“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.
Elena answered. “Anthony?”
A man’s voice replied. “You finally asked the right question.”
Matteo reached for the phone. Elena stepped away. “What happened to my mother?”
“Not over the phone.”
“You broke into my apartment.”
“To protect something.”
“You poisoned Matteo?”
Silence. That silence answered enough.
“Anthony?”
“I didn’t poison anyone.”
“Then who did?”
“You’re standing beside him.”
Elena looked at Matteo. Matteo shook his head once.
Anthony continued. “Your mother trusted Matteo once. It nearly killed her.”
“Where are you?”
“You have the address.”
The call ended.
Elena grabbed her coat. Matteo stood in front of the door. “You’re not going alone.”
“He said—”
“I don’t care.”
“You don’t get to decide.”
“No.” Matteo’s voice was firm. “But whoever arranged tonight already proved they’re willing to hurt you.”
“Maybe you arranged tonight.”
Matteo absorbed that. “Possible.”
Elena hadn’t expected him to say it.
He continued. “You don’t know me. You shouldn’t trust me.”
“Then why should I let you come?”
“Because you shouldn’t trust Anthony either.”
They left Bellavita through the rear entrance. Luca drove. Matteo sat beside Elena in the back. Nobody spoke.
The address led to an abandoned social club in Cicero. Elena recognized the neighborhood. Not the building.
Inside, one light burned.
Matteo stopped her. “I go first.” “No.” “Elena.” “My life. My mother.”
She entered.
Anthony Rossi sat at a table. Gray hair. Weathered face. Older than Elena remembered. But unmistakable.
“Hello, Ellie.”
Only one person had called her that. Elena’s anger cracked.
“You’re alive.”
“Yes.”
“You let me think you were gone.”
“I had to.”
“My mother died thinking you abandoned us.”
Pain crossed his face. “No.”
“What do you mean?”
“I was there.”
Elena stared. “At the hospital?”
“Outside.”
“Why didn’t you come in?”
“Because people were watching.”
Matteo entered. Anthony immediately stood. “You.” Matteo stopped. “Tony.”
Twenty-five years collapsed into one word.
Anthony looked at Elena. “Did he tell you?”
“He said he might be my father.”
“Might?” Anthony laughed bitterly. “He always was a coward when the truth cost him something.”
Matteo’s voice hardened. “Tell her everything.”
Anthony opened a metal case. Inside were documents. Photographs. A ledger. And a sealed envelope bearing Isabella’s handwriting.
Elena stopped breathing. “For Elena,” she read.
Anthony nodded. “Your mother gave me that three days before she died.”
“Why didn’t you give it to me?”
“Because she told me when.”
“When?”
“When Matteo finally learned you existed.”
Elena looked at him. “Why?”
“Because she knew the De Lucas would come.”
Matteo approached the table. “What did Isabella discover?”
Anthony opened the ledger. “Your father wasn’t just stealing.”
Pages contained names. Judges. Police officers. Businessmen. Politicians. Payments. Dates. Matteo scanned them.
“My father kept this?”
“No.” Anthony looked toward him. “Carlo did.”
Matteo froze.
Anthony explained. Carlo had built a secret network beneath the family’s legitimate businesses. Their father discovered it. Isabella accidentally found records proving Carlo was moving money and paying corrupt officials.
“She tried to tell you,” Anthony said.
Matteo shook his head. “She vanished.”