Chapter 2 - The Photograph
The door opened only three inches before Luca slammed his palm against it.
Matteo's younger brother, Carlo De Luca, stood outside.
He was fifty-six, silver-haired, broad-shouldered, and dressed in a charcoal overcoat.
“What happened?” Carlo demanded.
Matteo didn't answer immediately.
He was still holding the photograph.
Elena noticed Carlo's eyes find it.
His expression changed.
Barely.
But enough.
“You recognize my mother,” Elena said.
Carlo looked at her.
Then Matteo.
“Who is she?”
“You know exactly who she is,” Matteo replied.
Carlo smiled without warmth.
“I don't.”
Matteo held up the photograph.
“Try again.”
Carlo's smile disappeared.
Elena looked between the brothers.
“What happened twenty-five years ago?”
Neither answered.
“I'm done being ignored.”
Carlo studied her.
“You have Isabella's eyes.”
Elena's breath caught.
“So you did know her.”
Carlo stepped inside.
“I knew everyone who worked here.”
Matteo moved between them.
“That's close enough.”
Carlo's eyebrows rose.
“Protective already?”
The words landed strangely.
Matteo's jaw tightened.
Elena looked at the photograph again.
Pregnant Isabella.
Young Matteo.
A date handwritten beneath them.
January 18.
Twenty-five years ago.
Eight months before Elena was born.
Her mind rejected the obvious conclusion.
“No.”
Matteo looked at her.
“Elena—”
“No.”
She backed away.
“My father was Anthony Rossi.”
Matteo said nothing.
“He died before I was born.”
Still nothing.
“My mother told me.”
“I know.”
“You know?”
“I knew Anthony.”
Elena's voice shook.
“What aren't you telling me?”
Matteo glanced at Carlo.
“Not here.”
“Here is exactly where you're telling me.”
Carlo removed his coat.
“This should be interesting.”
Matteo turned on him.
“Leave.”
“It's my restaurant too.”
“Not tonight.”
Carlo looked toward the plate.
“What happened?”
Matteo watched him carefully.
“You tell me.”
Carlo's gaze dropped to the food.
Then returned to Matteo.
“I have no idea.”
“Someone tried to poison me.”
Several diners gasped.
Carlo's reaction was almost perfect.
Almost.
He looked surprised.
But he didn't look at the plate.
He looked at Elena.
Matteo saw it too.
“You knew she was here,” Matteo said.
Carlo frowned.
“Don't be ridiculous.”
“You knew.”
“Matteo, you've had a shock.”
Matteo stepped closer.
“You haven't called me Matteo since our mother died.”
The brothers stared at each other.
Elena realized she was watching an old war resume.
Then Carlo laughed.
“You think I poisoned you?”
“I think someone wanted Elena blamed.”
Carlo looked at her.
“Why would anyone care about a waitress?”
Matteo's voice became dangerously quiet.
“That's what I'm going to find out.”
Elena interrupted.
“No. You're going to tell me about my mother.”
Matteo turned.
She held the photograph.
“Now.”
For several seconds, he said nothing.
Then he nodded toward the private dining room.
“Come.”
Inside, the noise of the restaurant faded.
Matteo closed the door.
Elena remained standing.
“Anthony Rossi was your mother's husband,” Matteo began.
“My father.”
“Legally.”
Elena stared.
Matteo continued carefully.
“Anthony married Isabella when she was already pregnant.”
The room seemed to tilt.
“No.”
“He knew.”
“You're lying.”
“I wish I were.”
Elena's fingers tightened around the photograph.
“Then who—”
She couldn't finish.
Matteo looked at her.
And she knew.
The same dark eyes.
The same shape around the mouth.
Small things she had never noticed because she'd never had a reason.
“No.”
“Elena.”
“No.”
She backed into a chair.
Matteo didn't approach.
He gave her space.
“Are you saying you're my father?”
“I don't know.”
That stopped her.
“You don't know?”
“Isabella never told me.”
“Then why are you doing this?”
“Because she left before I could ask.”
Elena laughed once, bitterly.
“My mother raised me alone while you became whatever this is.”
Her hand swept toward the restaurant.
“And now you suddenly care?”
“I didn't know you existed.”
“You knew she was pregnant.”
“I knew after she left.”
“How?”
“Anthony told me.”
Elena stared.
Matteo continued.
“He came here once. He told me Isabella had married him and wanted nothing more to do with the De Luca family.”
“And you believed him?”
“I was twenty-five. My father had just been killed. There was a war happening around us.”
“You didn't look for her?”
“I did.”
“How hard?”
The question hurt him.
She saw it.
“Not hard enough,” he said.
For the first time, Elena had no immediate answer.
Matteo reached into his jacket slowly.
He removed a worn leather wallet.
Behind several cards was a folded photograph.
Isabella.
The same photograph.
Except Matteo's copy had been torn in half.
Elena looked at him.
“You kept this?”
“For twenty-five years.”
“Why?”
“Because I loved her.”
Elena closed her eyes.
She didn't want to hear that.
She didn't want her dead mother transformed into part of Matteo De Luca's mythology.
“My mother hated violence.”
“So did I.”
Elena looked at him.
“You expect me to believe that?”
“No.”
Matteo put the photograph away.
