Chapter 4 - THE WOMAN IN THE SILVER DRESS
Dante Moretti had buried his wife four years earlier.
Her name was Elena.
She had been thirty-two.
According to the family, she'd died in a car accident on a rainy road outside the city.
Leo had been four.
He rarely spoke about her.
Dante almost never did.
But after Leo mentioned the angry song, I began noticing things.
A framed photograph of Elena in the library.
A music box in Leo's bedroom.
A locked door at the end of the west corridor.
And Isabella.
Always watching.
Always appearing whenever Leo became comfortable.
One evening, Dante found me standing before Elena's photograph.
“She loved music,” he said.
I turned.
“Leo told me.”
Dante approached.
“She played the piano.”
I looked at the photograph.
“She looks kind.”
“She was.”
His voice changed.
For a moment, he looked less like a feared mafia boss and more like a tired father who had never learned how to grieve.
“Leo misses her,” I said.
Dante nodded.
“So do I.”
We stood in silence.
Then I asked:
“Why does Isabella live here?”
His expression tightened.
“She helps with Leo.”
“Does she?”
He looked at me.
“What does that mean?”
I chose my words carefully.
“Leo seems uncomfortable around her.”
Dante's jaw hardened.
“Isabella has been part of his life since birth.”
“That doesn't automatically mean he feels safe with her.”
He stared.
I continued.
“I'm not accusing her of anything. I'm telling you what I've observed.”
Dante looked toward the staircase.
Then said quietly:
“Leo used to be more talkative.”
I waited.
“After Elena died, he stopped speaking for months.”
“That can happen after a traumatic loss,” I said. “But being autistic doesn't mean his memories or feelings should be dismissed.”
Dante looked at me.
“I know.”
His voice sounded defensive.
I softened.
“I think you want to know.”
He looked away.
For the first time, I wondered how much of Leo's life Dante actually understood.
He loved his son fiercely.
But love wasn't the same as listening.
Later, as I prepared to leave, Isabella intercepted me near the entrance.
“You're becoming very comfortable here.”
I stopped.
“I'm doing my job.”
She smiled.
“Your job is temporary.”
I stared.
She stepped closer.
“Dante gets attached to people who make him feel less guilty.”
My stomach tightened.
“I'm not interested in your family politics.”
“Then stay out of them.”
She glanced at my bag.
“I hear your sister is ill.”
My blood turned cold.
I hadn't told Isabella about Mia.
She smiled.
“Medical care is expensive.”
I stared.
“Are you threatening me?”
“Of course not.”
She stepped aside.
“I'm simply reminding you that some people can't afford to lose their jobs.”
I walked out without answering.
But my hands shook all the way home.
And when I reached my apartment, I found an envelope beneath the door.
Inside was a photograph of Mia leaving the hospital.
Across the back, someone had written:
May you like
LEAVE THE MORETTI HOUSE.
OR YOUR SISTER PAYS.
