Chapter 4 - The Mother Who Was Supposed to Be Gone
Roman drove back to the mansion faster than the storm allowed.
Enzo had stayed behind long enough to transfer Damian to a secure clinic.
Roman barely heard the updates coming through his phone.
Claire.
The chapel.
Eleanor Bennett.
A woman Roman had not seen in fifteen years.
A woman his father had trusted with a ledger important enough to die over.
At 1:18 a.m., Roman entered the east wing with six armed guards.
The chapel door stood open.
No lights.
He raised his hand.
Everyone stopped.
“Claire?”
No answer.
Roman entered alone.
Moonlight through stained glass painted the old pews.
Dust covered everything.
At the front stood a marble statue of the Virgin Mary.
Behind it, a candle burned.
Claire sat on the floor.
Hands tied.
Awake.
Roman crossed the room.
“Claire.”
She looked up.
Relief flashed across her face.
Then fear.
“She was here.”
Roman cut the rope.
“Your mother?”
Claire nodded.
“She left through there.”
A narrow confessional door stood open.
Roman sent two guards after her.
He helped Claire stand.
Her knees buckled.
He caught her.
“You should be in bed.”
“I was.”
Despite everything, Roman almost smiled.
Claire did not.
“My mother is alive.”
“I know.”
Claire stared at him.
“You knew?”
“I found out who she worked for.”
“My mother was an accountant.”
“For my father.”
Claire looked as though the floor moved.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“She worked for an insurance company.”
“That may have been what she told you.”
Claire pulled away.
“You’re wrong.”
Roman showed her the photograph from her own phone.
The receipt.
E.B.
“My father’s records identify Eleanor Bennett.”
Claire sat on the front pew.
“My mother told me she left New York before I was born.”
“She didn’t.”
Claire pressed both hands over her face.
Roman gave her a moment.
“What did she say?”
Claire looked up.
“She apologized.”
“For what?”
“She said she never wanted me involved.”
“Involved in what?”
“She wouldn’t explain.”
Roman crouched in front of her.
“Think.”
Claire closed her eyes.
“She said I shouldn’t have taken the job.”
“So Damian was right.”
“Who?”
“Later.”
Claire continued.
“She said she only wanted me to photograph the old shipping papers. She thought nobody would notice.”
“You knew your mother wanted something from this house?”
Claire looked guilty.
“She told me she once did bookkeeping for one of your companies and that some records had been misplaced. She said they could help prove she was owed retirement money.”
Roman absorbed that.
“You believed her?”
“She’s my mother.”
Roman understood the answer more than he wanted to.
“What else?”
Claire hesitated.
“She said the person who ordered me outside knew who I was.”
Roman’s eyes sharpened.
“Meaning?”
“They didn’t target me because I found the receipt.”
“They targeted you because you’re Eleanor Bennett’s daughter.”
Claire nodded.
Roman stood.
The chapel felt colder.
One of the guards returned.
“Tunnel beneath the confessional. Opens near the old greenhouse.”
“Any sign?”
“No.”
Roman looked at Claire.
“You’re staying with guards.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“My mother just kidnapped me.”
“Which is why—”
“She didn’t kidnap me.”
Roman stopped.
Claire swallowed.
“The nurse did.”
“What?”
“She told me you wanted me moved to another room. A man in scrubs was waiting in the hall. When I realized we were going downstairs, I tried to run. He dragged me through the chapel tunnel.”
“And your mother?”
“She came later.”
Roman’s mind shifted.
“Did she untie you?”
“No.”
That mattered.
Eleanor may have been hiding, but she had not orchestrated Claire’s abduction.
“Did she know who took you?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“She said I wasn’t ready to hear the name.”
Roman exhaled slowly.
“I’m getting tired of people deciding what we’re ready to hear.”
Claire looked toward the altar.
“She left something.”
Roman followed her gaze.
A black ledger sat beneath the candle.
He had not noticed it.
Roman picked it up.
The cover was cracked.
Inside were handwritten transactions dating back twenty years.
Shipping numbers.
Payments.
Initials.
Judges.
Companies.
Police officers.
Smugglers.
