Chapter 7 - A Traitor Behind the Kitchen Door
Natalya did not point at the ink.
She looked away.
Fast.
Natural.
She hoped.
Vincent smiled.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
She gathered several pages into a pile.
“You look terrible.”
“Feel worse.”
He glanced at Adrien.
“Can we talk?”
“Here.”
Vincent's eyes moved toward Natalya.
“Privately.”
Adrien folded his arms.
“Anything you say to me tonight, she can hear.”
Vincent laughed.
Not naturally.
“Since when?”
“Since she became the only person in New York who can read what everyone else is killing each other to hide.”
Vincent looked at the archive.
“How much did she decode?”
Natalya answered.
“Not much.”
He relaxed.
Barely.
“Good.”
She tilted her head.
“Why good?”
Vincent realized the mistake.
“I mean… good because there's less exposure.”
“Of course.”
Adrien watched him.
Twenty-six years of friendship fought against five minutes of suspicion.
Natalya could see it happening.
Vincent sat.
“They kept me in a van.”
“Who?”
“Russian guys.”
“Viktor?”
“No.”
“Faces?”
“Covered.”
“How'd you escape?”
Vincent rubbed his wrist.
“They stopped near Atlantic Avenue. I kicked the rear door when one opened it.”
Natalya looked at his shoes.
Clean.
Almost perfectly clean.
It had rained earlier.
Atlantic Avenue sidewalks would still be wet.
If he'd escaped and moved through streets on foot, there should have been grime.
There wasn't.
Adrien noticed where she was looking.
Vincent noticed Adrien noticing.
The room tightened.
Natalya picked up her coffee.
“What vehicle?”
Vincent turned toward her.
“What?”
“The van.”
“Black Ford.”
“License?”
“Didn't see it.”
“Inside?”
“What do you mean?”
“Cargo van? Passenger? Seats? Windows?”
His eyes hardened slightly.
“Why?”
“Because they abducted you.”
She smiled faintly.
“I assumed details might matter.”
Vincent looked at Adrien.
“She's interrogating me now?”
Adrien's expression remained neutral.
“She asks good questions.”
Vincent stood.
“I've been missing for an hour and we're doing this?”
Adrien's voice softened.
“Sit down, Vince.”
That frightened him.
Natalya saw it.
Vincent remained standing.
“What's going on?”
Adrien approached.
“When we were fourteen, you broke into Father Romano's church office.”
Vincent blinked.
“What?”
“You stole communion wine.”
A nervous laugh.
“Yeah.”
“What did my father do when he found out?”
Vincent smiled.
“Beat both our asses.”
Adrien didn't smile.
“No.”
Vincent's expression shifted.
Adrien continued.
“He made us wash every floor in the church for six Saturdays.”
“Right.”
“You weren't there.”
Vincent stared at him.
Adrien's voice became colder.
“You were visiting your grandmother in Connecticut.”
Silence.
Natalya understood.
It had been a test.
Vincent looked toward the front hall.
One of Adrien's guards stood there.
Another behind him.
Vincent exhaled.
“Fine.”
His posture changed.
The injured friend disappeared.
In his place stood the man hidden in the poetry.
“How long?” Adrien asked.
Vincent looked at him.
“Does it matter?”
“Yes.”
“About two years.”
Adrien absorbed it.
“Why?”
Vincent laughed quietly.
“You really have to ask?”
“I do.”
“Because your father gave you everything.”
Adrien's jaw tightened.
“You were family.”
“No.”
Vincent's voice suddenly carried twenty-six years of resentment.
“I was the boy your family fed because my father worked for yours.”
“That isn't how—”
“It was always how.”
Vincent stepped closer.
“You inherited the name, the restaurants, the construction companies, the loyalty. I earned every inch and still had to stand behind your chair.”
Adrien stared at him.
“You could've left.”
“And become what?”
Vincent spread his hands.
“Another middle-aged guy with stories about when he mattered?”
“So you sold me to Volkov.”
“I made a deal.”
“For money?”
“For my own future.”
Natalya looked toward the blue ink.
“You contributed to the archive.”
Vincent's eyes snapped toward her.
“What?”
“The blue corrections.”
She pointed.
“Same ink on your cuff.”
He looked down.
His face changed.
A small mistake.
That was what her father had taught her to find.
Choices.
Vincent laughed bitterly.
“So this is why Volkov wanted you.”
“How much did you write?”
“Enough.”
“Did you know my father?”
“No.”
“Did Volkov kill him?”
Vincent's eyes moved away.
Natalya stood.
“Did Volkov kill Alexei Petrov?”
“I don't know.”
“That's a lie.”
“You're good at languages, waitress. Doesn't make you psychic.”
Adrien's head turned slightly.
“Don't call her that.”
Vincent laughed.
“There he is.”
Adrien frowned.
“What?”
“The reason everyone's tired of you.”
Vincent gestured toward Natalya.
“A waitress speaks three sentences and suddenly she's sitting in the inner circle.”
Natalya corrected him.
“Two languages. More than three sentences.”
He glared at her.
She refused to look away.
Adrien asked, “Who are the other six?”
Vincent smiled.
“Decode your poems.”
“I'm asking you.”
“And I'm telling you I spent twenty-six years being asked to prove loyalty.”
He leaned closer.
“Tonight you can work for something.”
Adrien's expression went cold.
