Chapter 3 - THE CAMERA VINCENT TURNED OFF
The next morning, Clara did something no employee had ever done.
She asked me to sit in Matteo’s room.
Then made me wait while she asked him whether I was allowed to stay.
My own house.
My own son.
My first reaction was offense.
That was exactly why I needed to shut up.
Matteo said yes.
Clara sat near the window.
I took the chair farthest from him.
“Your father has something to tell you.”
Matteo looked at me.
I swallowed.
“There are cameras in this house.”
He nodded.
“I know.”
That surprised me.
“How?”
“The red light.”
Of course.
Kids see everything adults think they hide.
“Do you know where?”
He pointed toward the ceiling.
“Bedroom.”
“Hallway.”
“Playroom.”
Then:
“Bathroom door outside.”
Not inside.
Thank God.
I said:
“I put them in after the bombing.”
Matteo's face closed.
“I know why.”
“But?”
He looked at Clara.
She waited.
Then Matteo whispered:
“I hate it.”
Fourteen months.
I had watched him sleep.
Cry.
Stare.
Refuse food.
I had called it protection.
He called it what it felt like.
“I’m sorry.”
His eyes stayed on me.
“Are you taking it down?”
The question frightened me.
Because every security instinct screamed no.
Then I thought about why I'd installed them.
To catch danger.
But if my son knew they existed and felt trapped, the surveillance had become part of the injury.
“We remove the bedroom camera.”
Clara corrected:
“You ask him which ones.”
I almost snapped.
Then stopped.
Right.
I looked at Matteo.
“Which ones do you want removed?”
“Bedroom.”
“Yes.”
“Therapy room.”
“Yes.”
He thought.
“Keep hallway.”
I blinked.
“Why?”
“So I can see who comes.”
Not so I can watch him.
So he can watch them.
Control.
“Okay.”
“Playroom can stay if I know.”
“Okay.”
Clara said:
“And give him access.”
I turned.
“What?”
“He should be able to view common-area cameras relevant to his safety.”
My security team would faint.
Good.
Matteo looked interested.
“On my tablet?”
“Yes,” I said before fear could stop me.
For the first time, something almost playful crossed his face.
“I can see Dominic?”
“Not currently.”
“Because he's in trouble?”
“Yes.”
Matteo processed that.
Then:
“Is he bad?”
There are questions fathers want to answer simply.
This wasn't one.
“I don't know.”
He frowned.
“You don't know?”
“No.”
That seemed to surprise him more than any certainty could have.
Men like me aren't supposed to say I don't know.
Maybe fathers should.
The bedroom camera came down before lunch.
I did it myself.
Not because I needed symbolism.
Because Matteo wanted to watch.
I unscrewed the mount.
Disconnected the cable.
Set it on his desk.
He touched it.
“So you can't see me?”
“Not unless you call.”
He looked toward the door.
“Okay.”
That night he slept with the door partly open.
First time in months.
The forensic audit began.
I hired two firms that had never worked for Rossi companies.
One cybersecurity.
One financial.
Dominic hated the outsiders.
I understood.
That was another reason to use them.
Within forty-eight hours, they found the first anomaly.
The payment to Luis Ortega had been authorized from a terminal inside the estate.
Celeste's credentials.
But the login used a hardware token she had reported missing four months earlier.
I had forgotten.
She misplaced things.
I mocked her gently.
She accused me of stealing chargers.
Normal marriage.
Except the token had not been lost.
It had been used seventeen times afterward.
Access logs pointed to my private study.
Anyone with physical access could have connected it.
Camera footage from that period?
Deleted.
Not all.
Just thirty-one minutes.
On the day of the $75,000 transfer.
Someone deliberately created a blind spot.
The system administrator who approved the deletion was—
Dominic Russo.
I stared at the report.
Owen stood across my desk.
“Does he have an explanation?”
“He hasn't been asked yet.”
“Why?”
“You wanted independent process.”
Correct.
