Chapter 5
Dante returned to the children before answering Javier.
He needed to remember which truths mattered now and which belonged to ghosts.
Leo was sitting at the kitchen island eating grilled corn.
Mia was drawing.
Both looked normal.
Children could do that.
Return to ordinary life while adults were still rearranging history around them.
Dante sat beside Leo.
“Do you remember how you found the chess piece?”
Leo nodded.
“Door was open.”
Dante frowned.
“The garden house?”
“Yes.”
“Who opened it?”
Leo shrugged.
“It was open.”
It had always been locked.
Dante looked toward Mia.
She continued drawing.
“Did you see anyone?”
She looked up.
“A man.”
Dante’s body went still.
“What man?”
“Old.”
“Did you know him?”
“No.”
“What did he do?”
“Fed the birds.”
Dante kept his voice soft.
“Where?”
“By the garden house.”
Leo added:
“He said Grandpa liked chess.”
Javier had entered behind Dante.
He stopped.
Clara beside him.
Dante looked at Leo.
“What else did he say?”
“He said I could have the horse.”
“The knight?”
Leo nodded.
“He called it horse.”
Dante did not correct him.
“Did he tell you to go inside?”
“No.”
“He left.”
“Which way?”
Leo pointed toward the side garden.
No camera covered that narrow path.
Of course.
The man knew the estate.
Dante did not push further.
“Okay.”
Leo returned to eating.
Dante stood.
Outside, Javier whispered:
“That was Sebastian.”
“Maybe.”
“You heard him.”
“Maybe.”
Javier’s jaw tightened.
“You keep saying maybe when you don’t like the answer.”
“No.”
Dante looked at him.
“I say maybe when we don’t know.”
Clara nodded slightly.
Javier noticed.
It irritated him.
Good.
The adults went to the library.
Dante finally addressed the succession question.
“I was not publicly named heir before Mateo disappeared.”
“Sebastian said—”
“I heard.”
“Did Salvatore ever tell you privately?”
“No.”
“Did anyone?”
Dante thought.
One memory surfaced.
He had been twenty-six.
Salvatore had been drinking.
They stood on a balcony after a wedding.
His father said:
“One day this family will need someone who doesn’t want the chair.”
Dante laughed.
Asked if he meant Mateo.
Salvatore answered:
“No.”
At the time Dante thought it was one of his father’s drunken riddles.
He told no one.
Javier stared.
“So he did choose you.”
“I don’t know.”
“Dante.”
“I don’t.”
Dante’s voice hardened.
“Choosing someone privately means nothing if the family never knew.”
Javier looked away.
Clara asked:
“Would Mateo have known?”
“Possibly.”
“Would it explain conflict?”
“Possibly.”
Javier laughed bitterly.
“There’s that word.”
Clara turned on him.
“You need to decide whether you want truth or confirmation.”
Silence.
Javier’s face tightened.
She continued.
“If all you want is proof Dante stole your father’s place, nothing we learn will ever be enough unless it says exactly that.”
Javier looked at her.
“Whose side are you on?”
Clara stared.
“My own.”
That stopped him.
Dante almost smiled.
Then a knock.
An older family woman entered.
Teresa Romano.
Seventy-four.
Dante’s aunt.
Mateo’s younger sister.
She had attended the barbecue but left before the fight.
Dante had asked her to return.
She saw the ring.
Her face changed.
“Mateo.”
Javier stood.
“Did you know?”
Teresa sat slowly.
“Know what?”
“That he survived.”
Her eyes filled.
“No.”
“Did Salvatore?”
“I don’t know.”
“Sebastian?”
Teresa looked away.
There.
Dante saw.
“What?”
She whispered:
“Sebastian loved Mateo.”
Javier frowned.
“Like family?”
Teresa looked at him.
“No.”
Silence.
The room changed.
Not because the love itself shocked anyone.
Because secrecy had motive.
Sebastian had spent decades beside Salvatore while loving the man Salvatore later accused.
Teresa continued.
“They hid it.”
“This was a different generation.”
“Different rules.”
“Different dangers.”
“Did Salvatore know?” Dante asked.
“Eventually.”
“When?”
“A year before Mateo vanished.”
Javier’s face darkened.
“Did he care?”
“Not about the love.”
That surprised them.
“What then?”
“He cared that Sebastian’s loyalty might belong to Mateo before him.”
There.
Power again.
Not morality.
Ownership.
Teresa looked at Dante.
“Your father was afraid Mateo and Sebastian could control half the family together.”
“Did they try?”
“No.”
“Then?”
“Salvatore started seeing threats where there were relationships.”
Dante looked toward Javier.
The black knight.
The accusation.
Maybe Mateo was framed not because he betrayed Salvatore.
Because Salvatore believed he might.
Teresa continued.
“Mateo wanted to leave the family.”
Javier froze.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“My father wanted the chair.”
“No.”
“He told me—”
“You were thirteen.”
Teresa’s voice softened.
“He told you what he thought would keep you proud.”
Javier sat.
That hurt.
“Why leave?”
“Because Sebastian wanted out.”
Clara whispered:
“They planned to leave together.”
Teresa nodded.
“And Salvatore found out.”
Dante looked toward the old cellar.
A black knight for blood betraying blood.
Perhaps the betrayal was not selling routes.
It was leaving.
To men like Salvatore, exit could be worse than treason.
Javier’s eyes darkened.
“So your father took mine because he wouldn’t stay.”
Teresa shook her head.
“No.”
“Then who?”
She looked toward Dante.
“Ask the man who wanted Sebastian for himself.”
Dante frowned.
“Who?”
Teresa answered:
“Dominic Romano.”
Javier’s uncle.
Dante’s second cousin.
The man who had been standing in the photograph beside Salvatore, Mateo, and Sebastian.
May you like
Dominic had been dead for fifteen years.
Or at least, as everyone was beginning to understand, there had been a funeral.