Natalya realized how dangerous the moment was.
“Wait.”
Both men looked at her.
She addressed Vincent.
“You think Volkov is going to give you Moretti's organization.”
Vincent didn't answer.
“You think after tomorrow night, Adrien disappears and you take control.”
“Careful.”
“But Volkov doesn't need you afterward.”
His expression sharpened.
Natalya continued.
“The archive identifies you.”
“So?”
“So why preserve evidence against the man he's planning to put in charge?”
Vincent's confidence faltered.
Only slightly.
“Insurance.”
“That's what Viktor said.”
She looked at the poems.
“Information is insurance.”
Vincent's face tightened.
“You don't know what you're talking about.”
“I know your name is written into a document worth millions of dollars.”
She stepped closer.
“If Volkov trusted you, your betrayal wouldn't be recorded.”
Vincent looked toward the pages.
For the first time, doubt appeared.
Natalya pressed.
“He's not planning to make you king.”
Adrien remained silent.
“He's planning to make you disposable.”
“Shut up.”
“There it is.”
Natalya's voice stayed calm.
“That's why you're afraid of how much I've decoded.”
Vincent's jaw clenched.
“The archive isn't leverage against Adrien anymore.”
She looked at him.
“It's leverage against you.”
Vincent moved toward the table.
One guard stepped forward.
Adrien raised a hand.
“No.”
Vincent stopped inches from the papers.
“What does it say?”
Natalya lied.
“Enough.”
“Show me.”
“No.”
He looked toward Adrien.
“Give me the pages.”
Adrien shook his head.
“Not happening.”
Vincent stared at the man he'd known since childhood.
Then something inside him seemed to collapse.
“You really choose her?”
“This isn't about choosing anyone.”
“It always is with you.”
Vincent laughed.
“Your father chose Carlo. You chose Salvatore. Then me. Now her.”
Adrien's expression shifted.
“What did you say?”
Vincent realized he'd said too much.
“Nothing.”
“Why would my father choose Carlo?”
Vincent stepped back.
Adrien moved closer.
“What did Volkov tell you about Carlo?”
Vincent's silence became an answer.
Carlo was not merely a protector.
He knew something else.
Something about Giancarlo Moretti and Alexei Petrov.
Before Adrien could continue, Natalya's phone buzzed.
A text from Marco.
Are you safe? Your mom called me earlier. I haven't heard anything. Please answer.
Natalya stared at it.
Vincent saw the name.
“Marco?”
She looked at him.
“What's his role?”
Vincent smiled.
“You'll find out.”
Another buzz.
Marco again.
Natalya, please.
She thought of the decoded initials.
M.V.
Restaurant operations.
She typed one sentence.
I'm safe. Where are you?
The answer arrived instantly.
Cello Nero. Someone broke in.
Adrien read over her shoulder.
Vincent laughed.
“He's baiting you.”
“Maybe.”
Natalya typed.
Call me. Video.
The phone rang seconds later.
Marco appeared.
Restaurant kitchen behind him.
His face looked genuinely terrified.
“Natalya.”
“Turn the camera around.”
“What?”
“Show me the restaurant.”
He obeyed.
Broken glass.
An overturned chair.
Open office door.
“Someone searched everything.”
“Where's the staff?”
“Home.”
“Why are you there?”
“Because I came back after your mom called me. I was worried.”
Natalya watched his face.
“Marco.”
“Yes?”
“Did you tell anyone about the Russians tonight?”
“No.”
“Anyone?”
“No.”
His expression changed.
“Why?”
She believed he was lying.
But not in the way she expected.
Fear.
Not guilt.
“Marco, who told you to call my mother?”
He went still.
Adrien leaned closer.
Marco's eyes moved toward something offscreen.
“I'm sorry.”
The video shook.
A second voice spoke.
Russian.
Natalya recognized it immediately.
Viktor.
“Good evening again.”
The camera turned.
Viktor stood inside Cello Nero.
Beside him was Mikhail.
And behind them, seated calmly at Table 12, was an older man Natalya had never seen.
Silver hair.
Dark suit.
A scar along one cheek.
He looked directly into Marco's phone.
“Natalya Petrov.”
He spoke her name like an old memory.
“My name is Kirill Volkov.”
Irina appeared at the top of the townhouse stairs.
When she saw the screen, she gasped.
Volkov heard it.
His expression changed.
“Is that your mother?”
Irina gripped the railing.
Volkov smiled.
“Tell Irina I have thought about her for twenty-two years.”
Natalya felt her mother trembling.
“You knew my father.”
Volkov nodded.
“Very well.”
“Did you kill him?”
The room went silent.
Volkov considered the question.
Then smiled.
“You are asking the wrong question.”
“What question should I ask?”
He leaned toward the camera.
“You should ask why Alexei Petrov died protecting a Moretti.”
Adrien's eyes narrowed.
Volkov continued.
“And why your mother has never told you who was really with your father the night he disappeared.”
Natalya turned toward Irina.
Her mother's face had become white.
“Mom?”
Irina said nothing.
“Who was with Dad?”
Her mother's eyes filled with tears.
And when she finally answered, Adrien Moretti stopped breathing.
“Giancarlo.”
Adrien's father.
The two men had disappeared together that night.
Only one body had ever been found.
May you like
And suddenly Natalya realized that everything they believed about the past might be wrong.
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