Chapter 4
Vincent did not sleep.
Neither did I.
At dawn, I found him sitting alone outside the villa.
He held the old recipe card.
I sat several feet away.
“You think Michael betrayed you.”
Vincent did not look up.
“I think facts matter more than what I want to believe.”
“My father wrote that.”
He glanced at me.
“What?”
“Truth before loyalty.”
Vincent gave a tired smile.
“Smart man.”
“I barely remember him.”
“You remember enough.”
I looked toward the hills.
“I remember his hands.”
Vincent waited.
“They were always stained with ink.”
I laughed quietly.
“I thought it came from fixing fishing nets.”
Vincent shook his head.
“My father's accountants used fountain pens.”
That tiny fact made everything hurt again.
My entire childhood had been built around partial truths.
Vincent folded the recipe card.
“Michael has always wanted more responsibility.”
“In your business?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe he called DeLuca because of that.”
“He has no reason to speak to Roberto without telling me.”
“What kind of relationship do they have?”
Vincent finally looked at me.
“That is what frightens me.”
“What?”
“I don't know.”
By noon, Michael called.
Vincent stared at the screen before answering.
“Dad.”
Michael sounded calm.
“Where are you?”
Vincent looked at me.
“At work.”
“In Sicily?”
Vincent's expression hardened.
“Who told you?”
Pause.
“People talk.”
“Which people?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes.”
Michael sighed.
“Roberto mentioned it.”
Donna Maria stood across the room.
Vincent put the phone on speaker.
“When did you speak with Roberto?”
“Recently.”
“How recently?”
“Yesterday.”
Vincent's hand tightened.
“Why?”
“Dad, what is this?”
“Answer me.”
Michael's voice sharpened.
“He offered me a business opportunity.”
“What business?”
“Something outside the family.”
Vincent laughed bitterly.
“There is no business outside the family with Roberto DeLuca.”
“You don't own everyone I speak to.”
“No. But I expect my son not to hide meetings with men who spent twenty years stealing from us.”
Silence.
Michael finally said, “What are you talking about?”
Vincent looked at Donna Maria.
“I found my mother.”
The silence on the other end changed.
Not surprise.
Fear.
I saw Vincent notice it too.
“Michael?”
His son breathed out.
“You found her.”
Not “Grandma is alive?”
Not “How?”
You found her.
Vincent closed his eyes.
“You knew.”
“No.”
“You knew she might be alive.”
“Dad—”
“How long?”
Michael said nothing.
Vincent's voice dropped.
“How long?”
“Six months.”
Donna Maria covered her mouth.
Vincent stood.
“You knew for six months?”
“Roberto told me.”
“And you said nothing?”
“He said she was dangerous.”
Vincent stared at the phone.
“My mother?”
“He said she had records that could destroy everything.”
Vincent laughed once.
“Everything.”
“Dad, listen to me.”
“No. You listen.”
His voice became cold.
“You knew your grandmother might be alive, and you kept it from me because Roberto told you there was money at risk.”
“It wasn't just money.”
“What else?”
“Our future.”
Vincent's expression went empty.
I understood that phrase immediately.
Our future.
Money.
Power.
Control.
The same poison that had destroyed the generation before them.
Michael continued.
“Roberto said if those records came out, federal investigations would reopen. Accounts could be frozen. Businesses could collapse.”
Vincent said nothing.
“You built everything for me.”
Michael sounded desperate now.
“I was protecting what you created.”
“No.”
Vincent's voice was quiet.
“You were protecting what you wanted.”
“What's the difference?”
Vincent flinched.
That question broke something in him.
He looked at his mother.
Then at me.
“My father asked me something similar once.”
Michael went silent.
Vincent continued.
“I didn't understand then.”
“Dad.”
“Where are you?”
Another pause.
“New York.”
“Stay there.”
“Why?”
“Because until I understand what you have done, you are not to come near your grandmother.”
“You can't order me—”
Vincent hung up.
His hands were shaking.
Donna Maria walked toward him.
“My grandson.”
Vincent laughed painfully.
“Not exactly the introduction I imagined.”
She touched his cheek.
“He is frightened.”
“He lied.”
“Yes.”
“He chose Roberto.”
“He chose what Roberto promised him.”
Vincent stepped away.
“Do not excuse him.”
“I am not.”
Her voice hardened.
“I am telling you what fear does to families like ours.”
He looked at her.
“It makes children become their fathers.”
That silenced him.
Later that day, we went to Palermo.
Not to the bank.
To the cemetery.
I needed to see where my father was buried.
Donna Maria led me through the olive grove behind a small church.
There was no headstone.
Only a flat stone beneath an old tree.
She knelt.
“I came every year.”
I stood there.
For so long, I had imagined confrontation if I ever found my father.
I planned to ask why he left me.
Why I was not enough.
Instead, he had died trying to protect me.
I sank to my knees.
“I hated you.”
My voice cracked.
“I hated you for nineteen years.”
Donna Maria cried behind me.
I touched the stone.
“I am sorry.”
The grief came hard.
Vincent stood several yards away.
He gave me privacy.
That meant more than words.
When I finally stood, I noticed something scratched into the stone.
A number.
I wiped dirt away.
“Donna Maria.”
She came closer.
“What?”
“Did you put this here?”
Her face changed.
“No.”
Vincent joined us.
The number had eight digits.
Then two letters.
“Account reference,” he said.
I looked at him.
“You're sure?”
“I've seen formats like it.”
Donna Maria whispered, “Antonio.”
My father had left something behind.
Even after death.
We returned to the villa.
Vincent gave the number to Russo.
An hour later, he called back.
“You were right.”
Vincent put him on speaker.
“What is it?”
“A dormant trust account in Switzerland.”
My heart pounded.
“Owner?”
Russo hesitated.
“Antonio Bellini.”
I stopped breathing.
“How much?”
“That's the strange part.”
“What?”
“The account contains almost nothing.”
Vincent frowned.
“Then why hide it?”
Russo continued.
“Because the money is irrelevant.”
“What is in it?”
“A digital archive.”
The room went silent.
Russo took a breath.
“Financial records. Audio recordings. Scanned letters.”
Vincent looked at Donna Maria.
“From when?”
“Twenty-three years ago through six months ago.”
My stomach tightened.
“Six months ago?”
“Yes.”
Vincent stood.
“That means somebody has been adding to it.”
Russo's next words chilled all of us.
“Exactly.”
I looked at Donna Maria.
“If my father died twenty years ago…”
May you like
Vincent finished the thought.
“Then someone else knows the account exists.”
