Chapter 8 - The Last Dinner at Table Four

Bellori closed to the public again two nights later.

Same chandeliers.

Same marble floor.

Same white tablecloths.

Same Table Four.

But this time, no one was there by accident.

Federal investigators occupied the kitchen office.

Two Chicago detectives sat in an unmarked van across the street.

Arturo Bellini’s sworn statement had been recorded that morning.

Daniel Mercer had provided the prosecutor with copies of Sofia’s banking records.

And beneath my black-and-white maid uniform, taped flat against my ribs, was a transmitter.

Mateo hated the plan.

That made two of us.

“You don’t have to do this,” he told me near the service hallway.

“You’ve said that eleven times.”

“Twelve.”

“You’re counting?”

“Yes.”

His gray eyes dropped to the lace edge of my uniform, then returned immediately to my face.

“You look exactly like the first night I met you.”

“Terrified and underpaid?”

“Unimpressed.”

I smiled despite myself.

He didn’t.

His hand lifted toward my cheek.

Stopped.

Then lowered.

Not here.

Not now.

Maybe not ever.

“Stay where I can see you,” he said.

“That sounded like an order.”

“It was a request wearing an expensive suit.”

I walked into the dining room before I could answer.

Domenico arrived at eight seventeen.

Alone.

That surprised everyone.

He sat at Table Four and placed Paolo’s silver falcon ring beside his wineglass.

A message.

I approached with the silver pitcher.

His smile returned.

“Miss Mercer.”

“Mr. Russo.”

“Still serving water after discovering you belong to history?”

“I have tuition.”

He almost laughed.

Then I placed the torn cookbook page beside his plate.

His eyes changed.

There it was.

Greed.

Fear.

Recognition.

“You found the rest.”

“Maybe.”

“Where is it?”

I poured water.

“Tell me why Paolo died.”

Domenico leaned back.

“You already know.”

“I know what dead people wrote. I want to hear what the living say.”

He studied me.

“You really are Rosalia’s blood.”

For a moment, he seemed almost nostalgic.

Then he said, “Paolo was weak.”

In the kitchen office, federal agents were listening.

I kept my expression empty.

“Was Marco weak too?”

Domenico’s gaze sharpened.

“Marco was careless.”

“Did you sell his route?”

He smiled.

“Your great-grandmother should have burned that book.”

Not enough.

I needed more.

“And Sofia?”

The smile vanished.

“Mateo’s mother?”

I leaned closer.

“The woman you had killed.”

Domenico’s hand tightened around his wineglass.

“I never told Arturo to kill her.”

There.

A confession wrapped in denial.

“You only told him to damage the brakes?”

His eyes flicked toward mine.

Too late.

“She was supposed to be frightened.”

I heard movement in the kitchen.

Domenico did too.

His face changed.

He looked at my uniform.

At my collar.

At the tiny transmitter wire I had checked ten times.

Then he stood.

“You stupid girl.”

Mateo entered from the side corridor.

Domenico reached inside his jacket.

Three things happened at once.

Mateo moved toward me.

Federal agents entered from the kitchen.

And Salvatore’s cane struck the marble floor behind Domenico.

Once.

Hard.

The old patriarch stood by the entrance.

“Take your hand out slowly,” Salvatore said.

Domenico froze.

For one terrible second, I thought forty years of history would end in gunfire.

Then Mateo stepped in front of his father.

“No.”

Salvatore’s eyes remained on Domenico.

Mateo repeated it.

“No more.”

The room held its breath.

Domenico slowly removed his hand.

Empty.

The agents moved.

They cuffed him beside Table Four.

He looked at Salvatore.

“All these years, and you let strangers put chains on me?”

Salvatore’s face was unreadable.

“No.”

He glanced at me.

“I let Rosalia.”

Domenico laughed bitterly.

Then his gaze shifted to Mateo.

“You think this makes you clean?”

Mateo said nothing.

“You carry the same name.”

Still nothing.

“The same blood.”

Mateo finally answered.

“Blood explains what came before me.”

His eyes were cold.

“It does not choose what comes after.”

The agents led Domenico away.

I realized my hands were shaking.

Mateo noticed.

Of course he did.

He always noticed.

He crossed the room.

Stopped in front of me.

“Are you hurt?”

“No.”

“Tessa.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re trembling.”

“So are you.”

He looked down.

His right hand was shaking.

Only slightly.

He laughed under his breath.

Then Salvatore approached.

He placed Paolo’s silver falcon ring in my palm.

“This belongs to your family.”

I closed my fingers around it.

For the first time, the old man lowered his head to me.

Not deeply.

Salvatore Vitiello probably had not bowed to anyone in fifty years.

But he did.

“I cannot return Paolo.”

My throat tightened.

“No.”

“I cannot return Rosalia’s life.”

“No.”

“Or your father’s twelve years.”

My eyes burned.

“No.”

He looked at me.

“But I can say his name correctly.”

The patriarch turned toward the remaining members of his family.

His voice carried across Bellori.

“Paolo Ferrante was innocent.”

Silence.

Then Salvatore said it again.

Louder.

And for the first time in fifty-five years, nobody contradicted him.

My secure phone vibrated.

One message.

From a number I did not know.

I opened it.

Tessa, I’m outside.

My heart stopped.

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There was one more line.

It’s Dad.