Chapter 4 - The Woman Elena Buried
Elena stared at the photograph until the room blurred.
“That’s impossible.”
Nobody argued with her.
Her mother, Lucia Russo, had died when Elena was twelve.
At least that was what Elena had been told.
There had been a funeral.
There had been a coffin.
There had been family members crying around her.
Elena remembered gripping Salvatore’s hand so tightly that his knuckles turned white.
“Where was this taken?” she whispered.
Nina enlarged the metadata.
“Outside Palermo. Three weeks ago.”
Elena sat down.
Adrian crouched beside her.
“Look at me.”
She did.
“Photographs can be manipulated.”
“I know my mother’s face.”
“I’m not saying it isn’t her.”
“Then what are you saying?”
“I’m saying we verify before we let someone use this to control you.”
Elena looked back at the image.
The woman had aged.
Her dark hair contained streaks of silver.
But the shape of her eyes was the same.
The small scar near her chin was the same.
Elena remembered asking about it when she was little.
“A bicycle,” Lucia had said.
Elena began to laugh.
It sounded broken.
“She died of cancer.”
Adrian said nothing.
“I watched my father fall apart.”
Still nothing.
“I spent twenty years missing her.”
Her voice cracked.
Adrian placed one hand over hers.
“Then we find out why.”
By sunrise, Marco had arranged a private flight.
He objected to Elena traveling.
Adrian ignored him.
He objected to Adrian traveling.
Adrian ignored that too.
At noon they left for Sicily with a small security detail, Nina, and one encrypted copy of Salvatore’s files.
Whitmore remained in Manhattan under guard.
Before departure, Adrian questioned him about Palermo.
Whitmore knew only one name.
Matteo Bellandi.
Adrian’s supposedly dead brother.
“He isn’t the head of the Founders,” Whitmore insisted.
“Then what is he?”
“A prisoner who learned to negotiate with his captors.”
Adrian’s expression turned cold.
Elena could tell that sentence had lodged inside him.
During the flight she finally asked about Matteo.
Adrian stared at the dark cabin window.
“He was six years older than me.”
“Were you close?”
“When I was young.”
“What changed?”
“Our father.”
“How?”
“Matteo wanted to modernize the family businesses. My father thought he was reckless.”
“What businesses?”
Adrian smiled faintly.
“Some legitimate. Some less so.”
Elena appreciated the honesty.
“Were you always…”
“What?”
She gestured.
“Adrian Bellandi.”
He almost laughed.
“No.”
“What were you?”
“A boy who wanted to design buildings.”
She looked at him.
“You wanted to be an architect?”
“Yes.”
“That’s difficult to imagine.”
“I’ll try not to be offended.”
“You should be.”
For the first time since the signing, Elena smiled.
It lasted only a moment.
Then she looked at the photograph of her mother again.
“What if she chose to leave?”
Adrian considered the question.
“Then you let her explain.”
“And if the explanation isn’t enough?”
“Then you decide what to do with the truth.”
Palermo greeted them with blinding afternoon sunlight.
They drove inland toward a villa identified in the photograph.
The property sat among olive groves surrounded by stone walls.
No guards were visible.
Marco hated that.
“It means either nobody is here or everybody is.”
Adrian checked his weapon.
Elena looked at him.
“You keep doing that.”
“What?”
“Acting like this is normal.”
“For me, unfortunately, it often is.”
They entered through the main gate.
The front door stood open.
Inside, the villa was quiet.
A record played softly somewhere upstairs.
Elena recognized the song.
Her mother used to sing it while cooking.
Her knees weakened.
“Mom?”
The word escaped before she could stop it.
No answer.
They followed the music.
At the top of the staircase stood a woman.
Silver streaks in dark hair.
Thin.
Elegant.
Older.
She stared at Elena.
Then covered her mouth.
“Elena.”
Elena could not move.
Lucia descended one step.
“My baby.”
“Don’t.”
Lucia stopped.
“You died.”
Her mother’s eyes filled with tears.
