Chapter 3 - The Name the Family Tried to Bury
The following morning, Enzo placed the old photograph on Bruno’s desk.
“Who is he?”
Bruno looked down.
For half a second, recognition crossed his face.
Then vanished.
“I don't know.”
Enzo removed the brass compass.
Click.
Bruno stared at it.
“Try again.”
The man in the photograph was Thomas Whitaker.
Adeline’s father.
He had died years earlier.
According to Bruno, Thomas had worked as an accountant for businesses loosely connected to the Marquettis.
Nothing more.
“Why was he with my father?”
“I don't remember.”
Enzo leaned forward.
“You remembered his name quickly.”
Bruno said nothing.
Enzo left.
Instead of confronting Adeline, he investigated quietly.
He learned she had been sixteen when her father died.
Her mother had died later.
Adeline had effectively raised Nell herself.
There was nothing glamorous about her life.
Rent.
Hospital shifts.
Medical bills.
Groceries calculated to the dollar.
Yet one detail bothered him.
Thomas Whitaker’s death had occurred only weeks after Enzo’s father died.
Coincidence?
Perhaps.
Enzo no longer trusted coincidences.
Meanwhile, Adeline received a telephone call.
St. Bridget informed her that the private assignment had been terminated.
Immediately.
No explanation.
She knew Alfonso had not requested it.
So she returned to the estate.
Security refused entry.
Adeline stood at the iron gates in the rain.
“Tell Mr. Marquetti I need five minutes.”
The guard shook his head.
Then headlights appeared.
Enzo’s car stopped.
He stepped out.
“What happened?”
“Apparently I've been fired.”
“By whom?”
“That's what I'd like to know.”
Within ten minutes, Adeline was back inside.
Bruno appeared furious.
He claimed an administrative misunderstanding had occurred.
Enzo didn't believe him.
Neither did Alfonso.
That night, Enzo drove Adeline home himself.
She protested.
He ignored her.
When they reached Queens, he stared at the aging building.
“No elevator?”
“No.”
“Your sister lives upstairs?”
“Yes.”
“How does she—”
“I carry her when necessary.”
Something changed in Enzo’s face.
Adeline noticed.
“Don't.”
“Don't what?”
“Look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re about to solve my life.”
He was silent.
“My sister isn't a problem to solve.”
Enzo nodded slowly.
“You’re right.”
It surprised her.
Men with money often believed money made them correct.
Enzo seemed accustomed to command, but he was capable of listening.
That frightened her more than arrogance would have.
Because she was beginning to see the man beneath the reputation.
Before she entered the building, he asked about her father.
Adeline stiffened.
“Why?”
Enzo showed her the photograph.
Her face lost its color.
“Where did you get this?”
“My grandfather.”
Adeline touched the image.
“My father never told me he knew your family.”
“Neither did mine.”
They looked at each other.
Two dead fathers.
One photograph.
One family hiding something.
Adeline whispered, “What happened to your father?”
“Murdered.”
She looked up.
“When?”
He told her.
Adeline went still.
“My father died seventeen days later.”
Enzo felt cold.
“How?”
“Car accident.”
But her expression said she had begun questioning that answer herself.
The next day, they searched through old boxes in Adeline’s apartment.
Nell watched from her wheelchair.
“So this is the terrifying Enzo Marquetti?”
Adeline nearly dropped a box.
“Nell.”
“What? He looks less terrifying than you described.”
“I never described him.”
“Exactly.”
Enzo smiled.
Adeline glared at both of them.
Then Nell remembered something.
Their father had owned a small lockbox.
Adeline found it beneath old documents.
Inside were photographs, receipts and a key.
No explanation.
But there was also a handwritten note.
If anything happens to me, don't trust the man who says he was your uncle.
Adeline read it twice.
Enzo’s mind immediately went to Bruno.
Uncle Bruno.
They followed the key to an old bank deposit box.
Inside was a ledger.
Names.
Dates.
Payments.
Companies.
Enzo recognized several.
Money had been disappearing from Marquetti businesses for years before his father’s death.
Millions.
And beside several transactions were initials.
B.C.
Bruno Castellano.
Adeline whispered, “Your father knew.”
“So did yours.”
The final document was worse.
Thomas Whitaker had apparently been helping Enzo’s father trace the missing money.
Then both men died.
Enzo closed the ledger.
His expression became frighteningly calm.
Adeline touched his wrist.
“Don't do anything stupid.”
“People rarely call what I do stupid.”
“People are probably afraid to.”
He looked at her hand on his wrist.
She quickly removed it.
For a second neither spoke.
Then Enzo’s phone rang.
Marisol.
He answered.
Her voice was shaking.
“Enzo… come home.”
His grandfather had collapsed.
They raced to Long Island.
Adeline reached Alfonso first.
She worked beside emergency physicians as Enzo waited outside.
Nearly an hour later she emerged.
“He’s alive.”
Enzo closed his eyes.
Relief crossed his face.
Then Adeline added:
“But he doesn't have much time.”
Enzo entered alone.
Alfonso barely opened his eyes.
“Did you find it?”
“The ledger?”
The old man nodded.
“You knew?”
“I suspected.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because suspicion gets men killed. Proof keeps them alive.”
Enzo leaned closer.
“Was Bruno involved in my father’s death?”
Alfonso’s eyes filled with grief.
“I don't know.”
Then he gripped Enzo’s hand with surprising strength.
“But your father discovered something worse than stolen money.”
“What?”
Alfonso struggled for breath.
“He discovered Bruno wasn't working alone.”
Enzo frowned.
“Who was?”
Alfonso looked toward the doorway.
Someone stood outside.
A silhouette.
May you like
Listening.
And before Alfonso could say the name, the bedroom lights suddenly went dark.
