Chapter 2 - The Name on the Photograph
Vincent said nothing for several seconds.
Rocco stopped in the doorway.
His expensive gray suit was immaculate. His silver hair had been combed straight back. At sixty, he carried himself with the calm authority of a man accustomed to being trusted with secrets.
Especially Vincent’s.
“What happened?” Rocco asked again.
Vincent turned the photograph over.
Rocco’s eyes dropped to the handwriting.
Something flickered across his face.
It disappeared almost immediately.
Maria saw it anyway.
“Do you recognize it?” Vincent asked.
Rocco stepped closer.
“Should I?”
Vincent held the photograph higher.
On the back were two words.
ANTONIO VESCARI.
Rocco’s jaw tightened.
Antonio Vescari had been dead for four years.
He had also been blamed for the car bombing that killed Lucia Moretti.
Maria knew only pieces of the story.
Every employee did.
Antonio had once belonged to the Moretti organization. He had betrayed Vincent during a dispute with the DeLuca family. Months later, a bomb intended for Vincent had exploded beneath a car carrying Lucia and her nanny.
Antonio disappeared.
His burned body was supposedly found near the river six days later.
Vincent never spoke about him again.
Until now.
“Where did that come from?” Rocco asked.
“Kitchen.”
“When?”
“Minutes ago.”
Rocco looked at Marco.
“You checked the cameras?”
“The eastern corridor feed was disabled.”
Rocco’s eyes narrowed.
“That system was replaced last winter.”
“I remember,” Vincent said.
“Then someone would need administrator credentials.”
“Yes.”
Rocco glanced toward Sofia.
The toddler had begun playing with the edge of Maria’s collar, oblivious to the tension surrounding her.
Rocco lowered his voice.
“Get the woman and child out of here.”
Maria’s gaze snapped toward him.
Vincent’s did too.
“Why?”
“Because whoever delivered that photograph wants a reaction.”
“And sending them outside gives him exactly what he wants.”
Rocco looked irritated.
“This house may be compromised.”
“So we close it.”
“With them inside?”
“With them protected.”
A strange silence followed.
Rocco studied Vincent carefully.
“Protected by whom?”
“Me.”
Something in the answer changed Rocco’s expression.
Maria felt it.
Vincent did too.
But neither said anything.
Rocco walked toward the painting.
He stopped when he saw the newly completed butterfly.
His face softened.
“Lucia’s room.”
Vincent did not respond.
Rocco reached toward the wall.
“Don’t.”
Vincent’s voice stopped him.
Rocco lowered his hand.
“Of course.”
Sofia leaned toward Maria’s ear.
“He smells like the basement.”
Maria looked at her.
“What?”
Sofia pointed openly at Rocco.
Maria caught her hand.
“Sofia.”
Rocco smiled.
“What did she say?”
“Nothing.”
“I heard my name.”
“She didn’t say your name.”
Rocco crouched.
Unlike Vincent, he did it smoothly, almost theatrically.
“What’s your name, sweetheart?”
“Sofia.”
“And what did you say about me?”
Sofia studied him.
Then she wrinkled her nose.
“You smell like the dark room.”
Rocco’s smile faded.
Vincent became completely still.
“What dark room?” he asked.
Sofia pointed downward.
“The one under the stairs.”
Maria’s stomach tightened.
She had never taken Sofia into the basement.
Employees used the west service staircase for laundry storage and deliveries, but the locked wine cellar and records rooms were off-limits.
Rocco stood.
“Children imagine things.”
Sofia shook her head.
“No. You were there.”
Maria’s heart began pounding.
“Sofia, when?”
“Today.”
Rocco laughed once.
“I arrived twenty minutes ago.”
Marco touched his earpiece.
“Front gate confirms Mr. Bellini entered at eleven forty-eight.”
Sofia had entered the forbidden room around eleven sixteen.
Vincent looked toward Rocco.
Rocco lifted both hands.
“You see?”
Sofia tugged Maria’s collar.
“The other him.”
Vincent frowned.
“What does that mean?”
The toddler struggled to explain.
“The man in his coat.”
Rocco stopped smiling.
Vincent’s eyes sharpened.
“What coat?”
“The long one.”
Rocco’s overcoat was charcoal wool.
He had worn it many times.
Maria had seen it hanging in the downstairs cloakroom.
But Rocco had not been wearing it when he entered the room.
Vincent turned toward Marco.
“Where is Mr. Bellini’s coat?”
“Front closet.”
Rocco exhaled impatiently.
“Vincent, this is absurd.”
“Bring it.”
Marco left.
Maria felt Sofia tense in her arms.
The child buried her face against her shoulder.
Rocco noticed.
“She’s tired.”
Maria said nothing.
Vincent moved closer to them.
It was subtle, but he had placed himself between Rocco and Maria.
Rocco noticed that too.
“You’re letting a toddler direct an investigation now?”
“I’m listening.”
“To nonsense.”
