Chapter 5 - The Man Who Raised Her
Patrick Gallagher had left blood on the hospital sheets.
The window was open.
And one guard was missing.
Lorenzo stared at the empty room.
“This was planned.”
Marco nodded.
“The guard’s phone is off.”
Beatrice stood near the bed.
Her father had been shot hours earlier.
Yet somehow he had escaped a guarded private clinic.
She looked at the open window.
“Maybe he had help.”
“He did,” Lorenzo said.
“Salvatore?”
“Possibly.”
Antonio stepped into the room.
“Or someone inside the family.”
Lorenzo turned.
“What are you suggesting?”
Antonio pointed at the missing guard’s empty chair.
“That man worked for us.”
Marco’s jaw tightened.
“Five years.”
“Which means nothing.”
Beatrice looked between them.
“You think there’s a traitor?”
Antonio nodded.
“There is always a traitor.”
Lorenzo gave him a cold look.
“That philosophy explains your generation beautifully.”
Antonio smiled without humor.
“And yours will discover the same.”
Beatrice moved toward the door.
Lorenzo stopped her.
“Where?”
“To find Patrick.”
“That is not a plan.”
“It’s more than standing here.”
Lorenzo followed her into the corridor.
“You do not know where he went.”
“No, but I know him.”
“Meaning?”
“He lies when he’s afraid.”
“That describes most people.”
“He also repeats himself.”
Lorenzo frowned.
Beatrice thought about every story Patrick had told.
Every phrase.
Every warning.
Sicily was dangerous.
Never trust men who give gifts.
Never keep anything important where you sleep.
Always have somewhere to go that nobody expects.
Her mother used to tease him about one habit.
Patrick never trusted banks.
But after Margaret died, he had begun visiting one place every Thursday morning.
Beatrice had assumed it was for work.
“The consulate.”
Lorenzo stared.
“What?”
“American consulate.”
Marco shook his head.
“Closed at this hour.”
“He wouldn’t go inside.”
“Then why?”
“There’s a parking garage behind it.”
Lorenzo looked at Marco.
Marco was already on his phone.
Twelve minutes later, they had camera footage.
Patrick Gallagher entered the garage twenty-six minutes earlier.
He had not exited.
Lorenzo looked at Beatrice.
“You stay in the car.”
She laughed.
“No.”
“Beatrice.”
“I found him.”
“That does not make the garage safe.”
“It also doesn’t make me furniture.”
Antonio coughed to hide amusement.
Lorenzo glared at him.
Then at Beatrice.
“Beside me.”
She nodded.
They entered through the lower level.
Marco’s men spread out.
Beatrice heard footsteps above.
Lorenzo moved in front of her.
A car engine started.
Marco shouted.
A black sedan shot down the ramp.
Lorenzo pulled Beatrice behind a concrete pillar.
The vehicle passed.
Marco’s men pursued.
But someone remained behind.
Patrick stepped out from between two parked cars.
His face was pale.
His injured arm hung in a sling.
“Beatrice.”
She stared at him.
“You ran.”
“I had to.”
“Why?”
Patrick looked at Lorenzo.
“Because he’ll kill me when he learns the rest.”
Lorenzo stepped forward.
“Try me.”
Patrick backed away.
Beatrice moved between them.
“No.”
Lorenzo stopped.
She looked at Patrick.
“What did Mom mean?”
Patrick’s face crumpled.
“Which part?”
“The part where she said you didn’t rescue her.”
He closed his eyes.
Beatrice felt fury rise.
“Look at me.”
Patrick did.
“Who paid you?”
“I can’t.”
“You can.”
“If I say the name—”
“What? Someone kills you?”
Patrick laughed bitterly.
“Someone kills all of us.”
Lorenzo’s voice was calm.
“They are welcome to try.”
Patrick looked at him.
“That arrogance is why your family bleeds every generation.”
Antonio stepped closer.
“Enough riddles.”
Patrick saw him and froze.
“You.”
Antonio’s expression hardened.
“Yes.”
“You should have stayed away.”
“From my daughter?”
Beatrice flinched at the word.
Antonio noticed.
He corrected himself.
“From Beatrice.”
Patrick looked at her.
“You think he deserves you because of blood?”
“I don’t know what he deserves.”
She moved closer.
“But I know what I deserve.”
Patrick swallowed.
“The truth.”
“Yes.”
“You won’t like it.”
“I haven’t liked much of today.”
Patrick looked around the garage.
Then finally spoke.
“Isabella found the ledger while working at a Moretti-owned import company.”
Antonio nodded slowly.
“She was an accountant.”
“She found payments that linked Moretti shipping routes with Vitale operations.”
Lorenzo frowned.
“Our families were enemies.”
“Officially.”
Antonio’s face changed.
Patrick saw it.
“There. He knows.”
Lorenzo turned.
“Uncle?”
