Chapter 13 - Carlo’s Last Will
The revelation sounded impossible.
Elena laughed once.
"Carlo was many things. Secretly married was not one of them."
Frank shrugged.
"Then call her something else."
"Who?"
"Teresa Marino."
Rosa gasped.
Elena turned.
"You know that name?"
"She worked for our father."
Frank explained.
Before Carlo married Elena, he had a long relationship with Teresa.
Not legal marriage.
But they exchanged private vows and had a son.
Carlo hid them after entering the Moretti organization.
That son was older than Luca.
"Where is he?" Luca asked.
"Dead."
"Name?"
"Victor Marino."
Grant recognized it.
"A federal informant killed in 1994."
Frank nodded.
"Victor had a daughter."
Luca closed his eyes.
"Another relative."
Isabella muttered, "At this point we need name tags."
Rosa almost smiled.
Frank said the will had been created shortly before Carlo died.
It acknowledged some property crimes.
Not enough to absolve him.
But enough to show he planned to restore certain assets to the Romano family.
"Why?" Elena asked.
"Because Carlo discovered Vittorio had been stealing from him and ordering killings he never approved."
"Antonio."
"Yes."
Rosa’s expression hardened.
"Carlo still terrorized him."
"No one is calling Carlo innocent."
Good.
Because he wasn’t.
"But the will matters legally," Grant said.
"Where is it?"
Frank answered.
"Victor’s daughter has it."
"Who is she?"
"Rebecca Marino."
Grant went still.
"What?"
Isabella looked at him.
"You know her."
He sat slowly.
"Rebecca Grant."
Silence.
"My daughter."
No one moved.
Grant looked older than eighty-two for the first time.
"My wife’s first husband was Victor Marino."
Luca stared.
"Your daughter is Carlo’s granddaughter."
"Stepdaughter biologically. Daughter in every other way."
"Does she know?"
"About Victor, yes. About Carlo, no."
Frank nodded.
"Victor gave Teresa’s papers to his wife before he became an informant."
Grant whispered, "Helen."
"Yes."
"Helen died fifteen years ago."
"Then Rebecca probably has them."
Grant called her.
Rebecca Grant was fifty-two and worked as a civil attorney in Manhattan.
She arrived at Bellaforte that evening.
When Grant explained, she listened without interrupting.
Then she said, "Mom left me a sealed box."
Everyone leaned forward.
"Where?"
"Bank vault."
Of course.
The box contained Carlo’s will.
Signed.
Witnessed.
Never probated.
Also a letter.
Carlo admitted that Vittorio Ferraro had manipulated him and that the Romano properties had been stolen.
He ordered their return.
He also admitted his own crimes.
Threats.
Extortion.
Fraud.
He wrote:
I cannot return Antonio Romano to his family. I can only confess that I created the world in which Vittorio believed he could kill him.
Rosa read the line twice.
Then set the letter down.
"No forgiveness," she said.
"No one asked," Rebecca replied.
Rosa looked at her.
"Good."
The will transferred Bellaforte’s property and two adjacent buildings to Rosa Romano and Elena Romano equally.
Elena pushed her copy toward Rosa.
"No."
"Elena—"
"I took enough from you by staying silent."
Rosa pushed it back.
"And I will not let guilt make every decision for you."
They argued for twenty minutes.
It was the most sisterly thing anyone had seen them do.
Eventually they agreed.
A family trust.
Rosa.
Elena.
Isabella.
And a fund for descendants of workers and families harmed by the old Moretti organization.
Luca added his legitimate holdings.
Rebecca structured it.
Grant complained about everyone ignoring tax implications.
For the first time, the future became visible.
Then Luca’s attorney arrived.
He carried bad news.
The federal prosecutor wanted Luca’s formal plea.
Several charges.
The Santoro killing could not be prosecuted as murder because of evidentiary problems and jurisdictional complications, but weapons and conspiracy charges remained.
Luca could face several years.
Elena started crying.
Luca took her hand.
"I knew."
Isabella stood near the bar.
He joined her later.
"So this is it."
"For now."
"How long?"
"Maybe three years. Maybe five."
She swallowed.
"You sound calm."
"I’m not."
"Good."
He smiled faintly.
"Isabella."
"What?"
"I need to say something."
"That sounds ominous."
"It probably is."
He looked toward table six.
"The night you answered your grandmother’s phone, I thought the worst thing that could happen was discovering my mother had lied."
"And?"
"I was wrong."
"What was worse?"
"Discovering how much of my life I had lied to myself about."
She said nothing.
He continued.
"I told myself fear was respect. Control was responsibility. Silence was loyalty."
"And now?"
"Now I know better."
Isabella folded her arms.
"That doesn’t erase anything."
"No."
"Good."
"I don’t want it erased."
He looked at her.
"I want to become someone who can live with the truth."
Her eyes burned.
"You should."
"I also want—"
A crash sounded from the front entrance.
Glass shattered.
Everyone turned.
A brick lay on the floor.
Wrapped around it was a note.
Luca picked it up.
One sentence.
MORETTI BLOOD DOESN’T WALK AWAY.
May you like
Outside, three black cars stopped across the street.
Men began getting out.
