Chapter 3 - The Woman in the Photograph
Matteo moved first.
He pushed Elena behind the kitchen wall and motioned for Nico to stay with her.
Luca headed toward the stairs.
Another creak.
Then a woman’s voice floated down.
“Please don’t shoot.”
Elena froze.
Matteo stared upward.
The woman appeared at the top of the stairs.
Silver hair.
Thin shoulders.
Dark coat.
Elena knew her.
“Mrs. Caruso?”
Their former neighbor gripped the banister.
She was seventy-six and lived two houses away.
Her eyes filled with fear.
“I saw the back door open.”
Matteo did not lower his guard.
“What are you doing upstairs?”
“Looking for Elena.”
“I was downstairs.”
“I know that now.”
Mrs. Caruso descended slowly.
Then she saw the dead man.
She covered her mouth.
“Oh, dear God.”
Elena stepped forward.
“Why did you come in?”
Mrs. Caruso looked toward Matteo.
“Because Teresa told me to.”
The room changed again.
Elena closed her eyes.
Of course.
Another secret.
“When?”
“Before she died.”
Mrs. Caruso reached into her coat.
Nico tensed.
She pulled out an envelope.
“If Elena ever opened the flour cabinet with a DeLuca in the house, Teresa said I was to bring this.”
Elena stared at her.
“That is unbelievably specific.”
Mrs. Caruso gave a shaky smile.
“Your grandmother was unbelievably specific.”
Matteo took the envelope.
Inside was the missing half of Sofia’s letter.
He read aloud.
And most of all, do not let Vittorio convince you Elena belongs to him.
She does not.
Elena is my daughter.
Silence.
Elena stared.
Matteo did not move.
Mrs. Caruso lowered her eyes.
Luca whispered, “Sofia…”
Elena laughed.
A tiny, broken sound.
“No.”
Matteo looked at her.
“Elena.”
“No.”
She stepped backward.
“My mother was Maria Rossi.”
Mrs. Caruso’s expression broke.
“Maria raised you.”
Elena turned.
“You knew?”
“She loved you like her own.”
“My mother was my grandmother’s daughter.”
Mrs. Caruso shook her head.
“Maria couldn’t have children.”
Elena felt the kitchen tilt.
“No.”
“Teresa took you in after Sofia disappeared.”
“She died.”
“That’s what Teresa told everyone.”
Elena looked at Matteo.
His face had gone pale beneath his olive skin.
“If Sofia was my mother…”
She could barely say it.
Matteo finished.
“Then you’re my sister.”
Nobody breathed.
Elena stared at the man she had been terrified of less than two hours earlier.
The tattooed Mafia boss who had locked an entire restaurant because of one plate of food.
Her brother.
“No.”
Matteo seemed equally unable to accept it.
“My mother died when I was fourteen.”
Mrs. Caruso shook her head.
“You were told she died.”
“I saw the car.”
“You saw what remained of it.”
“I went to the funeral.”
“You buried an empty casket.”
Matteo’s eyes turned dangerous.
“Who told you that?”
“Teresa.”
“Where is Sofia?”
Mrs. Caruso looked away.
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“I am not.”
Matteo stepped closer.
Mrs. Caruso did not retreat.
“She disappeared after she gave Elena to Teresa. Teresa said Sofia believed both children would die if Vittorio knew she had another child.”
Elena pressed both hands against the counter.
Another child.
The words hurt.
“What was Vittorio going to do to me?”
Mrs. Caruso looked at her gently.
“Use you.”
“For what?”
“The same reason he used Matteo.”
Matteo laughed bitterly.
“To inherit an empire.”
“No.”
Mrs. Caruso looked at him.
“To control Sofia.”
Matteo stopped.
“She had evidence that could destroy everything Vittorio built. She agreed to disappear if he left you alive.”
“And Elena?”
“He never knew Elena existed.”
The burner phone inside the dead man’s pocket rang.
Everyone turned.
Matteo picked it up.
Unknown caller.
He answered.
Vittorio’s voice came through.
Older.
But unmistakable.
“Hello, son.”
Matteo’s face became stone.
Elena remembered that voice from Teresa’s funeral.
Anthony Vale.
“Where are you?”
Vittorio chuckled.
“Still impatient.”
“You sent a man into Teresa’s house.”
“I sent someone to recover what belongs to me.”
“He’s dead.”
A pause.
“Then he disappointed me.”
Elena felt sick.
Matteo looked at her.
“You approached Elena at the funeral.”
Another pause.
Then:
“So she remembers me.”
Elena stepped closer to the phone.
“You told me you were my grandmother’s friend.”
“I was.”
“You lied.”
“I omitted.”
“You knew who I was.”
“Not until recently.”
Matteo’s voice dropped.
“If you go near her again—”
“What? You’ll kill me?”
Vittorio laughed softly.
