”
“New witness information.”
“Reliable?”
“Three years old.”
“What?”
“My son.”
Another silence.
“I’m coming.”
Tony stepped toward exit.
Marco blocked him.
“You can’t hold me.”
Rico looked at him.
“No.”
He was right.
No private imprisonment.
“I’m not.”
“Then move him.”
Marco stepped aside.
Tony did not leave.
Interesting.
Leaving might look guilty.
Staying meant questions.
Bianca left.
She did not look back.
Tony watched her go.
For the first time all night, he looked scared.
Detective Shaw arrived forty minutes later.
She spoke to Rico first.
Then Clara.
She refused to question Leo that night.
Good.
Child forensic interview tomorrow.
Tony volunteered nothing.
His lawyer arrived.
Also good.
Rules.
Process.
Rico hated every second.
The next morning, Clara expected to be fired.
Instead, Rico was waiting outside the restaurant at 6:30.
“You’re late.”
She stared.
“My shift starts at eleven.”
“Get in.”
“No.”
He blinked.
“No?”
“You can’t order civilians into cars.”
His driver coughed.
Rico looked almost offended.
“I need you to come with me.”
“Where?”
“My house.”
“No.”
He exhaled.
“Leo woke screaming at four and asked for you.”
Clara’s resistance changed.
Not disappeared.
Changed.
“Why me?”
“You told him the truth.”
“That is a terrible basis for attachment.”
“I know.”
Good.
“What do his therapist say?”
“Dr. Levin wants consistency.”
“Then she should be there.”
“She is.”
Clara studied him.
“I’m not becoming a nanny.”
“I didn’t ask.”
“You’re rich. Rich people turn help into employment too fast.”
Something flashed across his face.
“You’re very comfortable insulting me.”
“No.”
“I’m terrified.”
That surprised him.
“But I’m still right.”
He almost smiled.
Then said:
“I’ll pay your lost shift.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because then I’m working for you.”
“Fine.”
He called the restaurant owner.
“Clara needs the morning.”
She stared.
“You cannot—”
“I’m paying the restaurant, not you.”
“That is worse.”
“Probably.”
She got in anyway.
The Moretti penthouse overlooked Central Park.
Leo sat on the floor in pajamas beside Dr. Levin.
He ran toward Clara.
She knelt.
“Hi.”
“Mama red.”
“I know.”
Dr. Levin explained they would not interrogate.
They used drawing.
Play.
Simple questions.
Leo drew a red square.
Three stick people.
Mama.
Tony.
Leo.
Then black car.
Then something unexpected.
Another person.
A woman.
“Who’s that?” Dr. Levin asked.
Leo frowned.
“Aunt Bella.”
Bianca.
Rico looked up.
Bianca had been at the red apartment too?
Leo nodded.
“Mama yell.”
“At Bianca?”
“No.”
“At Tony?”
“No.”
Then he pointed to the woman.
“Aunt Bella yell Mama.”
Rico stared.
Bianca had known Elena was there.
Not rumors.
Not later.
She had confronted her.
Clara watched Rico’s face.
Another layer of betrayal.
Then Leo drew a fourth adult.
A man with a square head.
“Who?”
Leo said:
“Uncle Vic.”
Rico stopped breathing.
Victor Moretti.
Rico’s older brother.
Dead four years.
Car accident in New Jersey.
The man who had introduced Tony to half the businesses he now controlled.
The man Rico had mourned.
Why would Leo remember someone dead before he was born?
“He can’t,” Rico whispered.
Dr. Levin frowned.
“Maybe the name means someone else.”
Leo shook his head.
“Uncle Vic.”
Rico opened his phone.
Found photograph.
Victor.
Leo stared.
“No.”
Relief.
Then Rico scrolled.
A photograph of another man standing beside Victor.
Vincenzo “Vince” Rallo.
Victor’s former bodyguard.
Leo pointed immediately.
“Uncle Vic!”
Not Victor Moretti.
Vince.
A nickname child had misheard.
Rico stared at the man.
Vince Rallo disappeared the night Elena was killed.
Police believed he fled because he was involved.
Six months.
No trace.
Rico had spent millions searching.
Now Leo was saying Vince had been at Tony’s secret apartment before the murder.
That connection had never appeared in the official investigation.
Rico called Shaw.
Her answer came grimly.
“We found something too.”
“What?”
“Peter Sloane’s phone backup.”
Elena’s driver.
“Last deleted text before the shooting.”
Rico held breath.
“From Elena.”
“What did it say?”
Shaw read:
If Tony shows up, do not let Leo out of the car. I’m ending this tonight.
Rico closed his eyes.
Elena had not been running away with Tony.
May you like
She had been ending the affair.
And someone had killed her before she could tell Rico what happened next.
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