Chapter 2 - THE MAN MATTEO CALLED UNCLE
I did not storm upstairs.
Every instinct I had told me to.
My entire adult life had rewarded speed.
Threat appears.
Remove it.
Problem surfaces.
Control it.
Enemy betrays you.
Destroy him before he destroys anything else.
Then I heard Matteo again in my head.
Dad kills people when he's angry.
So I stopped at the bottom of the stairs.
Breathed.
Then called Owen, my head of security.
“Where is Dominic's weapon?”
“On him.”
“Disable his access remotely.”
Silence.
“Boss?”
“You heard me.”
Five seconds later, Dominic's security credentials were dead.
His exterior vehicle was blocked.
Two guards I trusted independently were sent upstairs.
Not men from Dominic's chain.
That distinction suddenly mattered.
When I entered Matteo’s room, Dominic stood near the wall.
Clara remained beside my son.
One hand resting on the handle of his wheelchair.
Not possessively.
Ready.
My son looked at me.
He immediately went quiet.
The word he had finally found disappeared again.
That hurt.
I stopped several feet away.
“Matteo.”
His fingers tightened around the blanket.
I forced myself not to approach.
“I'm not angry at you.”
Nothing.
“I heard what you said.”
His eyes moved toward Clara.
Betrayal flashed there.
She shook her head.
“I didn't tell him.”
Then she pointed at the corner.
“The camera did.”
Matteo looked up.
His face changed.
I hated myself.
Clara did not soften it.
“He was watching.”
I expected accusation.
She gave me fact.
Dominic said:
“Vincent, whatever this is, we can talk privately.”
I turned.
“No.”
“Come on.”
“No private conversation.”
His eyes narrowed.
“We've known each other since we were fifteen.”
“Yes.”
“And now some caretaker hears a traumatized kid say my name and you lock me in a bedroom?”
Clara looked at me.
Not Dominic.
Watching whether I would choose familiarity over evidence.
Again.
I almost resented her for being right.
Instead I said:
“Matteo says you were in the garage before the bombing.”
Dominic's face barely changed.
“I was.”
That surprised me.
“You told investigators you arrived after we left.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I said I entered the property after the motorcade was staged.”
“Dominic.”
His jaw tightened.
“That's what happened.”
Matteo suddenly whispered:
“You touched my seat.”
Dominic looked at him.
“Buddy—”
Matteo recoiled.
Clara immediately moved closer.
“Don't call him that.”
Dominic snapped:
“Stay out of this.”
“No.”
His eyes flashed.
I stepped between them.
“Look at me.”
Dominic did.
“Why did you move Matteo’s seat?”
He exhaled.
“Celeste asked.”
Everything stopped.
“My wife?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I don't know.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“I was told the left restraint mechanism was sticking.”
“No maintenance report exists.”
“I didn't create one.”
“Why?”
“Because we were leaving.”
I stared.
Matteo shook his head.
“Mommy was mad.”
Dominic looked toward him.
“Matteo—”
“She yelled.”
Dominic closed his eyes briefly.
There.
Memory.
“Why?” I asked.
He looked back at me.
“Not here.”
I laughed without humor.
“Still trying that?”
He lowered his voice.
“Because your son does not need to hear everything about his mother.”
Matteo spoke louder.
“My mother.”
Everyone stopped.
He had said two words in succession.
His voice shook.
“She was my mother.”
Dominic looked stricken.
Matteo continued:
“You all talk like I wasn't there.”
My chest broke open.
Clara crouched beside him.
“You're right.”
Simple.
No excuse.
I knelt too.
Not touching.
“I'm sorry.”
Matteo stared at me.
I almost said more.
Clara glanced at me.
Don't bury the apology.
So I stopped.
Dominic looked away.
Then said:
“Celeste discovered something.”
My body went cold.
“What?”
“She believed someone inside your organization had been feeding route information to the Moretti crew.”
The family we'd blamed for the bombing.
“Yes.”
“She suspected one of our own?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
Dominic hesitated.
I stood.
“Say it.”
“Me.”
The room went silent.
Matteo stared.
Clara’s hand tightened on his chair.
Dominic continued.
“Celeste suspected me.”
My rage came so quickly I tasted metal.
“But she was wrong.”
Of course.
“Why did she suspect you?”
“Because three convoy routes changed and Moretti men still appeared.”
“Who knew them?”
“You.”
“Celeste.”
“Me.”
“And security dispatch.”
I stared.
“Why didn't she tell me?”
Dominic laughed bitterly.
“She tried.”
That struck.
“What?”
“Two nights before the bombing, you had a meeting at the port.”
I remembered.
Celeste waited in my study afterward.
She wanted to talk.
I told her I had been awake thirty hours.
Tomorrow.
Always tomorrow.
Dominic continued.
“She came to me instead.”
“Why?”
“To ask whether I was compromised.”
“And?”
“I told her no.”
“Were you?”
He looked at me.
“No.”
I searched his face.
Eighteen years.
Funerals.
Weddings.
Blood.
My son’s first birthday.
My wife's coffin.
And suddenly I did not know whether any of it meant truth.
Clara said:
“What did Mrs. Rossi mean when she said, ‘You promised me it was over’?”
Dominic turned sharply.
“How do you know that?”
“Matteo heard.”
His face changed.
Not guilt.
Pain.
He sat down.
“I promised her I would stop investigating alone.”
“What investigation?” I asked.