And beside dozens of entries:
M.D.
Matteo DeLuca.
Claire moved beside him.
“Is that your uncle?”
“Yes.”
Roman turned pages.
Then he stopped.
One entry was dated the night before Vittorio died.
BELLACOSTA 1982.
Delivered to V.D. residence.
Bottle altered.
Approved by—
The name had been cut from the page.
Not crossed out.
Physically removed.
Claire touched the torn edge.
“Someone took it.”
Roman turned to the next page.
Another note.
If I disappear, the missing name is the person Vittorio trusted more than Matteo.
Roman stared.
Claire whispered, “Who did your father trust more than his brother?”
Roman knew only one answer.
His mother.
Sofia DeLuca.
Roman had been told she died when he was twelve.
A car accident in Sicily.
Vittorio rarely spoke about her afterward.
But Roman remembered the funeral.
Closed casket.
His father refusing to let Roman see the body.
Roman stepped back.
“No.”
Claire watched him.
“What?”
“My mother.”
A voice came from the chapel entrance.
“Your mother didn’t die in Sicily.”
Roman turned.
Bianca stood there.
No fur wrap now.
Red gown damp with snow.
A bruise marked her cheek.
Roman’s guards raised weapons.
Bianca lifted her hands.
“I escaped Matteo.”
Roman stared.
“You expect me to believe that?”
“No.”
She reached slowly into her purse.
Roman aimed.
“Easy.”
Bianca removed a photograph.
She slid it across the floor.
Roman picked it up.
Three people stood beside the DeLuca vineyard sixteen years earlier.
Vittorio.
Matteo.
And Sofia.
On the back:
Sofia DeLuca, December 2010.
The date was three years after her supposed death.
Roman looked at Bianca.
“Where did you get this?”
“My father.”
“Why?”
“Because our families weren’t discussing marriage.”
Roman frowned.
“What were they discussing?”
“An alliance to keep Sofia from returning.”
Claire whispered, “Why?”
Bianca looked at Roman.
“Because your mother built the network your father discovered.”
Roman’s face emptied.
“No.”
“She controlled the altered shipments. Matteo helped her.”
“Then why would Matteo help hide her?”
“He didn’t.”
Bianca took a breath.
“He helped her disappear.”
Roman opened the ledger again.
M.D.
Dozens of entries.
Maybe Matteo had not killed Vittorio.
Maybe he had protected the person who did.
Bianca continued.
“My father told me your mother was alive six years ago.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because my father said if Sofia knew I had told you, my family would disappear.”
“And tonight?”
Bianca looked ashamed.
“Matteo told me you wanted the Bellacosta. I believed him. When Claire’s coat was missing, I thought someone had misplaced it. I should have stopped her.”
“You lied.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I knew enough to be terrified.”
Roman looked at Claire.
She did not defend Bianca.
Neither did he.
“What about the recording?”
Bianca shook her head.
“Fake. I never said those words.”
Roman believed that part now.
“Who kidnapped Claire?”
Bianca’s face changed.
“I don’t know.”
Roman stepped closer.
“But you suspect.”
Bianca looked toward the chapel windows.
“Your mother had people everywhere.”
“She’d be almost sixty.”
“That never made her less dangerous.”
Roman’s phone buzzed.
Enzo.
He answered.
“Tell me.”
“We found something in Matteo’s suite.”
“What?”
“Passports.”
“How many?”
“Seven.”
Roman closed his eyes.
“All his?”
“No.”
Enzo paused.
“One belongs to Sofia DeLuca.”
Roman looked at Bianca.
Enzo continued.
“And Roman?”
“Yes?”
“The passport was issued last year.”
A sound came from the confessional tunnel.
Everyone turned.
Roman raised his gun.
Footsteps climbed the hidden stairs.
Slow.
Unhurried.
A woman emerged.
Silver-blonde hair.
Black coat.
Roman had not seen her face since he was twelve.
But he knew her instantly.
She smiled.
“My beautiful boy.”
Roman’s gun lowered by an inch.
Claire stopped breathing.
May you like
Sofia DeLuca stepped into the chapel and said:
“You’ve been blaming the wrong murderer.”
