Chapter 2 - The Door Without Cameras
The next morning Vincent did something Dominic believed was a sign of neurological damage.
He ordered one camera removed.
“From where?”
“Mateo’s room.”
Dominic stared.
“You installed twelve thousand dollars of surveillance in there.”
“I remember.”
“You personally threatened the installer.”
“I remember that too.”
“And now you want it removed?”
“Yes.”
Dominic crossed his arms.
“Why?”
Vincent looked toward the breakfast room.
Because his son believed his father saw a dead child when he looked at him.
Because Clara Hayes had spoken to Mateo for three days and discovered something Vincent had missed for fourteen months.
Because the camera had stopped feeling like protection.
It felt like trespassing.
“I don’t need to explain everything to you.”
Dominic nodded.
“There he is.”
Vincent glared.
Dominic left before the glare could become an order.
At breakfast, Clara was cutting pancakes.
Mateo watched her.
“I can do that.”
She handed him the knife.
Vincent entered.
Clara looked up.
“Morning.”
Mateo did not.
Vincent sat across from him.
“Morning.”
“Morning.”
Two syllables.
Vincent took what he could get.
Clara placed syrup near Mateo.
He reached.
Vincent almost moved it closer.
Clara’s eyes stopped him.
Mateo stretched across the table, hooked the bottle with two fingers, pulled it over and poured.
Half the syrup landed on the plate.
Half on the table.
Vincent looked at the mess.
Mateo stiffened.
Clara handed him a napkin.
“You missed.”
“I know.”
“Clean it.”
He did.
Vincent watched.
Every instinct told him to help.
Clara’s look told him not to.
Mateo finished and glanced at his father.
Vincent nodded.
“Good recovery.”
Mateo frowned.
“That’s what Coach Mason used to say.”
Vincent remembered.
Little League.
Before the bomb.
Before everything became before and after.
“Yeah.”
Mateo looked down.
Clara changed the subject.
“We need to talk about school.”
Mateo immediately said, “No.”
Vincent almost agreed.
Tutors had come to the house since the accident.
School meant crowds.
Stairs.
Children staring.
Possible security problems.
Clara looked at Vincent.
“Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Your face did.”
Mateo watched them.
Clara continued.
“You’re eight. You need other eight-year-olds.”
“I hate other eight-year-olds.”
“You used to be one.”
“I still am one.”
“Exactly.”
Mateo crossed his arms.
“I’m not going.”
Clara shrugged.
“Okay.”
Vincent blinked.
Mateo did too.
“That’s it?”
“For today.”
“What about tomorrow?”
“I’ll annoy you again.”
Mateo almost smiled.
Later, Clara took him to the conservatory.
Not because there were flowers.
Because the floor was smooth enough for wheelchair practice.
She placed two paper cups five feet apart.
“What’s this?”
“Driving test.”
“I know how to drive.”
“Yesterday you hit a table.”
“The table moved.”
“It was made of oak.”
Mateo glared.
Clara pointed.
“Forward. Turn. Reverse. No murder.”
Mateo pushed hard.
The chair rolled.
He clipped one cup.
“Dead pedestrian,” Clara said.
“It’s a cup.”
“Tell that to his family.”
Mateo laughed.
Vincent heard it from the hallway.
He stopped before entering.
He had learned something important.
His presence changed the room.
Sometimes for the worse.
So he stayed outside.
Watched without a camera.
Listened.
Mateo tried again.
This time he missed both cups.
“Yes!” he shouted.
Clara pointed at him.
“Don’t get arrogant.”
“I’m better than you.”
“I can walk.”
Mateo froze.
Vincent’s body went rigid.
Clara’s face changed immediately.
She had said it too casually.
Too fast.
Mateo looked down at his legs.
The room went quiet.
Clara crouched.
“That came out wrong.”
Mateo’s jaw tightened.
“I know you can walk.”
“I know.”
“So everybody’s better.”
“No.”
“At everything.”
“No.”