Antonio said nothing.
Patrick continued.
“Thirty years ago, someone inside the Moretti family was secretly sharing routes with the Vitales. Drugs. Weapons. Cash.”
Beatrice looked at Antonio.
“Was it you?”
“No.”
Patrick laughed.
“But you protected him.”
Antonio’s jaw tightened.
Lorenzo stepped closer.
“Who?”
Patrick looked at him.
“Your father.”
Silence.
Lorenzo’s expression vanished.
“My father was murdered by the Vitales.”
“After they finished using him.”
Antonio snapped, “Gallagher.”
Patrick ignored him.
“Giancarlo Moretti gave them schedules. Names. Police contacts. He thought he could control both sides.”
Lorenzo stared at Antonio.
“Is that true?”
Antonio looked older again.
“Yes.”
The word landed heavily.
Lorenzo turned away.
Beatrice understood suddenly.
Her mother had not simply discovered criminal transactions.
She had discovered betrayal inside Lorenzo’s family.
“She tried to expose him,” Patrick said.
Antonio nodded.
“I told her not to.”
Beatrice stared.
“You told my mother to stay quiet?”
“I told her she would be killed.”
“By your brother.”
“Yes.”
“You chose him.”
“No.”
“That is exactly what you did.”
Antonio accepted it.
Patrick continued.
“Isabella made copies. She planned to leave.”
“With me,” Antonio said.
Patrick shook his head.
“No. Without you.”
Antonio stared.
Patrick reached into his coat and removed a folded letter.
He handed it to Beatrice.
The paper was old.
Her mother’s handwriting.
Antonio,
I love you, but love is not enough when I cannot trust the family around you.
I am leaving.
Do not follow me.
Beatrice looked at Antonio.
His face broke.
Only for a second.
Then it was gone.
Patrick said, “She asked me for help.”
“You kidnapped her.”
“No.”
“Then why did she tell me you were the reason she ran?”
“Because I betrayed her later.”
Beatrice waited.
Patrick looked ashamed.
“I sold information about her location.”
Antonio took one step forward.
Lorenzo stopped him with an arm.
Patrick’s voice shook.
“Years after we reached Boston, I had debts. Smaller ones then. Gambling.”
Beatrice closed her eyes.
Of course.
“Someone offered money for confirmation Isabella was alive.”
“Who?” Lorenzo asked.
Patrick looked at him.
“Salvatore Vitale.”
Antonio lunged.
Marco grabbed him.
Patrick shouted.
“I didn’t know what he wanted!”
“You sold her location!”
“I know!”
Antonio struggled.
Beatrice shouted.
“Stop!”
Everyone froze.
She looked at Patrick.
“Did they hurt her?”
“No.”
“How do you know?”
“Because she found out first.”
“How?”
“She saw the transfer in my account.”
Beatrice’s stomach twisted.
“She knew you sold her.”
“Yes.”
“That’s why she said you were the reason she ran.”
Patrick nodded.
“She took you and left me for six months.”
Beatrice remembered.
She had been six.
Her mother called it a long vacation.
“Why did she come back?”
“I begged.”
Patrick started crying.
Not dramatically.
Not loudly.
Just tears on the face of a tired old man who had finally reached the end of excuses.
“She came back because you missed me.”
Beatrice felt something crack inside her.
“She stayed for me?”
“Yes.”
“And you kept lying.”
“Yes.”
“Why tell me I was worthless?”
Patrick stared at her.
That question seemed to hurt him more than all the others.
“I was afraid.”
“Of what?”
“That one day you’d find out who you were.”
She laughed in disbelief.
“So you made me hate myself?”
“I made you want a small life.”
The garage went silent.
Patrick continued.
“If you were confident, curious, ambitious—you might leave. You might search. You might come here.”
Beatrice stared at him.
“So you broke me to keep me safe.”
Patrick whispered, “I thought I was protecting you.”
“You were protecting yourself.”
He had no answer.
Lorenzo’s phone buzzed.
He checked the screen.
Marco looked over.
“What?”
Lorenzo held up the phone.
A message.
Unknown number.
A photograph.
The black ledger on a table.
Beside it sat the missing section of cassette tape.
And a handwritten note.
BRING BEATRICE TO THE OLD MORETTI CHAPEL.
MIDNIGHT.
NO POLICE.
Beatrice looked at the image.
Then another message arrived.
A photograph of the missing guard.
Alive.
Tied to a chair.
A third image followed.
Beatrice’s heart stopped.
The photograph showed a woman.
Older.
Thin.
Gray hair.
Sitting beside the guard.
Beatrice dropped the phone.
“No.”
Lorenzo caught it.
He stared at the image.
Beatrice could barely breathe.
The woman looked thirty years older than the mother Beatrice remembered.
But it was her face.
May you like
Margaret Gallagher.
The mother Beatrice had buried seven years ago.
