Chapter 4 - THE EMPTY CHAIR
Vincent did not run openly.
His car remained in the hotel garage.
His jacket hung over the chair downstairs.
His phone sat beside an untouched glass of whiskey.
He simply disappeared.
Raffaele almost admired it.
Almost.
A man who knew every back corridor in every Santoro property did not need a car to escape.
Anthony Russo, Raffaele’s security captain, approached.
“He left through the kitchen loading area.”
“When?”
“Six minutes ago.”
“Alone?”
“Camera coverage cuts for forty-eight seconds.”
Raffaele turned.
“Cuts?”
“Not failure. Someone looped it.”
Grace whispered, “He was prepared.”
Raffaele looked at her.
“Or someone prepared for him.”
He ordered no public chase.
The wedding guests were told Sofia had fallen ill and the ceremony was postponed.
A lie.
Better than a ballroom full of whispers becoming an uncontrolled rumor before Raffaele understood what he was fighting.
Caleb was moved to a secure room.
Not beaten.
Not tortured.
Raffaele wanted answers that pain would contaminate.
Grace remained with Sofia under watch.
Hours later, the wedding hotel emptied.
Raffaele stood alone in the ballroom.
The altar lights were still on.
White roses.
Gold chairs.
A place designed for beginnings.
Instead it had resurrected Beatrice.
Sofia entered quietly.
“You lied to me.”
Raffaele did not pretend otherwise.
“Yes.”
“About Luca.”
“Yes.”
“About where Beatrice died.”
“Yes.”
“Anything else?”
He looked at her.
“Yes.”
She laughed.
A wounded sound.
“Of course.”
Raffaele sat.
Sofia remained standing.
“What?”
“The night Beatrice disappeared, she called me.”
“You?”
“Yes.”
“What did she say?”
Raffaele stared toward the empty altar.
“She said she had learned why Luca disappeared.”
“And?”
“She asked me to meet her alone.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
Sofia’s eyes narrowed.
“Why?”
“I thought Luca was using her.”
“Dad.”
“He had betrayed us.”
“You thought.”
Raffaele closed his eyes.
“Yes.”
“What did Beatrice say when you refused?”
He remembered every word.
“You’re going to lose me because you need to be right.”
Sofia looked away.
Raffaele continued.
“I told Vincent about the call.”
Her head turned back.
“What?”
“I told him Beatrice was hiding something.”
“And he found her.”
“Maybe.”
“You gave him the information.”
“Yes.”
The admission sat between them.
Raffaele’s guilt was no longer theoretical.
He had spent eighteen years punishing enemies.
Perhaps the first betrayal had been his own.
Sofia sat across from him.
“Why did you blame Valenti?”
“The rose.”
“The iron rose.”
“Yes.”
“Could anyone have planted it?”
Raffaele nodded.
“Now I know.”
“Then?”
“I wanted an answer.”
“You wanted someone to kill.”
He looked at her.
“Yes.”
Sofia did not flinch.
That honesty hurt more than denial.
Raffaele continued.
“The Valentis had threatened us. They had attacked two shipments. One of their men had fought with Beatrice’s driver.”
“So you decided.”
“Yes.”
“How many died?”
Raffaele did not answer immediately.
Sofia stood.
“How many?”
“Eleven.”
Her face changed.
“Because of Beatrice?”
“Because of the war.”
“That you started.”
“Yes.”
Sofia walked away from the table.
Raffaele did not stop her.
A father could not ask a daughter to forgive history before she had even absorbed it.
She stopped near the aisle.
“What happened to the Valenti family?”
“Broken.”
“All of them?”
“No.”
“Who survived?”
Raffaele stared.
“One son.”
“Name?”
“Dante Valenti.”
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know.”
Sofia turned.
“You destroyed his family.”
“Yes.”
“And now we learn they may not have killed Beatrice.”
“Yes.”
“Then maybe he knows something.”
Raffaele almost smiled bitterly.
“He knows hatred.”
“Maybe hatred remembers details.”
That was his daughter.
Not innocent.
Not cruel.
Sharp.
Raffaele looked toward Anthony Russo.
“Find Dante.”
Anthony nodded.
Then his phone vibrated.
One of the men searching Vincent’s old office had found something.
Not a file.
Not documents.
A wall.
Behind a shelving unit was a narrow compartment.
Inside sat a wooden box.
Raffaele opened it an hour later.
Three objects.
A Santoro signet ring.
A black iron rose.
And a child’s silver bracelet.
Sofia stared at the bracelet.
“I had one like that.”
Raffaele knew.
She had worn it constantly at seven.
It disappeared the week Beatrice died.
He had assumed she lost it.
Sofia touched the metal.
Inside the clasp were two tiny initials.
S.S.
Her bracelet.
Raffaele looked at Grace.
“You said Thomas saw Beatrice on the second day.”
“Yes.”
“Did he see Sofia?”
Grace’s face changed.
“No.”
Raffaele turned to Sofia.
Someone had taken a seven-year-old child to the river house.
Someone had removed her bracelet.
Someone had kept it eighteen years.
Vincent had hidden it.
Sofia whispered, “Why would he keep this?”
Raffaele looked at the black iron rose.
“Trophy.”
Grace shook her head.
“No.”
Everyone looked at her.
“Vincent wasn’t sentimental.”
“How do you know?”
Grace stared at the objects.
“Because Thomas kept things the same way.”
Raffaele’s eyes narrowed.
Grace continued.
“Not trophies.”
“What then?”
“Proof.”
“Proof of what?”
“That someone else had been there.”
Raffaele picked up the Santoro ring.
Black stone.
Silver crest.
Not his.
Not Luca’s.
On the inner band was one letter.
E.
May you like
Emilio.
His father’s ring.