I hated my own rules already.
Dominic was interviewed with counsel.
I watched through glass.
Not hidden cameras.
He knew.
When investigators asked about the deletion, he closed his eyes.
“I did it.”
My chest tightened.
“Why?”
The investigator asked.
Dominic replied:
“Celeste asked me.”
I nearly walked through the door.
But stayed.
“Why?”
“She met someone in Vincent's study.”
“Who?”
“I don't know.”
“You deleted the footage without knowing who?”
“She said if Vincent saw it before she understood what was happening, someone might die.”
Everything always came back to my anger.
I wanted to resent that.
Could I?
Dominic continued.
“She made me swear.”
“What time?”
“11:03 to 11:34.”
The deletion window.
“What happened in the meeting?”
“I don't know.”
“Did Mrs. Rossi tell you anything afterward?”
Dominic hesitated.
“One sentence.”
“What?”
If I'm wrong, Vincent never needs to know. If I'm right, Matteo can't grow up here.
I stopped breathing.
My wife was planning to take our son away from the estate?
From me?
Or from something inside it?
The investigator asked:
“Did she mean Mr. Rossi?”
Dominic answered carefully.
“I never knew.”
That was the painful part.
Neither did I.
Later, Clara found me in the empty control room.
Most monitors had been shut down during the privacy review.
The room looked strange without constant movement.
She leaned against the door.
“You haven't eaten.”
“Are you my caretaker too?”
“No. Your rates are too low.”
I almost smiled.
She placed a sandwich down anyway.
I said:
“Celeste may have been planning to leave.”
Clara sat.
I expected sympathy.
She asked:
“Does that make you angry?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
I looked at her.
“You say that a lot.”
“Because pretending you aren't angry makes angry people dangerous.”
Fair.
I looked toward the dark Monitor Four.
“What if she was afraid of me?”
Clara took her time.
“Were you frightening?”
“Yes.”
Honest.
“Did you hurt her?”
“No.”
“Threaten her?”
“Never.”
“Control her?”
I almost said no.
Then thought.
Security details.
Drivers.
Telling her which events were unsafe.
Deciding when Matteo could leave the estate.
Calling it protection.
“Sometimes.”
Clara nodded.
“That doesn't mean she thought you were going to kill her.”
“Comforting.”
“It means marriage can become a room where one person’s fear decides how big the other person's life gets.”
I stared.
“You talk like experience.”
Her face closed.
There.
Two-year employment gap.
Something lived there.
I did not ask.
Not yet.
That was growth too.
Then Owen called.
“We found Luis Ortega.”
I stood.
“Alive?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Arizona.”
“What is he doing?”
“Mechanic.”
“Has he been hiding?”
Owen hesitated.
“He says he's been waiting for Celeste to contact him.”
My blood went cold.
“My wife has been dead fourteen months.”
Silence.
Then Owen said:
“He didn't know.”
Luis Ortega had disappeared before the bombing.
Apparently no one had told him what happened.
And when investigators showed him Celeste’s photograph, he said something that changed the case again.
“She wasn't the one who paid me.”
“Who did?”
Owen asked.
Luis answered:
“I never saw his face.”
“His?”
“Yes.”
“He told me to damage the brakes.”
“Why?”
“To scare Mrs. Rossi.”
“Who?”
Luis shook his head.
“But I know his voice.”
Owen played him recordings of senior Rossi men.
One by one.
Dominic.
My CFO.
Security officers.
Captains.
Luis rejected them all.
Then Owen, almost as an afterthought, played a recording from an old charity dinner.
A man speaking at the podium.
Luis sat straight up.
“That’s him.”
Owen looked at the file.
Then at me.
I already knew the voice.
My father-in-law.
Celeste’s father.
Senator Anthony Bellini.
A man who stood beside me at his daughter’s funeral.
May you like
A man Matteo called Grandpa.
And the only man in America powerful enough to believe using my wife's fear was simply another form of politics.
