Chapter 6 - The Woman Mateo Thought Died by Accident

Salvatore did not appreciate being moved.

He complained in Sicilian for the entire drive.

About the safe house.

About Mateo.

About my generation.

About American coffee.

He complained so much that by the time we reached the lakefront property, I understood exactly where Mateo got his personality.

The house belonged to one of Mateo’s legitimate companies.

No family staff.

No familiar guards.

Only two private security professionals Mateo hired outside Chicago.

That detail told me more than he intended.

He trusted almost no one now.

We spread the evidence across a dining table at two in the morning.

Salvatore stared at the photographs of Sofia.

Mateo did not.

He stood by the window with his back to us.

“Tell him,” I said.

Salvatore’s eyes lifted.

“Tessa—”

“Tell him what you know about his mother.”

Mateo turned.

His father looked suddenly old.

Not seventy-six.

Ancient.

“Sofia came to me three days before she died,” Salvatore said.

Mateo’s face emptied.

“She said Domenico was stealing from the foundation.”

“You knew?”

“I knew she suspected him.”

“And you did nothing.”

“I told her to leave business to me.”

The silence that followed could have cut glass.

Mateo laughed once.

There was no humor in it.

“She died because none of you listened to her.”

Salvatore looked down.

“Yes.”

That single word broke something between them.

Maybe it needed breaking.

I opened the scanned records again.

One payment appeared repeatedly.

A medical supply company called Bellini Surgical Imports.

My attention sharpened.

“I know this company.”

Mateo looked over.

“How?”

“My nursing program stopped ordering from them last year. Counterfeit sterile packaging.”

He moved beside me.

Our shoulders nearly touched.

I pulled up the dates.

Bellini Surgical had received money from the Vitiello foundation for seventeen years.

The address was a warehouse near Cicero.

Salvatore frowned.

“Domenico approved those contracts.”

“Of course he did.”

I searched the company registration records included on the drive.

Owner: Arthur Bell.

A painfully obvious Americanized version of Arturo Bellini.

Then I found a second document.

Emergency contact: Lucas Bell.

The man in the threatening photograph.

Mateo leaned closer.

“If Arturo is alive, he can connect Domenico to my mother’s death.”

“If he talks.”

Salvatore’s cane tapped once against the floor.

“He will.”

Mateo looked at his father.

“No.”

One word.

Hard.

Salvatore’s brows lowered.

“No what?”

“No old methods.”

“This man helped murder your mother.”

“And if we torture him, every piece of evidence becomes poisoned.”

Salvatore stared at his son.

I stared too.

Chicago whispered that Mateo Vitiello was dangerous.

Maybe he was.

But danger was not the same thing as cruelty.

He looked at me.

“We do this clean.”

I nodded.

That mattered.

More than I wanted it to.

At dawn, Mateo drove me to campus.

I had an exam at eight.

He thought I was insane.

“You were threatened six hours ago.”

“I also have pharmacology.”

“Tessa.”

“If Domenico wants to ruin my life, he can wait until after my exam.”

For the first time, Mateo actually smiled.

Small.

Brief.

Devastating.

“You’re impossible.”

“Rare steak.”

His smile disappeared.

Then returned.

He remembered our first conversation.

That was somehow worse.

I opened the car door.

His hand closed lightly around my forearm.

Not trapping.

Stopping.

“Tessa.”

I looked back.

His eyes were serious again.

“If you want out, say it once.”

“Out of what?”

“All of this.”

I glanced at his hand.

He let go.

“I can move you. New city. New name. Tuition paid. No debt.”

I should have been offended.

Instead, I heard what he was really offering.

Safety.

No conditions.

“No.”

His jaw tightened.

“I’m not asking for permission.”

“Neither am I.”

We stared at each other.

Then I said, “My great-grandfather died because a powerful man believed the wrong story. My father lost twelve years with me because another powerful man buried the right one. I’m not disappearing so men can finish arguing over my family.”

Mateo’s expression shifted.

Respect.

Maybe something more dangerous.

“Then we finish it.”

I stepped out.

Three hours later, I walked out of my exam and found him leaning against the sedan.

He held two coffees.

“You waited?”

“I had calls.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He handed me one cup.

“Drink.”

I took it.

My phone—now replaced with a secure one—buzzed.

A message from an unknown number.

No text.

Only an audio file.

I pressed play.

A man’s voice whispered through static.

“Tessa?”

I stopped walking.

I knew that voice.

Older.

Rougher.

But I knew it.

My father.

“Tessa, if this reaches you, do not go to the warehouse. Russo knows Mateo found Bellini.”

A crash sounded in the background.

Then Daniel Mercer said something that made Mateo’s coffee fall from his hand.

“He knows where Salvatore is.”

We both turned toward the car.

Too late.

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Across the street, a black SUV accelerated away.

And on the sidewalk beside Mateo’s sedan lay Salvatore’s silver-headed cane.