Chapter 3
Vincent moved faster than I expected.
One second he was beside me.
The next he was pulling Donna Maria away from the window.
“Back room.”
His guards drew their weapons.
I stood frozen with my father's letter in my hand.
Vincent grabbed my arm.
“Luca.”
I looked at him.
“Move.”
We rushed through the kitchen.
Donna Maria knew another exit.
Of course she did.
After twenty years of hiding, she had prepared for this.
Behind sacks of flour was a narrow door leading into an alley.
One guard looked outside.
“Clear.”
Vincent pushed his mother toward me.
“Take her.”
“What about you?”
“I'll follow.”
“No.”
He glared at me.
“This isn't a discussion.”
“She's your mother.”
“And that's exactly why you take her.”
Before I could argue, the front door rattled.
Someone knocked.
Not loudly.
That was worse.
Three calm knocks.
Donna Maria went white.
Then a voice called from outside.
“Maria.”
Vincent's face changed.
The voice continued.
“You have hidden long enough.”
Donna Maria whispered, “Roberto.”
Vincent's hand tightened.
He looked ready to go back.
His mother grabbed him.
“No.”
“He came for you.”
“And if you go out there angry, Antonio died for nothing.”
Vincent stopped.
She pointed at me.
“His father told him not to become the men who killed him.”
Then she pointed at Vincent.
“Your mother is telling you the same.”
Another knock.
Vincent breathed slowly.
Then he nodded to his guards.
“We leave.”
We slipped into the alley.
A third car waited around the corner.
Vincent's driver had moved it after sensing trouble.
We climbed inside.
As the car pulled away, I looked back.
Men in dark suits entered the bakery.
My childhood disappeared behind them.
Donna Maria gripped the silver cross around her neck.
“They know.”
Vincent stared out the window.
“How?”
She looked at him.
“Someone told them you were coming.”
The car became silent.
Vincent's guards exchanged looks.
He noticed.
“Say it.”
One guard, Marco, spoke carefully.
“Only a few people knew about Sicily.”
“Who?”
“You. Me. Paolo. Your pilot. Your lawyer.”
Vincent's jaw tightened.
“And Luca.”
Everyone looked at me.
I almost laughed.
“You think I called DeLuca?”
Vincent did not answer.
That hurt more than it should have.
“I brought you to your mother.”
Marco said, “We're not accusing you.”
“You just listed me.”
Vincent raised a hand.
“Enough.”
I looked at him.
“Do you trust me?”
He stared back.
For several seconds, I saw the mob boss everyone feared.
Suspicious.
Cold.
Used to betrayal.
Then he looked at the recipe card still sticking from his coat pocket.
“Yes.”
Marco frowned.
“Boss.”
“I said yes.”
He looked at me.
“You had twenty years to sell that card.”
That ended the discussion.
We drove to a villa Vincent owned outside Palermo.
I didn't ask why a man based in America had a protected house in Sicily.
Some questions answered themselves.
Donna Maria refused to rest.
She sat in the dining room with the ledger.
Vincent across from her.
Me beside them.
“This proves theft,” Vincent said.
“Not murder.”
“The photographs do.”
I picked them up.
The first showed my father meeting Carlo Moretti.
The second showed Roberto DeLuca handing a suitcase to a police official.
The third showed something else.
A car.
Burned.
Beside it, two bodies.
My chest tightened.
“Who are they?”
Donna Maria answered.
“Men who tried to expose Carlo and Roberto before Antonio.”
Vincent looked sick.
“My father did this?”
“Yes.”
He stood.
“Why did nobody tell me?”
Donna Maria looked at him with heartbreaking patience.
“You were his son.”
“That doesn't mean I would have protected him.”
“You were twenty-nine.”
“So?”
“So you worshipped him.”
Vincent looked away.
That silence told me she was right.
He walked toward the window.
“My father told me you ran away.”
Donna Maria laughed without humor.
“He told me you chose America.”
“He said you hated the life.”
“I did.”
“That part was true?”
“Yes.”
Vincent turned.
“Did you hate me too?”
Donna Maria stood.
“No.”
His face broke again.
“Then why didn't you come?”
“Because Carlo threatened you.”
Vincent froze.
“What?”
“If I returned, if I contacted you, he said he would make you pay for my disobedience.”
“That makes no sense.”
“To men like your father, love is leverage.”
Vincent lowered himself into a chair.
I watched the words hit him.
My anger toward Donna Maria softened slightly.
She had lied to me.
But she had also lived with a monster.
Maybe survival had twisted every decision.
Vincent opened the ledger again.
“If DeLuca knows this still exists, he'll want it.”
Donna Maria nodded.
“He'll also want me.”
“Why?”
“Because Antonio told me about another record.”
My head lifted.
“What record?”
“A bank archive.”
Vincent frowned.
“The ledger tracks money through shell companies. The archive proves who ultimately received it.”
“Where?”
Donna Maria looked at the key inside the metal box.
“That opens a deposit vault in Palermo.”
Vincent picked it up.
“Then we go.”
“No.”
“Mom.”
“If Roberto is watching the bakery, he'll be watching the bank.”
Vincent smiled coldly.
“Good.”
Donna Maria slapped him.
Hard.
The room froze.
I stared.
Marco stared.
Even Vincent looked shocked.
“You will not throw your life away because you finally found me!”
Her voice shook.
“I waited twenty years for my son. I will not spend twenty minutes watching him become his father.”
Vincent touched his cheek.
Then, incredibly, he laughed.
A broken little laugh.
“I forgot how hard you hit.”
Donna Maria started crying.
He hugged her.
For the first time, I understood why the recipe had affected him so deeply.
This was not just a mother.
This was the last place in his life where he had once been innocent.
That evening, Vincent's lawyer in New York called.
His name was Anthony Russo.
Vincent put him on speaker.
“Anthony, who knew I was traveling?”
A pause.
“Your immediate staff.”
“Who specifically?”
“Marco. Paolo. Me. Logistics.”
“Anyone speak to DeLuca?”
“No.”
Vincent looked at us.
“Check.”
“I already did.”
That surprised him.
Russo continued.
“Roberto DeLuca called your office six hours after you landed in Sicily.”
Vincent's eyes narrowed.
“Asked for what?”
“You.”
“Why?”
“He said he heard you were visiting family.”
Donna Maria went still.
Vincent whispered, “Nobody outside this room knows why I'm here.”
Russo hesitated.
“Vincent.”
“What?”
“I checked the outgoing records.”
The room tightened.
“One call went to DeLuca's private number before your flight left New York.”
Vincent stood.
“From whose phone?”
Another pause.
Russo answered.
“Your son.”
I looked at Vincent.
His face turned completely blank.
“You're certain?”
“Yes.”
Vincent ended the call.
Donna Maria whispered, “You have a son?”
He nodded once.
“Michael.”
“Does he know about me?”
“No.”
“Then why would he call Roberto?”
Vincent stared at the dark window.
“I don't know.”
May you like
But I saw it in his eyes.
He feared he already did.
