Chapter 12 - THE DEAD WOMAN IN MILWAUKEE
Z
Roman refused to believe it.
Then he refused to discuss not believing it.
Then he ordered three cars prepared for Milwaukee.
Sadi watched the emotional progression from the bedroom doorway.
“You’re going tonight?”
“Yes.”
“It’s almost midnight.”
“Yes.”
“You haven’t slept.”
“I’ll sleep later.”
“Roman.”
He opened the closet.
“Sadi.”
“You need to think.”
“I have thought for twenty-three years.”
“No. You’ve grieved for twenty-three years.”
He stopped.
She approached carefully.
“That woman might be your mother.”
Roman’s hands tightened around the edge of the dresser.
“Or someone wants me to think she is.”
“That’s possible.”
“If Vittorio is behind this—”
“Possible.”
“If this is designed to pull me somewhere vulnerable—”
“Also possible.”
His eyes met hers.
“You’re being very agreeable.”
“I’m growing.”
A tiny breath almost became a laugh.
Almost.
Sadi took his hand.
“I’m coming.”
“No.”
“Growth ended.”
“Sadi.”
“You think I’m staying here after discovering your supposedly dead mother living ninety miles away?”
“Yes.”
“Have you met me?”
Roman closed his eyes.
“That is becoming a recurring problem.”
Three hours later, their convoy entered Milwaukee.
Maria Bellini lived in a small brick house near Lake Michigan beneath the name Maria Bennett.
Lights were on despite the hour.
Roman remained inside the car for almost a minute.
Sadi said nothing.
For once, pushing him would have been cruel.
Finally, Roman opened the door.
They approached together.
Marco and two security men stayed near the sidewalk.
Roman knocked.
Nothing.
He knocked again.
A lock turned.
The woman from the photograph appeared.
Maria.
She was older than Sadi expected.
Her eyes moved from Roman to Sadi.
Then toward the cars.
“You shouldn’t have come.”
Roman’s voice was rough.
“Where is she?”
Maria’s expression softened.
“Roman.”
“Where is my mother?”
A sound came from inside.
Footsteps.
Slow.
Uncertain.
Then another woman entered the hallway.
Roman stopped breathing.
Sadi felt his hand go rigid inside hers.
Elena Rossi stared at her son.
Twenty-three years disappeared from her face in one second.
“My baby.”
Roman did not move.
Elena covered her mouth.
Tears filled her eyes.
“Roman.”
He stepped backward.
Not forward.
Backward.
Sadi understood immediately.
This was too much.
Dead people were supposed to stay in memory.
Memory was controllable.
This woman was real.
Older.
Alive.
Impossible.
Roman’s voice broke.
“You’re dead.”
Elena began crying.
“No.”
“They found your necklace.”
“I know.”
“My father buried an empty coffin.”
Elena closed her eyes.
“I know.”
Roman pulled his hand from Sadi’s.
“Twenty-three years.”
“Roman—”
“Twenty-three years!”
His voice cracked through the quiet street.
Elena flinched.
Sadi had never heard Roman sound like a child.
“You knew where I was.”
“I watched you.”
That made everything worse.
Roman stared.
“What?”
“From far away.”
His face changed.
“You watched me?”
“I had to know you were alive.”
“You knew I was alive!”
Elena began sobbing.
Maria stepped closer.
“He doesn’t understand.”
“No,” Roman said. “I don’t.”
Sadi touched his arm.
He pulled away.
Not angrily.
Instinctively.
He looked at Elena.
“You let me believe you were murdered.”
“I was trying to keep you alive.”
Roman laughed bitterly.
“There it is.”
“What?”
“The Rossi family prayer.”
His eyes burned.
“I hurt you because I was protecting you.”
Sadi felt the sentence strike them both.
Elena looked confused.
Roman turned away.
Sadi followed.
“Roman.”
“I need air.”
They reached the sidewalk.
He bent forward, hands on his knees.
For one terrifying second Sadi thought he might be physically ill.
