Chapter 7 - THE LAST KEEPER OF MONTE CERVO
Three days later, Tessa stood before a departure board at John F. Kennedy International Airport with a boarding pass in her hand and the distinct feeling that she had temporarily misplaced her common sense.
Her mother was improving.
The neurologists were cautiously optimistic.
Evelyn had insisted that Tessa go to Sicily.
Not because she believed the journey was safe, but because she believed the silence had become more dangerous.
Before leaving, Tessa arranged with the hospital social worker for her mother's rehabilitation support. Ruth promised to visit. Sam promised to bring takeout.
Tessa promised herself she would call twice a day.
Mateo stood beside her, dressed in a dark sweater and jacket.
He was looking at the departure board as though it had personally offended him.
"I still don't understand why you won't fly privately," he said.
"Because the airline already sold me a ticket."
"I would've paid."
"I know."
"Commercial travel adds hours."
"Mateo, it's an airplane, not a covered wagon."
His mouth twitched.
She was learning to recognize that almost-smile.
It happened when she refused to be impressed.
She liked it more than she wanted to admit.
Salvatore was not traveling with them.
His physician had advised against the journey because of an infection and worsening mobility.
Instead, he had provided the name of a Sicilian attorney who specialized in historic property disputes.
Her name was Giulia Renda.
According to Salvatore, she was incorruptible.
According to Mateo, she was terrifying.
According to Giulia herself, when they met at Palermo Airport, both men were exaggerating.
"I'm only terrifying when people waste my time."
She was short, direct, and wore a yellow scarf that fluttered dramatically in the airport wind.
Tessa liked her immediately.
Monte Cervo was smaller than Tessa imagined.
The road wound through olive groves and stone terraces before climbing toward a cluster of houses perched against the mountain.
The village seemed to emerge from the earth itself.
Honey-colored walls.
Green shutters.
Laundry hanging from balconies.
A narrow church tower rising above a square so old that the paving stones had been worn smooth by centuries of footsteps.
Tessa stepped out of the car.
The air smelled of wild thyme, wood smoke, and damp limestone.
Somewhere nearby, a woman was singing.
It was a lullaby Tessa knew.
Concetta had sung it while kneading dough.
Her throat tightened.
Mateo noticed.
"Are you okay?"
Tessa nodded.
Then shook her head.
"I don't know."
He didn't touch her.
He simply remained beside her while she stood listening.
An elderly woman appeared in a doorway.
She was carrying a basket of laundry.
When she saw Tessa, the basket slipped from her hands.
Sheets spilled across the stones.
The woman stared.
"Concetta?"
Tessa went completely still.
"No," she said in the old dialect. "I'm her great-granddaughter."
The woman pressed a hand to her mouth.
Then she began to cry.
Her name was Rosalia Ferraro.
She was ninety-one years old and had lived in Monte Cervo her entire life.
Within twenty minutes, Tessa found herself seated at Rosalia's kitchen table, drinking strong coffee and eating almond biscuits while the older woman examined her face.
"Same eyes," Rosalia whispered. "Same stubborn mouth."
Tessa smiled through her tears.
"She told me you made the best fig jam in Sicily."
Rosalia laughed.
"Your great-grandmother was a liar. Hers was better."
Mateo sat quietly near the window.
Giulia opened a notebook.
Rosalia's mood changed when the conversation turned to 1978.
"The fire," she whispered.
Tessa nodded.
"Do you remember it?"
"Every night."
Rosalia looked down at her hands.
"That summer, men came with machines. They dug into the mountain. The priest told us progress would save our children from poverty."
"Did you believe him?"
"We wanted to."
She sighed.
"People believe many things when they're hungry."
"Tell me about Luca Bellini."
Rosalia's eyes widened.
"Who told you that name?"
"Salvatore Vitiello."
The elderly woman's face hardened.
"That man."
Mateo straightened.
Rosalia looked directly at him.
"You're his son."
"Yes."
"Then you know your father frightened good people."
"I know."
"Do you know what he did to my brother?"
Mateo's expression became solemn.
"No."
"He broke his hand because he refused to sign away our family's olive grove."
Tessa felt the room tighten.
Mateo lowered his gaze.
"I'm sorry."
Rosalia studied him.
"Apologies are small things, young man."
"Yes."
"What matters is what follows them."
Mateo nodded.
Tessa felt something shift.
For perhaps the first time in his life, he was being judged not by his surname's power, but by the pain that surname had caused.
