Page 95
The name on the screen drains all the color from the world.
“He contacted you directly?”
“Yesterday. An old number we used years ago that you wouldn’t know to monitor.”
She’s calm. Too calm. “He said he’s coming back. That you’re part of a…purchase.”
The word sounds like rust. Purchase. The way men like Vincent describe people when they forget they’re human.
She gestures to the bedside drawer, then pulls out a worn book.
The book has a frayed jacket that she peels off to reveal a key.
“The night your father had us running and I collapsed, he gave you the paper containing the names and locations of the undercover cops who were in the mafia’s businesses, and he handed me this. The key belongs to a safety deposit box. Documents, recordings, things he thought shouldn’t be destroyed.”
She presses the key into my hand. I can only stare at it as a million questions race through my mind.
“It was in with my book all this time. I totally forgot about it until my mind cleared. I guess he did too.”
She meets my eyes. “Someone will use you to reach him. It’s all escalating, as you well know. Better you have it before they come looking.”
Her calm cracks me open. Fear, anger, guilt all layer together like bad paint. My hand shakes. “He’ll come for us.”
Mother squeezes my wrist. “Then be ready this time.”
The nurse returns with chamomile tea, its relaxing scent permeating the room. She leaves after setting the cup on the nightstand.
Mama’s eyes soften. “Drink, sweetheart. I’ll have tea later. You think too fast when you’re afraid.”
I sip because arguing feels childish. The warmth steadies me, pulling air back into my lungs. “I should go there quickly in case he’s trying to move that safety deposit box.”
Mama leans back, her strength fading under the weight of the conversation. “Promise me you’ll be careful.”
I use that same tone with my children before field trips. The irony almost makes me laugh. “I’ll try.”
“Not try.” She’s smiling faintly. “Don’t do anything stupid, girl.”
For the first time in years, she sounds like herself.
After another hour, the nurse ushers me out.
In the hallway, Marco’s phone buzzes. He checks the screen, his face tightening, then pockets the device. “We’ll talk on the drive.”
At the exit, the sharp wind hits my face. I clutch my jacket and hide the key in my pocket.
In the car, Marco lowers his voice. “The message she showed you… If Vincent’s moving again, Enzo will want full details. You should tell him.”
I stare at the road unspooling ahead. “Not yet.”
He doesn’t argue, just nods once. By the time we reach the mini villa, the sun has shifted. Enzo waits on the steps, his arms folded, his face unreadable.
The moment I step close, his hand finds the small of my back. Familiar pressure and quiet claim. “How was she?”
“She’s…fine.”
“Good. Anything happen?”
“No, nothing.” Guilt twists in my stomach, preventing me from meeting his eyes.