“I expect nothing from you.”
A knock came.
Luca entered.
“We traced the call.”
Matteo straightened.
“And?”
“Disposable phone. Signal originated two blocks away.”
“Cameras?”
“Checking.”
Luca hesitated.
“There's something else.”
He handed Matteo a plastic evidence sleeve.
Inside was a folded piece of paper.
“Found in Marco's pocket.”
Matteo opened it.
A bank transfer receipt.
Fifty thousand dollars.
Elena stared.
“Who paid him?”
“Shell company.”
Matteo read the name.
His eyes narrowed.
“What?”
Luca said, “The company was created three weeks ago.”
“By?”
“We're working on it.”
Elena looked at the receipt.
At the bottom was a handwritten notation.
IR.
Her stomach tightened.
“My mother's initials.”
Matteo nodded.
Isabella Rossi.
Someone was dragging a dead woman's name through every piece of evidence.
Elena suddenly remembered something.
“The notebook.”
Matteo looked at her.
“My mother's recipe notebook. Whoever broke into my apartment put it in my bag.”
“Where is it?”
“In the dining room.”
They returned.
The notebook lay where Elena had left it.
Matteo opened it.
Pages of recipes.
Some written in Italian.
Some English.
Small stains.
Measurements.
Notes.
Elena felt an ache seeing her mother's handwriting.
Matteo turned pages carefully.
Then stopped.
One page had been removed.
Freshly.
“You didn't tear this?”
“No.”
“What recipe was here?”
Elena knew immediately.
“The dish.”
Matteo looked at her.
“The one I cooked tonight.”
“Yes.”
Matteo turned to Luca.
“Someone stole the original recipe.”
Elena shook her head.
“Why?”
Matteo examined the binding.
Something protruded from the torn seam.
A tiny corner of paper.
He pulled it free.
It wasn't recipe paper.
It was thinner.
Translucent.
Matteo unfolded it.
Numbers.
Dates.
Initials.
Bank accounts.
Elena frowned.
“What is that?”
Matteo didn't answer.
Carlo did.
“Nothing.”
Everyone turned.
He stood ten feet away.
Nobody had heard him approach.
Matteo folded the paper.
“You should have left.”
Carlo looked at Elena.
“Your mother was a clever woman.”
Elena's pulse quickened.
“What is this?”
Carlo smiled faintly.
“A reason she should have stayed gone.”
Matteo moved toward him.
“Careful.”
Carlo raised his hands.
“I didn't threaten anyone.”
“You didn't need to.”
Elena looked at the paper.
“What did my mother know?”
Matteo finally answered.
“My father kept two sets of books.”
“Books?”
“Financial records.”
The meaning became clear.
“Illegal money.”
“Yes.”
“And my mother found them?”
“She found something worse.”
Carlo's face hardened.
“Enough.”
Matteo ignored him.
“My father had been stealing from his own partners. Isabella discovered where the money went.”
Elena looked at Carlo.
“And?”
Matteo unfolded the translucent paper again.
“These numbers may be part of the missing ledger.”
Carlo stepped forward.
Luca blocked him.
Elena stared at the faded handwriting.
Then she recognized something.
“That isn't my mother's handwriting.”
Matteo looked at her.
“Certain?”
“Yes.”
“Whose?”
Elena leaned closer.
A memory surfaced.
Birthday cards.
Christmas cards.
A man who visited twice a year until she was twelve.
Her mother's old friend.
“Anthony's.”
Matteo's expression changed.
“Anthony Rossi?”
Elena nodded.
“But he died before you were born.”
Elena looked up slowly.
“No.”
Matteo stared.
“What?”
“My mother told everyone he died.”
“But?”
Elena swallowed.
“I met him.”
Silence.
Matteo's face emptied of expression.
“When?”
“Until I was twelve.”
Carlo stepped backward.
Matteo saw it.
“Where is Anthony now?”
“I don't know.”
“Think.”
“He stopped visiting after Mom got sick.”
“What did he call himself?”
Elena's heart pounded.
“Uncle Tony.”
Matteo turned toward Carlo.
“You knew.”
Carlo headed for the door.
Luca blocked him.
“Move.”
“No.”
Matteo approached.
“Where is Anthony?”
Carlo smiled.
“You're chasing ghosts.”
Then Elena's phone vibrated.
A message.
Unknown number.
A photograph loaded.
Elena nearly dropped the phone.
Her apartment door.
Open.
Another photograph arrived.
Her mother's bedroom.
Then a third.
A man stood inside Elena's apartment holding the missing recipe page.
His face was older.
His hair was gray.
But Elena recognized him immediately.
Uncle Tony.
Beneath the image was one sentence:
ASK MATTEO WHAT HE DID TO ISABELLA.
Elena looked up.
Matteo had gone completely still.
Then another message appeared.
A location.
And beneath it:
COME ALONE IF YOU WANT THE TRUTH.
Elena reached for her coat.
Matteo caught her wrist.
“Don't.”
She pulled free.
“He knows what happened to my mother.”
Matteo looked at the location.
His expression changed.
Elena saw genuine fear.
“You recognize it.”
“Yes.”
“What is it?”
Matteo stared at the address.
May you like
“The place where Isabella disappeared.”
And Elena's phone began ringing again.