She stayed beside him.
Did not touch him.
After a minute, Roman whispered:
“Say something.”
“What?”
“Anything.”
Sadi looked toward the house.
“She loves you.”
His jaw tightened.
“That’s supposed to help?”
“No.”
She looked at him.
“I think sometimes love becomes the excuse people use when they’re too afraid to admit they made a choice.”
Roman slowly straightened.
“My mother chose to disappear.”
“Yes.”
“For me.”
“Maybe.”
“That doesn’t make it right.”
“No.”
He looked at her.
Sadi held his gaze.
“You don’t have to forgive her tonight just because she survived.”
Roman’s shoulders lowered slightly.
That was what he needed.
Permission not to perform gratitude.
They returned inside.
Elena sat at the kitchen table.
Maria made coffee nobody drank.
Then the story came out.
In 1998, Elena discovered financial transfers between companies controlled by Vittorio and men connected to a Serbian criminal organization.
The so-called Moretti attacks had been staged.
Warehouses destroyed.
Rossi soldiers murdered.
Evidence planted.
All intended to push Roman’s father, Antonio, into a war that would eliminate competitors while expanding Vittorio’s influence.
Elena confronted Vittorio.
He threatened Roman.
So she began collecting evidence.
Maria helped.
When Vittorio realized, he arranged Elena’s kidnapping.
“But he didn’t kill you,” Sadi said.
Elena shook her head.
“He planned to.”
“What happened?”
“One of his men had worked for my father.”
She looked toward Maria.
“He helped me escape.”
Roman sat completely still.
“Why not come home?”
Elena’s expression broke.
“Because Vittorio had men inside the house.”
Roman swallowed.
“My father?”
“I didn’t know who he could trust.”
“You could trust him.”
Elena’s eyes lowered.
“Could I?”
Roman went silent.
Elena continued.
“Your father loved power almost as much as he loved us.”
Sadi saw pain cross Roman’s face.
“I contacted him once.”
“When?”
“Six months after I escaped.”
Roman leaned forward.
“What happened?”
“He told me to remain dead.”
The room froze.
Roman’s voice became quiet.
“What?”
“He said bringing me back would make the family look weak. Vittorio had already blamed the Morettis. Men had died in retaliation.”
Elena wiped tears from her cheeks.
“If I returned, Antonio would have to admit the war was based on a lie.”
Roman looked physically shattered.
“So my father knew.”
“Eventually.”
“And said nothing.”
“Yes.”
Roman stood.
The chair fell backward.
Sadi moved instinctively.
He walked toward the window.
Twenty-three years of identity collapsed in silence.
Everything Roman had believed came from one story.
His mother was murdered because love created leverage.
His father had taught him that lesson.
Now the truth was uglier.
His mother had survived.
His father knew.
And pride had been more important than bringing her home.
Sadi stood beside him.
Roman whispered:
“He made me hate love.”
She touched his hand.
“He needed you to believe his choices were necessary.”
Roman looked toward Elena.
“What did you hide in the painting?”
Elena stiffened.
“A ledger.”
Sadi understood.
“The object Maria found.”
Maria nodded.
“Bank account numbers. Dates. Payments. Names.”
“Where is it?” Roman asked.
Elena looked at him.
“I don’t know.”
“What?”
“I returned it to the painting.”
Sadi frowned.
“No.”
Everyone looked at her.
“When I opened the stretcher cavity, there was only the letter.”
Elena’s face changed.
“Then someone found the ledger before you did.”
Roman’s phone rang.
He looked at the screen.
Marco.
Roman answered.
“What?”
His face hardened.
“When?”
Sadi’s stomach tightened.
Roman listened.
Then slowly lowered the phone.
“What happened?” she asked.
“The museum fire investigation found a body.”
Sadi stopped breathing.
“Who?”
Roman looked at Elena.
“Vittorio’s driver.”
Elena went pale.
May you like
Roman continued.
“And security footage shows Vittorio entering the museum archives thirty-seven minutes before the fire.”