Dominic looked at Matteo.
Then me.
“The first attempt.”
My skin prickled.
“What first attempt?”
“Three months before the bombing, someone tampered with Celeste’s brakes.”
I stopped breathing.
There had been an accident.
Minor.
Celeste drove into a retaining wall.
No injuries.
Mechanic blamed a defective line.
Dominic whispered:
“It wasn't defective.”
“You knew?”
“Yes.”
“And you didn't tell me?”
“Celeste asked me not to.”
I nearly crossed the room.
Clara stood.
That tiny movement stopped me.
Dominic continued quickly.
“She thought telling you would start a war before she knew who was responsible.”
“She was right.”
I hated that.
“She asked me to investigate quietly.”
“You promised her?”
“Yes.”
“And then?”
“I found evidence someone inside the estate garage had accessed her car.”
“Who?”
“A mechanic named Luis Ortega.”
I remembered.
Luis vanished weeks before the bombing.
We assumed he fled after stealing money.
Dominic said:
“He didn't disappear because of theft.”
“What happened?”
“I confronted him.”
“And?”
“He said he had been paid.”
“By whom?”
“He wouldn't tell me.”
“What did you do?”
Dominic stared at the floor.
“I hit him.”
Clara looked disgusted.
He noticed.
“I was different then.”
She replied:
“Fourteen months isn't ancient history.”
Good.
Dominic continued.
Luis escaped before he gave a name.
Then Celeste made Dominic promise he would stop confronting suspects physically and bring her whatever he found.
On the morning of the bombing, she discovered something new.
“What?”
Dominic shook his head.
“I don't know.”
“She called me to the garage.”
“She had Matteo's seat moved.”
“Then she said, ‘You promised me it was over.’”
“Because she realized I'd kept investigating.”
“What did you find?”
Dominic looked at me.
“A payment.”
“From?”
He swallowed.
“One of your accounts.”
My entire body went cold.
“My account?”
“A Rossi Holdings discretionary security account.”
“Who had signing authority?”
Dominic.
My chief financial officer.
And—
My late wife.
I stared.
“Are you saying Celeste paid Luis?”
“No.”
“What are you saying?”
“That somebody wanted the payment to look like she did.”
The story shifted again.
Dominic reached into his jacket slowly.
Two guards moved.
“Phone,” he said.
He removed it.
Opened an old photograph.
A bank authorization.
Celeste Rossi’s digital signature.
Payment to Luis Ortega.
$75,000.
Three days before the brake failure.
I stared.
“It was forged.”
“Yes.”
“How do you know?”
“Celeste was in Boston that day.”
“With Matteo.”
“Exactly.”
She couldn't have approved the transaction from the estate terminal listed in the logs.
Then Clara asked the question none of us had.
“Why move Matteo's seat?”
Dominic looked at her.
“Celeste thought the bomb, if there was one, would be placed near her usual rear-side position.”
My vision blurred.
“She knew?”
“No.”
“She suspected another attempt.”
“She put herself in the dangerous seat?”
Dominic's voice broke.
“Yes.”
I stumbled backward.
My wife knew.
Not certainty.
Enough suspicion to move our child away from her side.
Enough fear to argue with Dominic.
Not enough trust in me to tell me before we left.
Clara looked at Matteo.
His face had gone white.
“Enough.”
She said it firmly.
“This conversation is done for him today.”
I wanted to object.
Then saw my son.
She was right.
Again.
Matteo whispered:
“Dad.”
My heart stopped.
First time he'd addressed me directly in months.
“Yes?”
“Did Mom save me?”
I couldn't answer.
Clara didn't.
Dominic didn't.
Finally I said:
“I think she tried.”
Matteo began crying.
I moved instinctively.
Then stopped.
“Can I hug you?”
His face crumpled.
He nodded.
I went to him.
Carefully.
He wrapped his arms around my neck.
Weakly at first.
Then hard.
I held my son while he sobbed into my shoulder.
For fourteen months, I had told myself Celeste died because enemies attacked my family.
Now I knew something worse.
She had seen danger coming.
She tried to protect Matteo.
And for some reason, she believed telling her own husband might make everything more dangerous.
That night, I ordered one thing.
Not a hit.
Not an interrogation.
An independent forensic audit of every security account, garage access log, vehicle record and camera archive from the six months before the bombing.
Dominic looked surprised.
“That's it?”
“No.”
I looked at him.
“You're suspended.”
His face tightened.
“Vincent.”
“Not punished.”
“Not cleared.”
“You don't enter Matteo's room.”
“You don't access security systems.”
“You don't leave the property until counsel speaks with you.”
He stared.
“After eighteen years?”
“Because of eighteen years.”
That hurt him.
It was supposed to.
Not revenge.
Boundary.
Clara waited until he left.
Then looked at me.
“You did better.”
I almost laughed.
“That's your praise?”
“Yes.”
“Brutal.”
“Useful.”
Then she looked toward the ceiling camera.
“And tomorrow, we talk about those.”
My stomach tightened.
“The cameras?”
“Yes.”
“You're watching an eight-year-old child in his bedroom without him knowing.”
“He was almost killed.”
“I understand why.”
She met my eyes.
“That doesn't automatically make it right.”
I hated her.
A little.
May you like
Because the assassin I expected to find had not been the hardest thing hidden in my house.
The hardest thing was discovering how much fear had convinced me I was entitled to see.