And he was staying.
Rosalia returned her attention to Tessa.
"Your great-grandmother found the boy after the fire. The rain carried him through the drainage channel beneath her house."
"Was he injured?"
"Terribly."
"Why didn't she tell anyone?"
"Because Vittorio Bellini wanted the boy dead."
Tessa stared.
"His own nephew?"
Rosalia nodded.
"Luca had seen what his uncle was burning. He had taken something."
"What?"
"A notebook."
"Where is it?"
Rosalia shook her head.
"I never saw it."
"Did Luca leave with Concetta?"
"No. She hid him here until he recovered. Then someone took him away."
"Who?"
Rosalia looked toward the church tower.
"A man from Palermo. A schoolteacher. His name was Antonino Renda."
Giulia went still.
"My grandfather."
Everyone turned.
Giulia set down her pen.
"My grandfather helped children escape political violence. He never spoke about this."
Rosalia nodded.
"He gave the boy a different name."
"Lorenzo," Tessa whispered.
Rosalia looked surprised.
"Yes."
"Where did he go?"
"First Palermo. Then America."
Tessa looked at Mateo.
The pieces were beginning to connect.
Luca Bellini had survived.
He had grown up under another name.
He had later appeared in New York's shipping records.
And somehow, nearly five decades later, he was connected to Julian Armand.
"Did Concetta ever come back?" Tessa asked.
Rosalia nodded.
"Once. In 1996. She stayed three nights."
"Why?"
"To make certain the house had not been demolished."
"Why would it be?"
"Because Vittorio wanted it destroyed."
Tessa took out the old photograph.
"Is this the house?"
Rosalia stared at it.
Then she touched the roof with a trembling finger.
"Yes."
"Is it still standing?"
Rosalia nodded.
"But no one lives there."
"Can we see it?"
The elderly woman hesitated.
Then she rose.
"Bring your coat."
The house stood above the village, half concealed by olive trees.
Its front door was warped.
The balcony railing sagged.
Wildflowers grew between the roof tiles.
Tessa approached slowly.
She could almost imagine Concetta as a girl running through the doorway with flour on her hands.
Giulia used an old key Rosalia had kept for decades.
Inside, the air was cool and smelled of dust.
Furniture stood beneath yellowed sheets.
A cracked ceramic bowl rested on a table.
Tessa touched it gently.
Her great-grandmother had once described a bowl shaped like a white flower.
"This is hers."
Mateo remained near the entrance.
Tessa wandered into the kitchen.
There was a large stone fireplace.
A built-in bread oven.
And beneath the window, a strange patch of floor where the stone tiles seemed newer than the rest.
She crouched.
"Mateo."
He approached.
"Look."
The tiles formed a rectangular outline.
A hidden access panel.
Giulia examined it.
"Older houses sometimes had underground cisterns."
Tessa remembered the phrase.
What the roof drinks, the cellar keeps.
Rosalia crossed herself.
"Concetta always said there was a place beneath the kitchen where the rain could speak."
Mateo looked toward the ceiling.
Then at the downspout outside the window.
"There's a rainwater channel built into the wall."
Tessa stood.
"That means there's a collection chamber."
Giulia took out her phone.
"We'll need a structural engineer before opening anything."
Tessa nodded reluctantly.
She had no intention of collapsing a hundred-year-old house on top of herself.
As they turned toward the door, Rosalia spoke.
"There's something else."
Tessa looked back.
Rosalia pointed toward the wall beside the fireplace.
A small ceramic tile was set into the plaster.
It showed seven bells.
Six were painted black.
The seventh was blue.
Tessa reached toward it.
A crack ran through the glaze.
She recognized the design from Concetta's blue tin.
"What does it mean?"
Rosalia's expression darkened.
"It means this house was a meeting place for the keepers."
"The keepers of what?"
Rosalia looked at Mateo.
Then back at Tessa.
"The truth."
Outside, an engine started.
Giulia hurried to the window.
A dark SUV was parked beside the road.
A man stood near the olive grove, photographing the house.
When he noticed Giulia looking, he turned away.
Mateo stepped forward.
"Do you recognize him?"
Tessa stared at the man's profile.
Silver hair.
A black leather glove.
Julian Armand.
And when she looked again, she saw that he was not alone.
May you like
Standing beside him was a man with a long scar beneath his chin.
The boy from the fire had finally returned to Monte Cervo.
