Chapter 4: What Vincent Took
Elena told him without looking at him.
She kept her eyes on her hands, on the table, on the drawings her daughters had taped to the wall — anywhere but his face.
Dante understood.
Looking at him while she said it would have made it too real too fast.
"Seven years ago I found out I was pregnant," she said.
"I didn't tell you immediately.
I was scared.
We weren't — things were complicated between us then."
"I remember."
"Vincent found out before you did.
I don't know how.
He had someone watching me, I think.
He came to see me alone, at my apartment.
He sat down very calmly and he told me that if I stayed, if I told you about the baby, he would make sure neither of us survived long enough for you to meet them."
Dante's hands were flat on the table.
"He said you were about to make a move that would consolidate everything — the ports, the contracts, the whole eastern operation.
He said a child would make you cautious.
Sentimental.
He said you'd protect the family instead of finishing the work, and he wasn't going to let seven years of his own investment get wasted because you fell in love."
"He said that."
"Word for word.
I've had seven years to remember it." She looked up then, finally.
"He had a photograph, Dante.
Of my mother.
Of where she lived.
He knew her schedule."
The room was very quiet.
"So you ran," Dante said.
"He gave me forty-eight hours.
He said he'd handle the rest — make it look like an accident, give you something to bury, make sure you didn't look for me.
He said if I ever came back, if I ever contacted you, he'd know.
He said he had someone close to you.
Someone who would tell him."
"Someone close to me," Dante repeated.
"That's what he said."
Dante stood up and walked to the window.
The street below was empty.
The second car was parked half a block down, Caruso's dinner — the dinner he had just canceled — sitting unanswered somewhere across the city.
Vincent had been at that table tonight.
Waiting.
He turned back to Elena.
"The fire," he said.
"The body they found."
"I don't know who she was." Elena's voice dropped.
"I've thought about that every day.
I don't know where he found her or what he told her or — " She stopped.
"I don't know."
"But you knew there was a body."
"He told me there would be.
He said it had to be convincing." Her eyes were dry but her voice wasn't.
"I was twenty-four years old and I was pregnant and he had a photograph of my mother and I — I ran.
I took nothing.
I went to Providence first, then here.
I had the girls in a hospital under a different name.
I painted to earn money.
I never used a card, never called anyone, never — "
"Seven years," Dante said.
"Seven years."
He came back to the table and sat down.
"How sick are you?"
The shift in direction caught her.
She blinked.
"It's my kidneys.
One of them is failing.
I've been managing it but the medication is — it's expensive and I've been behind and the girls — " She stopped herself.
"That's why they were out today.
I told them not to but Rosa decided."
"Rosa decided," Dante said quietly.
Something crossed Elena's face.
Pride and grief at the same time.
"She's like you," Elena said.
"She decides things and then they're decided."
Dante looked at the three drawings on the wall.
Three signatures.
Three sets of handwriting, each slightly different.
"They're mine," he said.
It wasn't a question.
"Yes."
"All three."
"Yes."
He was quiet for a moment.
Then: "I want to take you to a doctor tonight.
My doctor.
Someone I trust."
"Dante — "
"I'm not asking you to come back.
I'm not asking you for anything.
I'm telling you that your kidneys are failing and your daughters were selling your painting on a sidewalk in October, and I am going to take you to a doctor tonight."
Elena opened her mouth.
Rosa appeared in the doorway of the small hallway, still in her coat.
"Mom," Rosa said.
"Let him."
Elena looked at her daughter for a long moment.
Then she looked back at Dante.
"One condition," she said.
"Name it."
"Vincent doesn't know we exist.
Whatever you do next — he doesn't find out about the girls."
Dante held her gaze.
"He won't."
What he did not say — what he kept behind his teeth — was that Vincent Caruso had already known about the girls for seven years.
Had known, and had stayed silent, and had sat across a private dinner table from Dante every few months for seven years with that knowledge folded neatly behind his smile.
That was a conversation for later.
May you like
First, a doctor.
Then Vincent.
