The Hand Across the Table

Natasha spent that night at a hotel under a false reservation.

Not Matteo’s hotel.

Not Miriam’s house.

Not anywhere Richard would expect.

It mattered to her that she chose it.

Brooks assigned two federal protective officers to the floor. Natasha argued until the agent explained that Paul Castellano had access to police databases and Richard had now made statements connecting himself to Adrian’s investigation.

She accepted protection.

Acceptance, she was learning, was not surrender.

At 6:10 a.m., someone knocked.

Agent Brooks stood outside with Elena.

Natasha opened the door wider.

Elena looked exhausted.

“I owe you an apology.”

“No.”

“I left when you were in danger.”

“You left when you learned your sister was a victim.”

“I still left.”

“You were allowed.”

Elena’s eyes filled.

“Stop being reasonable.”

“I’m practicing.”

They hugged.

Later, over terrible hotel coffee, Elena told Brooks everything she remembered about Sofia’s transplant case.

“Her score changed after Dr. Richard Castellano entered a new note saying she had resumed drinking.”

“Had she?” Brooks asked.

“No. She had been sober four years.”

“Was there a test?”

“They said there was.”

“Do you have the records?”

“I kept everything.”

Brooks sat straighter.

“Everything?”

“Every lab. Every bill. Every portal printout. I didn’t trust the explanation.”

Natasha looked at her.

“You investigated.”

“I tried. The hospital review board closed the complaint.”

“Who chaired it?” Brooks asked.

Elena already knew.

“Gerald Pike.”

The administrator in Adrian’s letter.

By noon, federal agents had Elena’s boxes.

By one, Richard’s hospital suspended him pending review.

By one-thirty, every major local news outlet had the story.

Not Natasha’s abuse.

Not yet.

The transplant investigation.

Richard called nineteen times.

Then Diane Castellano called.

Richard’s mother.

Natasha almost ignored it.

Brooks said, “Your choice.”

Natasha answered.

Diane was crying.

“How could you do this?”

Natasha felt something inside her become very still.

“Hello to you too.”

“My son has spent his life saving people.”

“Then an audit should show that.”

“You know what this will do to his reputation.”

“I know what altered transplant records did to patients.”

“You sound like your father.”

“Thank you.”

“That was not a compliment.”

“I know.”

Diane lowered her voice.

“Richard loves you.”

“No.”

“He does.”

“No, Diane. He loves access. He loves obedience. He loves the version of me that apologizes before he finishes hurting me.”

Silence.

“You’re emotional.”

Natasha laughed.

“There it is.”

“What?”

“The family language.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Yes, you do.”

Natasha ended the call.

Her hands shook afterward.

Elena said, “You did well.”

“I feel sick.”

“Both can be true.”

At three, Matteo requested a meeting.

Natasha almost refused.

Then Brooks said, “He turned over twelve encrypted drives.”

That changed the answer.

They met in the hotel conference room.

Matteo looked as if he had not slept.

“My father disappeared.”

Brooks frowned. “From where?”

“His Miami residence. Two guards found unconscious, alive.”

“Did he take anything?”

“Yes. A ledger from our old port accounts.”

Brooks cursed softly.

Matteo continued. “He also took a passport under the name Salvatore Rinaldi.”

“Where would he go?”

“Not Sicily. Too obvious.”

Natasha asked, “Why steal a ledger if you gave the FBI your records?”

“Because mine are copies from the last fifteen years. His ledger goes back thirty.”

“Luca?”

“Yes.”

Brooks stood. “We need every address.”

“You’ll have them.”

Matteo turned to Natasha.

“I also came to tell you something before you hear it elsewhere.”

Her stomach tightened.

“What?”

“My father knew Richard was dating you.”

“When?”

“Six years ago.”

Natasha stared.

“How do you know?”

“One of the drives contains surveillance summaries. My father had Richard watched because the Castellanos owed him money.”

“And me?”

“You appear in the reports.”

Her skin went cold.

“What do they say?”

Matteo’s face was full of shame that did not belong entirely to him.

“They identify you as Adrian’s daughter.”

“So Salvatore knew.”

“Yes.”

“And you?”

“No.”

“Can you prove that?”

“No.”

She stood.

“I need you to leave.”

He nodded.

At the door, she said, “Wait.”

He turned.

“Why didn’t your father tell you?”

“I have been asking myself that.”

“Answer.”

Matteo was silent.

Then he said, “Because he knew I would remember Adrian.”

“What does that mean?”

“I met you once.”

Natasha froze.

“When?”

“You were sixteen.”

“No.”

“At your father’s office. You were doing homework in the conference room. Adrian introduced us. You were angry because a teacher had accused you of plagiarism.”

Memory flashed.

A tall man in a dark suit.

A scar through his eyebrow.

Her father saying, Mr. Rossi is helping me with a complicated client.

“You.”

“Yes.”

“You knew my face.”

“Not eighteen years later. Not immediately.”

“Immediately?”

“At Marea, I thought you looked familiar. When Richard called you Natasha, it clicked.”

“Before or after you came to the table?”

“Before.”