Chapter 3 - My Father’s Name
I remained hidden until Bianca left.
Her heels retreated down the corridor, one deliberate click at a time.
Luca locked the door.
Then he turned toward me.
“Come out.”
I did.
Neither of us pretended I had heard nothing.
“What did she mean?”
“Rosalie—”
“What did Bianca mean about my father?”
Luca’s face became guarded.
I had watched men in that mansion react to his silence. They usually began explaining themselves before he asked a question.
I understood why now.
Silence could be a weapon.
But I had spent years beside hospital beds.
Silence did not frighten me.
“My father was Matteo Bellucci.”
“I know.”
The words hit harder than I expected.
“You know?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
He looked toward the windows.
Snow had begun drifting through the darkness.
“Your father worked for mine.”
I laughed because the alternative was screaming.
“My father repaired elevators.”
“No.”
I stared at him.
Luca’s voice remained quiet.
“That was what he told you.”
The room tilted.
I grabbed the edge of the desk.
My father existed in fragments inside my memory: rough hands, Sunday pancakes, an old Bulls cap, the smell of winter on his coat.
He had died when I was 10.
My mother said there had been a highway accident.
“Was he part of this family?”
“He worked with my father, yes.”
“Doing what?”
“Things you’re better off never knowing.”
“I think we passed ‘better off’ several minutes ago.”
Luca lowered himself carefully into the chair.
Pain crossed his face.
“He kept financial records. Later he became involved in legitimate businesses the family controlled.”
“That isn’t what Bianca meant.”
“No.”
“Then tell me.”
“I don’t have the whole answer.”
“You knew him.”
“I was 20 when he died.”
“And?”
“And I was there.”
The room became perfectly still.
“You were where?”
“At the warehouse.”
I stepped backward.
My hand found the heavy folder on the desk.
For one irrational second, I wanted to strike him with it.
“Did you kill my father?”
Luca looked straight at me.
“No.”
I searched his face.
“How do I know?”
“You don’t.”
At least he had not insulted me with certainty.
He continued.
“My father ordered a meeting. Matteo had discovered money disappearing from several accounts. He believed someone inside the organization was stealing.”
“Who?”
“He never got the chance to tell us.”
My throat tightened.
“What happened?”
“The warehouse caught fire.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“No.”
That answer silenced me.
“Because I don’t believe it either.”
Luca looked down at his bloodied hands.
“Three men died. Matteo was one of them. My father called it an accident publicly.”
“And privately?”
“He spent the rest of his life looking for whoever caused it.”
“Did he find them?”
“No.”
A thought came slowly.
“Bianca’s husband.”
Luca looked up.
“What about him?”
“He was a captain.”
“Yes.”
“Was he there?”
“No. Antonio Lazzeri was supposed to be.”
My stomach tightened.
“Supposed to be?”
“He canceled that afternoon.”
“Why?”
“We never learned.”
I thought of Bianca’s face in the pantry.
The accusation about taking other people’s possessions.
Her perfume.
Her contempt.
Maybe it had never been about me.
Maybe she knew exactly whose daughter I was.
“Why was I hired?”
Luca did not answer quickly enough.
I understood.
“You knew.”
“Don Salvatore knew first.”
My chest burned.
“This entire year?”
“Yes.”
“Was I being watched?”
“At the beginning.”
“Why?”
“Because someone began asking about Matteo Bellucci again shortly before you applied.”
“Who?”
“We didn’t know.”
“So you let me walk into this house.”
“I told Salvatore not to hire you.”
The admission hurt in an unexpected way.
“Why?”
“Because your father died here.”
“Not here.”
“In this world.”
His eyes held mine.
“And I thought his daughter deserved to stay outside it.”
I wanted to hate him.
It would have been simpler.
Instead I saw a wounded man sitting beneath a desk lamp, carrying something that looked remarkably like guilt.
“Who shot you tonight?”
He went still.
“That has nothing to do with your father.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Then tell me.”
“No.”
I folded my arms.
“I just cleaned blood off you.”
“That does not grant security clearance.”
“It should grant me something.”
Against all reason, his mouth twitched.
Then his expression changed.
He looked at the leather folder.
“Where did you get that?”
“Marisol. She said Salvatore told her to bring it here.”
Luca reached for it.
He opened the clasp.
Inside were financial ledgers.
His eyes moved rapidly across the first page.
Then stopped.
“What?”
He turned the page toward me.
I understood almost none of the numbers.
But I understood handwriting.
My father used to write birthday cards in large slanted letters.
The same handwriting filled the margin.
My knees weakened.
“That’s his.”
“Yes.”
“How is that possible?”
Luca turned another page.
A small envelope slipped out.
On the front was one word.
ROSALIE.
My name.
Written by my dead father.
I stopped breathing.
Luca did not touch it.
He pushed the envelope toward me.
My fingers trembled as I opened it.
Inside was a short note.
Rosie, if this ever reaches you, then I failed to come home.
My vision blurred.
I kept reading.
Do not trust the person who tells you the fire was an accident.
Below it was another sentence.
The lion with the broken crown hides what they are all afraid to remember.
My eyes moved to the crest stamped into the folder.
The lion.
The broken crown.
Luca rose too quickly and winced.
“What does that mean?” I whispered.
“I don’t know.”
A sound came from outside.
Not footsteps.
Glass breaking.
Luca extinguished the desk lamp.
He grabbed the gun.
“Stay behind me.”
The door handle moved.
Locked.
Someone tried again.
Then came a muffled metallic sound.
Luca’s face changed.
“Rosalie.”
“What?”
May you like
“Get down.”
The first bullet tore through the office door.
