Chapter 5
The woman in the photograph had no name.
That made her more dangerous.
Dante showed the image to old Caruso men one at a time.
Not in a room together.
He wanted memory, not consensus.
Two recognized nothing.
One lied badly.
The fourth, Emilio Russo, went white.
Dante sat across from him in the library.
“Name.”
Emilio shook his head.
“I don’t know.”
Dante placed the photograph closer.
“Then tell me why your hand is shaking.”
Emilio looked toward the door.
“Because I was there when Matteo left.”
Dante became still.
“Where?”
“Train station.”
“Father?”
“No.”
“Who?”
“Your mother.”
Dante stared.
His mother, Teresa Caruso, had died twenty-three years earlier.
Another person who never spoke of Matteo after his disappearance.
“What did she do?”
“She helped him leave.”
Dante’s expression changed.
“Why?”
“She found out Salvatore planned to send Matteo to the old house.”
“What old house?”
Emilio looked down.
“The Quiet House.”
Helena stopped breathing from where she stood near the wall.
Dante saw.
“You know it.”
Helena whispered:
“Stories.”
“Speak.”
“Children who could not be controlled were sent there.”
Dante looked back at Emilio.
“Where?”
“Pennsylvania.”
“Exact.”
“I don’t remember.”
“You drove.”
“No. I followed.”
“Why?”
“Teresa asked me.”
“What happened?”
“She put Matteo on a train with another woman.”
“Who?”
“Maria Vale.”
Dante frowned.
The surname meant nothing.
Helena’s face changed again.
“You know.”
“She was one of the old governesses.”
Dante looked at Maria Collins.
The housekeeper shook her head.
“No relation.”
Dante returned to Emilio.
“Matteo escaped.”
“Yes.”
“Then Father lied.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t he find him?”
“He did.”
Dante’s stomach tightened.
“When?”
“Eight months later.”
“What happened?”
“I don’t know.”
“Emilio.”
“I don’t.”
The old man looked terrified.
“All I know is Teresa cried for two days and then never said Matteo’s name again.”
Dante thought.
“Did she believe he died?”
“Maybe.”
“Then how could he have a daughter?”
Emilio looked toward the photograph.
“Maybe before.”
Helena whispered:
“No.”
Everyone turned.
She looked at Dante.
“Matteo was seeing someone.”
“When?”
“The year before.”
“Who?”
“A girl from the Vale household.”
Dante connected.
“Maria Vale.”
“No. Her younger sister.”
“Name.”
Helena closed her eyes.
“Isabella.”
The photograph suddenly gained a possible history.
If Matteo fathered a daughter around the time he disappeared, the woman in Anna’s photograph would be roughly the correct age.
Dante looked again.
Thirty.
Maybe thirty-one.
“Where did Isabella go?”
“Gone after Matteo.”
“Child?”
“Nobody knew.”
“Father?”
“He suspected.”
Dante’s eyes hardened.
“Then the empty number seven.”
Helena looked at him.
“Could have been reserved for Matteo’s child.”
Not Lily.
Maybe inherited from an older plan.
Then why were bells placed around Lily now?
To make her answer a number that belonged to someone else?
Dante asked:
“Why would Anna meet Matteo’s daughter?”
Nobody knew.
Maria Collins spoke softly.
“Maybe Anna was trying to protect Lily.”
Dante looked at her.
“How?”
“If someone came here claiming Caruso blood…”
Maria hesitated.
“And if that person was supposed to inherit something…”
Helena finished:
“Lily became competition.”
Dante’s face hardened.
Power again.
Children reduced to succession.
He looked toward his daughter’s bedroom.
No.
Not this time.
A bodyguard entered.
“Boss.”
“What?”
“We found another bell.”
Dante stared.
“Where?”
“In your office.”
His blood went cold.
Nobody had placed one there openly.
They went immediately.
The bell sat in the center of Dante’s desk.
Freshly polished.
Number three.
His childhood number.
Beside it lay a folded napkin.
Exactly like those Lily had been forced to carry.
On the cloth, one sentence had been written in black ink:
THREE NEVER STOPPED ANSWERING.
Dante stared.
Someone inside the estate had entered his private office.
May you like
Someone knew his childhood number.
Someone believed the old system still owned him.
