Luca didn’t move. “Can’t.”
Elena’s stomach tightened. “Why?”
Luca lowered his voice. “He’s unconscious. Ambulance is coming.”
Matteo rose. “Then whoever planned this is cleaning up.”
Elena stepped back. “Planned what?”
Matteo looked at her. “The dish wasn’t meant to kill me immediately.”
“What?”
“It was meant to make everyone believe you tried.”
Elena couldn’t breathe. “Why me?”
“That,” Matteo said, “is the question.”
A phone began ringing. Not Luca’s. Not Matteo’s.
Elena looked around. The sound came from the service station. Her phone.
She crossed toward it. Matteo followed. The screen showed UNKNOWN CALLER.
“Don’t answer,” Luca said.
Elena answered.
“Hello?”
Nothing. Then breathing. A distorted voice whispered:
“Isabella should have kept her promise.”
Elena froze.
The caller continued. “And so should her daughter.”
The line disconnected.
Matteo took the phone. Elena stared at him. “What promise?”
He didn’t answer.
Then a waiter hurried from the employee corridor holding Elena’s handbag. “You need to see this.”
“My bag?”
“It was open in your locker.”
Elena grabbed it. Inside was her wallet. Keys. Lipstick. Her mother’s old recipe notebook.
Elena stopped. She never brought the notebook to work. Never. Someone had taken it from her apartment.
She opened the cover. A photograph fell onto the floor.
Matteo bent and picked it up. His face changed.
Elena looked over his hand. The photograph showed Isabella Rossi at twenty-four. Beside her stood a much younger Matteo De Luca.
And Isabella was pregnant.
On the back, someone had written three words. Matteo read them. Then looked at Elena.
Before he could speak, the locked front door rattled. Once. Twice. Then someone knocked three times.
Matteo’s men reached inside their jackets.
A voice came through the glass. “Matteo. Open the door.”
Matteo went pale.
Elena turned toward him. “Who is that?”
He stared at the entrance.
The door opened only three inches before Luca slammed his palm against it.
Matteo’s younger brother, Carlo De Luca, stood outside. Fifty-six, silver-haired, broad-shouldered, 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.