“Then what am I better at?”
Clara thought.
“Being annoying.”
He looked furious.
She continued.
“You want serious?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
She sat on the floor so they were eye level.
“You have strong shoulders. Good balance for where you are in rehab. Fast hands. You learn patterns quickly. And you’re stubborn enough to keep trying when you care.”
Mateo looked at her.
“That’s not walking.”
“No.”
“Nothing is.”
Clara nodded.
“No.”
He expected an argument.
She did not give him one.
Vincent watched his son absorb that.
Truth without cruelty.
Hope without lying.
That night, Vincent found Clara in the laundry room.
“You made a mistake today.”
She folded a towel.
“I know.”
“You shouldn’t mention walking like that.”
“I know.”
“You could set him back.”
Clara stopped folding.
“Are you firing me?”
“No.”
“Then say what you came to say.”
Vincent stared at her.
No one spoke to him that way.
It was becoming irritatingly normal.
“I heard you apologize.”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t make an excuse.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I was wrong.”
Vincent looked at the towel in her hands.
Simple.
Wrong.
Apologize.
Move forward.
He had built an empire around never admitting weakness.
Maybe that was why he had no idea how to talk to his son.
Clara picked up another towel.
“He thinks you blame him.”
Vincent went still.
“For Elena?”
She nodded.
“That’s insane.”
“He’s eight.”
“He knows it wasn’t his fault.”
“Knowing and feeling aren’t the same thing.”
Vincent turned away.
The bombing had been meant for him.
Elena had insisted Mateo ride with them that afternoon.
Vincent had changed vehicles at the last minute after a security alert.
The bomb exploded anyway.
Elena died beside their son.
Vincent had spent fourteen months blaming himself so completely that he had never considered Mateo might be doing the same.
“What did he say?”
“I’m not telling you everything he tells me.”
Vincent turned sharply.
“He’s my son.”
“Yes.”
“My house.”
“Yes.”
“My employee.”
“Yes.”
“So tell me.”
“No.”
Vincent stared.
Clara’s hands shook once.
She hid it by folding.
She was afraid.
Good.
At least she possessed survival instincts.
But she still said no.
“Unless he tells me something that means he’s unsafe, he deserves privacy.”
Vincent’s voice dropped.
“You understand who you’re saying no to?”
“A father.”
Not boss.
Not criminal.
Not mafia leader.
A father.
The word disarmed him.
Clara placed the towel down.
“If you want him to talk to you, stop asking other people what he says.”
Vincent left without answering.
The next morning Mateo’s bedroom camera was gone.
Mateo noticed the small repair in the molding.
“What happened there?”
Vincent stood in the doorway.
“There was a camera.”
Mateo stared at him.
“A camera?”
“Yes.”
“You were watching me?”
Vincent could have lied.
Instead he said, “Yes.”
Mateo’s face changed.
“For how long?”
“Since you came home.”
The boy’s eyes filled with anger.
“That’s creepy.”
“Yes.”
“You watched everything?”
“Not everything.”
“That means yes.”
Vincent swallowed.
“I was scared.”
Mateo stared at him.
Adults never said that.
Especially not Vincent Rossy.
“You’re scared?”
“All the time.”
“Of what?”
Vincent looked at the wheelchair.
Then forced himself to look at Mateo’s face instead.
“Losing you.”
The boy was silent.
Vincent continued.
“I thought watching meant protecting.”
“Did it?”
“No.”
Mateo looked at the repaired molding.
“Are there more?”
“In the halls. Outside. Not in your room anymore.”
“Bathroom?”
“No.”
“Clara’s room?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Vincent frowned.
“That would be illegal.”
Mateo gave him a look.
“You’re in the mafia.”
Vincent nearly choked.
From the hallway, Clara made a suspicious sound that might have been laughter.
Vincent pointed toward the door.
“You.”
Clara appeared.
“I heard nothing.”
May you like
Mateo smiled.
For the first time, Vincent smiled too.
