Chapter 7 - THE SIGNATURE OF A DEAD MAN

Sofia stopped recording.

Not because she wanted to.

Because her hand was shaking too badly.

Enzo looked at Marco.

“Did you shoot him?”

Marco answered:

“No.”

Vittorio laughed.

“Convenient.”

Aldo looked at the scar.

“Marco did not shoot you.”

Everyone turned toward him.

“You just said he had a gun.”

“He did.”

“Then who fired it?”

Aldo looked at Sofia.

“Your mother.”

Sofia’s lips parted.

Vittorio’s face became rigid.

Aldo continued.

“Elena had discovered Vittorio was using the same dead men’s identities to open new accounts after promising her it had stopped.”

Sofia looked at her father.

“You kept going.”

Vittorio did not answer.

“Elena tried to leave with the copies,” Aldo said. “Vittorio blocked the door. Marco arrived because Isabella had called him.”

Enzo looked at his mother.

“You were there?”

“No.”

Isabella’s voice was quiet.

“I was waiting in a car two streets away.”

Aldo continued.

“They argued. Vittorio grabbed Elena. She took Marco’s gun from the desk.”

Marco nodded.

“She fired into the ceiling first.”

Vittorio finally spoke.

“And the second shot?”

Marco looked at him.

“You stepped toward her.”

Vittorio touched the scar again.

“The bullet grazed me.”

Sofia whispered:

“Then what?”

Aldo looked at Elena’s signature on the page.

“She gave me the ledger pages.”

Marco corrected him.

“Half the pages.”

Aldo nodded.

“She told me to take them to Isabella.”

Enzo frowned.

“But my mother said she had them.”

“She did.”

Aldo looked ashamed.

“Until I took them back.”

Isabella stared at him.

“You never told me that.”

Aldo looked at her.

“I thought I was saving you.”

Enzo’s voice sharpened.

“From what?”

“From Marco.”

Marco stepped forward.

Aldo did not retreat.

“You had signed the transfers. I did not know whether you were helping Vittorio or helping Elena.”

“So you stole the evidence.”

“Yes.”

“And left.”

“Yes.”

Vittorio smiled.

“There is your loyal house manager.”

Aldo ignored him.

“I hid the pages.”

Enzo looked at the brass P9 key.

“Pier Nine.”

Aldo nodded.

“The records room.”

Marco stared at him.

“All these years?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I did not trust you.”

Marco absorbed that.

Then nodded once.

“Fair.”

Enzo looked at Aldo.

“You worked for my father after that.”

“Three years later.”

“Why?”

“Because Isabella disappeared.”

He looked at Enzo.

“And you were six.”

The room softened for one second.

Aldo continued.

“Marco needed someone he trusted near you.”

Enzo gave a humorless smile.

“He didn’t trust you.”

“No.”

Aldo looked at Marco.

“But he trusted that I loved you.”

Marco nodded.

“That was enough.”

Sofia stared at the page again.

“What happened to my mother?”

Aldo answered:

“After the gunshot, Elena left through the loading dock.”

“With whom?”

“Marco.”

Vittorio laughed.

Sofia turned.

“Stop.”

He stopped.

She looked at Marco.

“You took her?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“To a safe apartment.”

“For how long?”

“Four days.”

“And then?”

Marco looked at Vittorio.

“He found us.”

Vittorio’s voice was colder now.

“She was my wife.”

“She was trying to leave you.”

“She was confused.”

Sofia flinched at the word.

The same word he had used about Isabella.

Unstable.

Sick.

Confused.

Different labels.

Same cage.

Enzo heard it too.

He looked at his mother.

“Was that how he did it?”

Isabella nodded.

“He made women sound unreliable before they could make him sound guilty.”

Vittorio stepped toward the door.

Enzo blocked him.

“We’re not finished.”

“I am.”

“No.”

Enzo held out his hand to Aldo.

“The page.”

Aldo gave it to him.

Enzo studied the signatures.

Then he looked at Marco.

“Your signature is real.”

“Yes.”

“Elena’s too.”

“Yes.”

“And Vittorio’s.”

“Yes.”

“So this page proves all three were involved.”

“At that time.”

Enzo turned it over.

There was writing on the back.

A number.

A date.

And a bank stamp.

Aldo frowned.

“I never noticed that.”

Sofia leaned closer.

The stamp was from a private bank in Montreal.

Dated seven years earlier.

The same year Marco said he last saw Elena.

Enzo looked at him.

“You said you saw her seven years ago.”

Marco nodded.

“At a station in Montreal.”

“Did she have this page?”

“No.”

Enzo pointed to the stamp.

“Then how was the original page stamped there?”

Marco took it.

His face changed.

“That is not possible.”

Aldo looked at the paper.

Then understood.

“This page is a copy.”

Enzo rubbed the edge between his fingers.

Aldo was right.

Old.

But not old enough.

Sofia whispered:

“Where is the original?”

Nobody answered.

Then Vittorio laughed.

This time, softly.

They all turned.

He looked at Sofia.

“You wanted to know whether your mother was alive.”

Her face went still.

Vittorio continued.

“She is.”

Sofia stopped breathing.

Enzo stepped closer.

“Where?”

Vittorio looked at the brass key.

Then at the copied ledger page.

“Where Aldo should have looked before he spent twenty-four years protecting the wrong secret.”

Aldo frowned.

Vittorio smiled without warmth.

“Pier Nine.”

Sofia whispered:

“My mother is there?”

“No.”

Vittorio shook his head.

“But she has been there recently.”

“How recently?”

He looked directly at his daughter.

“Yesterday.”

Sofia’s eyes filled.

“That’s impossible.”

Vittorio reached inside his coat.

Enzo tensed.

But he only removed a photograph.

A woman leaving an airport.

Silver-blonde hair.

Dark glasses.

A blue coat.

Older.

But unmistakably Sofia’s mother.

In her hand was a black ledger.

Not a cover.

A complete ledger.

Sofia stared at the photograph.

“My mother has it.”

Vittorio nodded.

“Not anymore.”

“Who does?”

He looked at Enzo.

“Someone who has been waiting for your wedding longer than I have.”

Enzo’s face hardened.

“Who?”

Vittorio looked toward the dark lake.

Then he said a name nobody had spoken all night.

“Your uncle.”

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Marco closed his eyes.

And Enzo finally understood why his father had never once mentioned having a brother.