Chapter 5 - The House on South Morgan
The drive to my mother’s house took 23 minutes.
Luca made it in 14.
I sat beside him in the back of the SUV while Salvatore drove behind us.
“You should be at a hospital.”
“I’ll go after.”
“After what?”
“After I know your mother is safe.”
I looked at him.
Streetlights moved across his face.
“Why?”
He kept his eyes on the road.
“Because I know what it is to arrive too late.”
That ended the conversation.
My front door was open.
I was out of the vehicle before it stopped.
“Mom!”
Luca caught my arm.
“Wait.”
“I’m not waiting.”
“Someone may still be inside.”
“That’s my mother.”
“And getting yourself killed helps her how?”
I hated that he was right.
Two of his men entered first.
Thirty seconds felt like an hour.
Then one called, “Clear.”
I ran inside.
My mother lay in bed exactly where I had left her.
Her eyes opened.
“Rosie?”
I nearly collapsed.
She was alive.
I hugged her carefully.
“Why are there men in the house?”
Then she saw Luca.
Everything changed.
My mother’s face emptied of color.
“Vericio.”
Luca stopped.
“You know me?”
“I know your eyes.”
She looked at me.
“What have you done?”
“Mom?”
“You were never supposed to meet him.”
The words hurt.
“What are you talking about?”
She tried to sit.
I helped her.
“Your father made me promise.”
“Dad worked for the Vericios.”
Her eyes closed.
“So you know.”
“Some of it.”
Luca remained near the doorway.
My mother looked at him.
“You’re Vittorio’s son.”
“Yes.”
“Your father promised Matteo he would keep Rosalie away.”
Luca absorbed that.
“So that was why Salvatore opposed hiring her.”
I stared.
“Opposed?”
My mother’s eyes filled with tears.
“I didn’t know you were working for them.”
“How could you not know? I told you the family name.”
“You said Vericio Holdings. I thought it was a hotel.”
Despite everything, Marisol—who had arrived behind Salvatore—muttered, “Technically there are hotels.”
I almost laughed.
Almost.
My mother reached beneath her pillow.
She removed a small brass key.
It matched the one Bianca had thrown.
“There are 2.”
Salvatore stepped forward.
“Lucia.”
“You knew?”
“I knew Matteo gave you the second key.”
My mother looked furious.
“You had 14 years to tell my daughter the truth.”
“And put a target on her?”
“She became a maid in your house!”
Salvatore had no answer.
I took the key.
“What does it open?”
My mother looked at me.
“Union Station.”
I frowned.
“There are old storage lockers beneath the building. Your father rented one.”
“Fourteen years ago?”
“He prepaid through a trust.”
Of course he had.
Apparently my elevator-repairman father had lived a secret life involving mafia accountants and long-term railway storage.
I sat on the bed.
“Did you know how he died?”
My mother began crying.
“I knew it wasn’t an accident.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because you were 10.”
“I’m not 10 anymore.”
“No.” She touched my cheek. “And that frightens me more.”
A crash sounded downstairs.
Luca turned immediately.
Gunfire erupted.
His men shouted.
“Stay here.”
He left.
I heard furniture overturning.
My mother grabbed my wrist.
“Rosalie, listen to me. Your father said the ledger could destroy the person who ordered the warehouse fire.”
“Who?”
“He never told me.”
Another gunshot.
Then silence.
Luca returned minutes later.
Blood marked his sleeve.
Not his.
“They’re gone.”
“Who?”
“Two men. One escaped.”
Salvatore appeared behind him carrying a phone taken from one of the attackers.
“We have a problem.”
He showed Luca the screen.
A text message remained open.
If Bellucci has the key, take the mother.
The sender was saved under one initial.
B.
Everyone thought the same thing.
Bianca.
But Luca frowned.
“Too obvious.”
“What?”
“If Bianca wanted this hidden for 14 years, why send a message under B?”
Salvatore nodded slowly.
“A frame.”
My mother whispered, “There was another man.”
We turned.
“What man?”
“The night Matteo died. He called me.”
Her eyes moved toward Salvatore.
“He said if Matteo came home, I should tell him Bruno had discovered everything.”
Salvatore went rigid.
“Bruno?”
“Who is Bruno?” I asked.
Nobody answered.
Luca finally did.
“My uncle.”
The name meant nothing to me.
The reaction meant everything.
“Where is he?”
Luca looked toward the dark window.
“Dead.”
My mother shook her head.
“No.”
Luca stared at her.
“He died 8 years ago.”
“No,” she repeated. “I saw him.”
“When?”
“Three days ago.”
Silence filled the bedroom.
“He was the insurance man.”
My skin turned cold.
Carlo Vane had not visited my mother.
Bruno Vericio had.
May you like
Luca’s dead uncle had walked into our house.
And my mother had invited him inside.