“You spent twenty years becoming me, Matteo. Don’t suddenly pretend blood makes you noble.”
Matteo’s jaw tightened.
“You don’t know what I became.”
“I know exactly what you became. I designed it.”
Luca looked away.
Vittorio continued.
“Bring me the recipe cards.”
“No.”
“Then people die.”
“Try me.”
“I already did.”
A sound came through the phone.
A woman crying.
Elena froze.
Matteo’s expression shifted.
“Who is that?”
Vittorio said, “Someone your chef cares about.”
Elena grabbed the phone.
“Who?”
A trembling female voice whispered:
“Elena?”
Elena’s heart stopped.
“Rachel?”
Rachel Kim.
Her pastry chef.
Her best friend.
The woman who had covered Elena’s shift three days earlier so Elena could visit Teresa’s grave.
“Rachel, where are you?”
A slap sounded.
Rachel cried out.
Elena nearly screamed.
Vittorio returned.
“Recipe cards. Midnight. The old DeLuca restaurant.”
Matteo stared at the clock.
9:42.
“You have two hours.”
The call ended.
Elena turned on Matteo.
“We’re giving him the cards.”
“No.”
“My friend is going to die.”
“And if we give him the cards, he gets the ledger.”
“I don’t care.”
“You will when he kills everyone named inside it.”
Elena stepped into his face.
“You don’t get to tell me who I should sacrifice.”
Matteo looked at her.
She expected anger.
Instead, pain.
“You’re right.”
That stopped her.
He turned to Luca.
“Copy everything.”
Luca nodded.
“Nico, find out who took Rachel.”
Nico stepped away.
“Marco, get the restaurant staff home.”
“What about the customers?”
“Comp every table.”
Elena almost laughed despite herself.
Matteo saw it.
“What?”
“You lock an entire restaurant, threaten everyone, discover a secret sister, find out your dead father is alive, and you’re worried about customer checks.”
“My mother owned restaurants.”
Elena stared.
“So did mine.”
Their eyes met.
Brother.
Sister.
Neither knew how to say it.
Matteo looked away first.
“We need to understand the recipe.”
Elena spread Sofia’s cards across the kitchen table.
The Sunday dish had seven steps.
Beef weight.
Wine measurement.
Flour ratio.
Dumpling count.
Rosemary sprigs.
Cooking temperature.
Resting time.
Matteo studied them.
“Numbers.”
Elena nodded.
“But not enough.”
Mrs. Caruso spoke quietly.
“Teresa used church addresses.”
They turned.
“What?”
“When she and Sofia needed to exchange messages, they used saints’ feast days and church numbers.”
Elena looked at the recipe.
Rosemary.
Seven sprigs.
Dumplings.
Twelve.
Wine.
Four ounces.
She grabbed her phone.
Philadelphia churches.
Saint Rosemary did not exist.
But Saint Rosalia did.
Feast date September fourth.
Elena searched.
A closed parish church on South Ninth Street.
Matteo leaned closer.
“What are you thinking?”
“The recipe doesn’t identify one number. It identifies a route.”
She decoded each ingredient.
Seven.
Twelve.
Four.
Three.
Nine.
The numbers formed addresses and dates.
The final instruction said:
Rest eighteen minutes.
Elena stared.
“Eighteen.”
Matteo looked at her.
“What?”
“My grandmother used to say eighteen meant below.”
“Below what?”
“She called basement shelves ‘eighteens.’ I thought it was some old joke.”
Luca looked at the photograph of Teresa’s restaurant.
“Mamma Rosa’s had a basement.”
Matteo stiffened.
“My father owned that building after Teresa closed.”
“Who owns it now?”
Matteo pulled out his phone.
A quick search.
He looked up.
“Nobody.”
Elena frowned.
“What does that mean?”
“The holding company dissolved.”
“Then who pays the taxes?”
Matteo looked at Luca.
Luca was already searching.
Seconds later, he stopped.
His face changed.
“What?”
Luca turned the screen.
The property taxes had been paid every year by a trust.
The trust had one beneficiary.
Sofia DeLuca.
Elena whispered, “She’s alive.”
Matteo stared at the address.
Then Nico called.
Matteo answered.
“What did you find?”
Nico’s voice came fast.
“We found Rachel’s car.”
“Where?”
“Behind Mamma Rosa’s.”
Elena grabbed her coat.
Matteo stopped her.
“There’s more.”
Nico continued.
“The driver’s door was open. Her phone was inside.”
Elena’s face fell.
“And Rachel?”
A pause.
“Gone.”
Matteo looked at Elena.
Then Nico added:
“Boss… there’s something painted on the basement door.”
Matteo’s grip tightened.
“What?”
Nico swallowed.
“One sentence.”
“What does it say?”
May you like
Nico read it.
“WELCOME HOME, SOFIA.”