“I know.”
“No. You don’t get to say that.”
“Elena—”
“I went to your funeral.”
“I know.”
“I cried for you for twenty years.”
Lucia gripped the banister.
“I had no choice.”
“Everybody has a choice.”
“They threatened you.”
Elena went silent.
Lucia looked at Adrian.
“And they threatened his family.”
Adrian stepped forward.
“Who?”
Before Lucia could answer, a man entered from the corridor.
Tall.
Gray at the temples.
Same dark eyes as Adrian.
Adrian froze.
“Matteo.”
His brother stopped.
Nineteen years collapsed between them.
Matteo looked at him almost sadly.
“You look like Dad.”
Adrian’s hand went toward his weapon.
Matteo raised both palms.
“If I wanted you dead, you wouldn’t have reached the villa.”
Marco moved closer to Adrian.
Lucia whispered, “Please. We don’t have much time.”
Elena looked between the two families.
“What happened twenty years ago?”
Lucia sat slowly.
Matteo remained standing.
“The Founders were originally twelve families and institutions,” he said. “Not mafia families. Banks. Developers. Political donors. Lawyers. People who realized land could move money more quietly than cash.”
Adrian’s gaze never left him.
“And Dad found them.”
“Dad was invited to join.”
“I know.”
“He refused.”
“I know.”
“No, Adrian. You know half.”
Matteo looked at Lucia.
She continued.
“Salvatore found evidence that one of their companies was forging transfers using dead signatories.”
“The Mercer method,” Elena said.
Lucia nodded.
“Your father wanted to go to federal authorities.”
“Why didn’t he?”
“Because one of those authorities belonged to them.”
Elena felt sick.
“So you disappeared.”
“They staged my death to make your father stop.”
“Who is they?”
Lucia looked at Matteo.
He answered.
“Our uncle.”
Adrian’s face hardened.
“Vittorio?”
Matteo nodded.
Adrian laughed once.
“My father trusted him.”
“Yes.”
“He gave him control of half the family operations.”
“Yes.”
“And you expect me to believe Uncle Vittorio runs the Founders?”
“No.”
Adrian frowned.
Matteo’s expression became darker.
“Vittorio worked for the person who did.”
“Who?”
Matteo hesitated.
Lucia whispered, “Tell him.”
Matteo looked directly at Adrian.
“Your mother.”
Adrian did not move.
Elena felt the air leave the room.
Adrian’s mother, Isabella Bellandi, had died eight years earlier.
Or so everyone believed.
He shook his head.
“No.”
Matteo stepped closer.
“She built the modern network after Dad refused.”
“You’re lying.”
“I watched her order Dad’s death.”
Adrian drew his weapon.
Marco immediately stepped between them.
“Boss.”
Matteo did not flinch.
“You think I disappeared because I betrayed the family?”
Adrian’s voice was low.
“You stole millions and vanished.”
“I stole records.”
“You left me to clean up the war you started.”
“I left because Mom ordered you killed next.”
Adrian stared.
Lucia stood.
“Matteo saved you.”
Adrian’s gun remained raised.
For several seconds, nobody breathed.
Then a distant explosion shook the villa.
Glass shattered.
Marco shouted.
“Down!”
Everyone dropped.
A second blast struck near the gate.
Security men returned fire outside.
Matteo grabbed Lucia.
“They found us.”
“How?” Adrian demanded.
Matteo looked toward Elena.
“No.”
Elena understood his expression.
“My phone?”
“Everything was clean,” Nina shouted.
Matteo shook his head.
“Not the phone.”
He pointed at Salvatore’s flash drive in Elena’s bag.
“That device was never evidence.”
Adrian stared at him.
Matteo finished:
“It was a beacon.”
From downstairs came the sound of the front door breaking open.
Then a familiar voice called through the villa.
“Elena Russo.”
She froze.
She knew that voice.
Everyone did.
May you like
Charles Whitmore had somehow escaped Manhattan.
And he was standing downstairs.