“To the only person in this room who apparently saw something.”
Rocco’s expression hardened.
“You’re emotional.”
Vincent’s eyes darkened.
“Careful.”
“I buried that little girl with you.”
Rocco pointed toward Lucia’s photograph.
“I carried you out of the cemetery because you refused to leave her grave. Do not look at me as if I had anything to do with what happened to her.”
Vincent stared at him.
“I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did.”
Marco returned carrying the charcoal coat.
“Found it.”
Vincent took it.
Rocco scoffed.
“Search it.”
The room went silent.
Vincent did.
He checked the outer pockets.
Nothing.
Inner breast pocket.
Nothing.
Then his fingers found something inside the lining.
A tiny tear had been cut near the seam.
Vincent pushed two fingers through it.
Rocco’s face changed.
Slowly, Vincent pulled out a small brass key.
Maria recognized it immediately.
The keyhole on Lucia’s forbidden room door was old-fashioned.
So was the key.
Marco took one step toward Rocco.
Rocco backed away.
“I have never seen that.”
Vincent looked at the key.
Then at his friend.
“You want me to believe someone put this inside your coat.”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“I don’t know.”
“The coat was in your possession until you entered the estate.”
“I gave it to Tomas at the door.”
Vincent glanced toward Marco.
“Find Tomas.”
Marco spoke into his radio.
No answer.
He tried again.
“Tomas. Respond.”
Static.
Rocco looked toward the hallway.
Vincent’s voice became quiet.
“Where is he?”
Nobody knew.
Maria hugged Sofia tighter.
This had become far larger than a child wandering into a forbidden room.
Vincent seemed to reach the same conclusion.
He turned toward Maria.
“You and Sofia are moving upstairs.”
“No.”
“Maria.”
“My daughter is already scared.”
“She will be more scared if whoever took that photograph reaches her.”
Maria’s anger died.
She looked at Sofia.
The child had started sucking her thumb.
A habit she had abandoned six months earlier.
Maria kissed her temple.
Vincent’s face softened.
“I have a secure suite beside mine.”
“I don’t want your money.”
“I didn’t offer money.”
“I don’t want anything from you.”
His gaze held hers.
“This isn’t about what you want.”
Maria bristled.
Vincent corrected himself.
“It isn’t about what I want either. Somebody photographed your daughter outside this estate. Somebody opened Lucia’s room. Somebody planted a key on Rocco. Until I know why, you stay where I can protect you.”
Rocco let out a bitter laugh.
“You sound like your father.”
Vincent turned.
“My father would have shot you already.”
That silenced everyone.
Rocco’s mouth tightened.
“And you?”
“I ask questions first.”
“And after?”
Vincent stepped closer.
“That depends on the answers.”
Marco’s radio crackled.
A guard spoke quickly from downstairs.
They had found Tomas.
Vincent listened.
“Where?”
The guard answered.
Marco went pale.
“What?” Rocco demanded.
Marco looked at Vincent.
“In the basement records room.”
“Alive?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“He says someone hit him from behind.”
Vincent looked at Sofia.
The little girl had said she saw “the other him” near the dark room.
Rocco’s coat.
Tomas unconscious.
A disabled camera.
A planted key.
The evidence pointed in too many directions at once.
Which meant somebody wanted confusion.
Vincent turned toward Maria.
“Take Sofia upstairs with Marco.”
Maria hesitated.
“You?”
“I’m going downstairs.”
Sofia lifted her head.
“No.”
Vincent looked at her.
She pointed toward the brass key.
“That’s not the key.”
Everyone froze.
Vincent crouched again.
“What do you mean?”
Sofia pointed toward the cabinet beneath Lucia’s painting.
“The lady gave me the silver one.”
Maria stared at her daughter.
“What lady?”
Sofia thought.
“The lady in the picture.”
Vincent’s face drained of color.
There were no photographs of Lucia’s mother in the room.
Not anymore.
Vincent slowly stood.
“Which picture?”
Sofia pointed toward the wall behind him.
Everyone turned.
A section of faded wallpaper had begun peeling beside the cabinet.
Behind it was the corner of something rectangular.
Vincent crossed the room.
He pulled the paper back.
A photograph had been hidden inside the wall.
Maria saw a beautiful dark-haired woman holding baby Lucia.
But Vincent was staring at the man beside her.
His lips parted.
“That’s impossible.”
Rocco walked closer.
Then he stopped.
Maria saw genuine fear on his face for the first time.
The man in the photograph was Antonio Vescari.
And he was wearing Vincent Moretti’s family ring.
Vincent flipped the photograph over.
There was a date.
And beneath it, one sentence.
He read it silently.
Then again.
Someone knocked on the bedroom door.
Three slow knocks.
Marco drew his weapon.
Vincent turned toward the sound.
A woman’s voice came from the corridor.
May you like
A voice Vincent had not heard since the night his daughter died.
“Open the door, Vincent.”
