Chapter 2
The reunion should have felt like a miracle.
Instead, the moment Donna Maria looked past Vincent and toward the road, I felt the old fear return.
I had seen that expression before.
I was nine years old the last time.
The night she disappeared.
Vincent held her tightly.
“Mom.”
She touched his face again and again.
“My Vincent.”
He laughed and cried at the same time.
“I thought you were dead.”
Donna Maria's smile faded.
“I know.”
Vincent stepped back.
“What happened?”
She looked at me.
That glance said everything.
Not here.
I moved toward the doorway.
“Inside.”
Vincent's two guards checked the street before following us.
The bakery smelled almost exactly the same as it had when I was a child.
Old wood.
Flour.
Olive oil.
Sugar.
For a moment, I was nine again.
Sitting on a stool while Donna Maria kneaded dough.
She had taken me in after my father disappeared.
She had taught me how to cook because she said food gave frightened people something warm to hold.
Vincent touched the counter.
“You kept the bakery.”
Donna Maria nodded.
“Not always.”
“What does that mean?”
She locked the front door.
Then she closed every curtain.
Vincent watched her.
“Mom.”
She turned.
“You cannot stay here.”
His face hardened.
“I crossed an ocean to find you.”
“And if anyone knows you are here, you may die.”
The guards immediately became alert.
Vincent almost smiled.
“People have tried.”
Donna Maria slammed her palm against the counter.
“This is not a joke!”
The room went silent.
She had raised her voice at Vincent Moretti.
I almost expected the ceiling to collapse.
Instead, Vincent looked like a boy being scolded.
“Tell me.”
Donna Maria sat down.
Her hands trembled.
I poured water for her.
She squeezed mine.
“You came back.”
“I had to.”
“You should not have.”
That hurt.
She saw it.
“No, Luca.”
She pulled me closer.
“I mean you should never have needed to.”
Vincent looked between us.
“How do you two know each other?”
Donna Maria sighed.
“Luca's father worked for your father.”
I froze.
That was new.
“My father?”
She looked at me sadly.
“Antonio Bellini.”
I had not heard that name spoken aloud in years.
“My father was a fisherman.”
“No.”
I stared at her.
“You told me he was.”
“I lied.”
Vincent leaned forward.
“What did Antonio do?”
Donna Maria hesitated.
Then she said it.
“He kept your father's books.”
Vincent's expression changed.
“My father had many bookkeepers.”
“Not like Antonio.”
I felt dizzy.
“Why did you lie to me?”
“To keep you alive.”
I stood.
“Alive from who?”
Donna Maria looked at Vincent.
“His father.”
Silence.
Vincent's face became stone.
“My father died fifteen years ago.”
“Yes.”
“So stop being afraid of him.”
Donna Maria shook her head.
“I am not afraid of your father.”
“Then who?”
“His partners.”
Vincent crossed his arms.
“My father had hundreds.”
“Three mattered.”
She counted them.
“Salvatore Greco. Enzo Marchetti. Roberto DeLuca.”
Vincent knew the names.
I could tell.
“Greco is dead.”
“Yes.”
“Marchetti too.”
“Yes.”
Vincent's jaw tightened.
“DeLuca lives in New York.”
Donna Maria lowered her eyes.
“That is why you cannot let him know I am alive.”
One guard shifted.
Vincent noticed.
“What?”
The guard hesitated.
“Boss, DeLuca attended your birthday dinner last month.”
Donna Maria closed her eyes.
“Then nothing has changed.”
Vincent sat slowly.
“Start from the beginning.”
She did.
Twenty-three years ago, Vincent's father, Carlo Moretti, used the bakery as more than a family business.
Money moved through it.
Cash.
Records.
Accounts.
Antonio, my father, discovered something he was never supposed to see.
Carlo and Roberto DeLuca had been stealing from their own organization.
Not thousands.
Millions.
They planned to blame several dead associates and disappear the money into foreign accounts.
Antonio copied the records.
“He wanted out,” Donna Maria said.
My hands shook.
“Where is he?”
Her face broke.
“Luca.”
I knew before she answered.
“He is dead.”
I stepped backward.
For nineteen years, I had imagined my father somewhere.
Maybe in France.
Maybe in America.
Maybe ashamed.
Maybe afraid.
Alive.
Donna Maria reached for me.
I pulled away.
“How?”
“He came here one night.”
Her voice cracked.
“He was bleeding.”
My stomach turned.
“He gave me a ledger.”
Vincent leaned forward.
“What ledger?”
“Proof.”
“Of what?”
“Everything.”
She looked at him.
“Your father. DeLuca. The money.”
Vincent stood.
“Where is it?”
Donna Maria laughed sadly.
“You sound just like Carlo.”
His face changed.
She touched his hand.
“That is why I hid from you too.”
Pain crossed Vincent's face.
“You thought I would hurt you?”
“I didn't know what kind of man you had become.”
That landed hard.
Nobody spoke.
Donna Maria continued.
“Antonio died before sunrise.”
I could barely breathe.
“Here?”
She nodded.
“I buried him.”
“Where?”
“In the olive grove behind the church.”
I turned away.
Tears burned my eyes.
My father had been dead my entire adult life.
And she had known.
“You should have told me.”
“You were nine.”
“You let me believe he abandoned me.”
“I let you hate him so you would stop looking.”
I spun around.
“That was not your choice!”
“No.”
She cried now.
“It wasn't.”
I looked at the woman who had raised me.
The woman I had loved like family.
For the first time, I didn't know who she was.
Vincent stepped between us.
“Luca.”
“Don't.”
“You have every right to be angry.”
“I said don't.”
He nodded and backed away.
That surprised me.
Donna Maria wiped her face.
“I am sorry.”
I couldn't answer.
Vincent returned to the larger question.
“The ledger.”
Donna Maria looked toward the old oven.
“There is a brick behind it.”
One guard moved.
She stopped him.
“No.”
Her eyes went to me.
“Luca must open it.”
I laughed bitterly.
“Why me?”
“Because Antonio left it for you.”
My heart stopped.
We moved the old iron rack.
Behind the oven was a section of cracked stone.
I remembered it.
As a child, Donna Maria never let me play there.
I pushed one brick.
It moved.
Behind it sat a metal box.
My hands shook as I pulled it out.
The lock had rusted away.
Inside were documents.
A leather ledger.
Three photographs.
A key.
And an envelope.
My name was written on it.
LUCA.
I stared at my father's handwriting.
I knew it from one birthday card I still kept.
Vincent stood behind me.
“Open it.”
I unfolded the letter.
My son,
If you are reading this, I did not survive.
I stopped.
Donna Maria sobbed quietly.
I continued.
Do not become the kind of man who killed me.
Truth without mercy becomes vengeance.
Justice without courage becomes silence.
You may someday meet Vincent Moretti.
If you do, do not judge him by his father's sins.
Judge him by what he chooses after he learns the truth.
I lowered the letter.
Vincent had gone pale.
Then one of his guards' phones buzzed.
He answered.
His expression hardened.
“Boss.”
Vincent looked up.
“What?”
The guard turned toward the window.
“We've got company.”
A black sedan had stopped outside.
Then another.
May you like
Donna Maria whispered one name.
“DeLuca.”
