Chapter 4 - THE UNCLE WHO RAISED RICO
Salvatore Moretti had been eighteen when Rico was born.
After Rico’s father died of a heart attack at fifty-one, Salvatore became the closest thing Rico had to an older father.
He taught him business.
Taught him how to read a room.
Taught him never to sit with his back to a door.
And apparently taught him something else without ever saying it:
Never question the man who taught you everything.
The family meeting took place without me.
Good.
I went back to work.
Marco stared when I entered Il Destino.
“You're alive.”
“Disappointed?”
“Deeply relieved.”
Jenna hugged me.
Then slapped my arm.
“You went home with the Morettis!”
“I went to a townhouse.”
“Same level of bad decision.”
The restaurant story had already grown.
According to busboys, I had hypnotized Leo.
According to kitchen staff, Rico offered me a million dollars.
According to one bartender, we were engaged.
Humans are exhausting.
I returned to serving tables.
Normalcy felt medicinal.
At six, Rico walked in.
Alone.
Every customer noticed.
He sat at the bar.
I approached.
“Table?”
“No.”
“Food?”
“No.”
“Then you're taking up revenue.”
He almost smiled.
“Salvatore denied everything.”
“Shocking.”
“He said Elena became paranoid after the first attack.”
“What first attack?”
Rico froze.
“Exactly.”
Salvatore had mentioned an attack Rico did not know about.
Seven years earlier.
The parking garage.
The one my mother treated Elena after.
“He knows.”
“Yes.”
“What did he say when you asked?”
“That he heard about it from Elena years later.”
“Possible.”
“Yes.”
“Likely?”
“No.”
Rico rubbed his jaw.
“He also said Dante was stealing.”
That mattered.
“Evidence?”
“He gave me bank records.”
I waited.
“Too convenient?”
“Yes.”
Good.
Rico was learning.
The records showed Dante received hundreds of thousands through Bellrose-linked accounts.
Could mean bribery.
Could mean participation.
Could mean framing.
The police had issued warrants.
Rico had turned over access.
Again, progress.
Then he said:
“I want you to quit.”
I stared.
“Excuse me?”
“This restaurant.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Clara.”
“You've known me for three days.”
“My wife left your name.”
“My mother left my name.”
“Whatever this is, you're exposed now.”
“That does not make you my employer.”
“I can pay you more.”
I laughed.
He stopped.
Wrong approach.
“Try again.”
His face tightened.
“I think someone may target you.”
“Then say that.”
“Someone may target you.”
“Better.”
“I can arrange security.”
“Outside my apartment?”
“Yes.”
“No men inside.”
“Agreed.”
“No following me into bathrooms.”
“Obviously.”
“You'd be surprised what powerful men call security.”
He frowned.
Fair.
I agreed to one discreet guard temporarily because my name existed in Elena’s evidence.
Not because Rico ordered.
He understood the distinction.
Before leaving, he put down money for coffee.
Two hundred dollars.
I returned one hundred ninety-four.
He stared.
“Coffee is six dollars.”
“You're impossible.”
“So I've heard.”
The next clue came from my mother’s old files.
I kept boxes in a storage unit because I had never finished sorting her things.
Rico did not come.
Naomi did.
Good.
Inside Anne Vance’s nursing journals, we found a sealed envelope marked:
E.M.
Elena Moretti.
Inside were photographs from the parking-garage assault.
Bruising.
A cut.
No sensational detail.
And one photograph of Elena’s torn handbag.
On the floor beside it:
A distinctive silver cufflink.
M-shaped.
Moretti crest.
Rico wore similar ones in photographs.
So did Salvatore.
Dante did not.
Naomi called investigators.
The cufflink had been collected by hospital security years earlier, then transferred to police.
Case closed without charge after Elena withdrew cooperation.
Evidence status?
Missing.
Of course.
But my mother had photographed it with scale and date.
Then I found a note.
Patient repeatedly said attacker called someone “S.” after leaving. She believes man was sent to scare, not kill.
S.
Salvatore.
Maybe.
Not proof.
Then another entry:
E.M. says senior Moretti relative told her she was “confusing bookkeeping with family matters.”
Senior relative.
Rico’s father?
Salvatore?
Someone else?
We sent copies to investigators.
That night, Leo called me on video.
Rico had apparently learned children could use phones.
“Milk lady.”
“Hello, dinosaur terrorist.”
Leo laughed.
Rico appeared behind him.
“He's three.”
“He threw risotto at a wall.”
“Fair.”
Leo held up a drawing.
Three people.
One tiny.
One tall.
One with yellow hair.
“Who is that?” I asked.
He pointed.
“Me.”
“Daddy.”
“Clara.”
My heart hurt.
Then a fourth figure at the edge.
Black.
No face.
“Who?”
Leo stopped smiling.
“Uncle Sal.”
Rico became still.
Again.
Dr. Singh, sitting nearby, gently redirected.
No leading questions.
Good.
Leo then said something on his own.
“Uncle Sal mad Mommy.”
Rico’s face changed.
“When?”
Dr. Singh immediately said:
“Rico.”
He stopped.
She asked Leo:
“Do you want to draw more?”
Leo nodded.
He drew a blue circle.
A door.
Then:
“Mommy blue room.”
Rico whispered:
“There is no blue room.”
Leo insisted:
“Blue room.”
I remembered Elena was a painter.
Studios.
Maybe another property.
Rico thought.
Then froze.
“My aunt’s house.”
Salvatore’s wife had died years earlier.
Their Long Island house contained a sunroom painted blue.
Elena used to take Leo there.
Why would Leo connect Salvatore, Elena and that room?
Police obtained access with a warrant after the Moretti family voluntarily disclosed the property.
Inside the blue sunroom, behind a loose baseboard:
A second burner phone.
Elena had been building redundancy.
Smart.
Terrified.
The phone contained photographs of Salvatore meeting men tied to Bellrose.
And one audio recording.
Salvatore’s voice:
You were told to leave the invoices alone.
Elena:
They’re stealing from employees.
Salvatore:
They’re protecting the family.
Then:
If Rico finds out how his father built the original port deal, he’ll destroy half of what we own trying to clean it up.
Rico listened twice.
His father.
Again.
The scheme began with his father.
Salvatore had inherited it.
Dante may have helped preserve it.
Elena had threatened to expose it.
But the recording still did not prove who ordered the shooting.
Then the phone revealed a scheduled text Elena never sent.
Addressed to Rico.
Dante came to me tonight. He says he wants out. He says Salvatore ordered the tracker placed, but Dante swears he removed Leo’s seat because he realized Sal intends to—
The message ended there.
Never finished.
Rico stared.
“Dante moved Leo’s seat?”
So Dante may have been protecting the boy.
Not targeting him.
Everything shifted again.
Where was Dante now?
Police still could not find him.
Then my security guard called from outside my apartment.
A man was waiting across the street.
Bleeding.
Hands visible.
May you like
Dante Russo.
And he was asking for me.
