Chapter 6 - THE MAN WHO KILLED TERESA
St. Agnes Children’s Trust occupied an old school building in Bay Ridge.
Red brick.
Small chapel.
Gymnasium.
Community classrooms.
A place built for children.
Carlo Vescari had washed blood money through it for years.
Appropriate, in the ugliest way.
Ruiz hated my plan.
“No Santoro men inside.”
“Fine.”
“No weapons on you.”
“Fine.”
“No improvising.”
I looked at her.
“That may be unreasonable.”
She did not smile.
Michael wore the wire.
Nicholas remained in a surveillance van.
I entered through the front.
Alone.
The bank slip in my pocket.
A copy.
Original already with investigators.
At 11:42 p.m., Carlo emerged from the old gym.
Seventy-one.
Silver hair.
Dark overcoat.
Glasses.
No left pinky.
Lucy had described him perfectly.
He looked at me.
“Teresa’s boy.”
I almost laughed.
“I was twenty-seven when she died.”
“To old men, everyone stays a boy.”
“Frank stayed a coward?”
Carlo smiled.
“He surprised me.”
“You killed his son.”
“Anthony came looking for me.”
“That made murder reasonable?”
“In our world?”
He shrugged.
“You know the answer.”
I did.
That was the problem.
Carlo looked toward Michael.
“My favorite priest.”
Michael’s face hardened.
“Go to hell.”
“Eventually.”
Carlo held out his hand.
“Page.”
I did not move.
“Teresa.”
His smile faded.
“What about her?”
“I want to hear it.”
“Hear what?”
“Why.”
Carlo sighed.
“You already know.”
“No.”
“I know my father told you to scare her.”
“Yes.”
“I know Michael gave you the car.”
“Yes.”
“Why the bomb?”
Carlo stared at me.
Then:
“Because she saw me.”
That simple.
“She came out of the restaurant early.”
“I was wiring the underside.”
Michael went pale.
“So it was always a bomb.”
Carlo laughed.
“Did you believe the tire story?”
Michael closed his eyes.
Carlo continued.
“Your father said frighten her.”
“I decided fear needed permanence.”
My entire body went cold.
“You decided to kill my sister.”
“She would’ve exposed everything.”
“She was your friend.”
“She was inconvenient.”
The word almost made me move.
Teresa reduced to inconvenience.
Ruiz’s voice whispered through concealed earpiece:
Stay.
I stayed.
Carlo continued.
“She recognized me.”
“She said my name.”
“What did you do?”
“I finished.”
My chest tightened.
“Then followed?”
“No.”
“Michael did.”
Michael looked away.
Carlo smiled.
“Your father came next.”
“Did he know you intended to kill her?”
“No.”
“Did he forgive you?”
Carlo laughed.
“He tried to kill me.”
That surprised me.
“What?”
“Two days later.”
“Where?”
“Warehouse.”
“Why are you alive?”
“Because your father was old and emotional.”
My father had tried.
Too late.
Always too late.
Carlo continued.
“Then I showed him the accounts.”
“Judges.”
“Police.”
“Properties.”
“All the ways he built Santoro money.”
“He understood if I went down, so did his sons.”
So Dad backed off.
Protected us with another secret.
And then killed himself.
Carlo smiled faintly.
“He couldn’t stomach what he started.”
I hated him for saying it.
Because it was true.
Michael asked:
“Anthony?”
Carlo shrugged.
“Bad luck.”
“No.”
“Your order.”
“Yes.”
“Why make it look like construction?”
“Frank already hated himself.”
“I wanted him to keep doing it.”
Michael’s face changed.
That was cruelty for pleasure.
Not necessity.
Carlo reached out again.
“Page.”
I gave him the copy.
He unfolded it.
His expression changed.
“What is this?”
“Your account.”
“No.”
He looked closer.
“Where’s the reverse?”
I frowned.
“What reverse?”
Carlo stared.
Then smiled.
“Frank really didn’t tell you everything.”
Of course.
“What?”
“The page has two sides.”
Mine was copied from a folded slip.
Maybe reverse blank?
Unless hidden writing.
Carlo continued.
“Other side has the Santoro beneficiary.”
My stomach tightened.
“What beneficiary?”
He laughed.
“Ask Michael.”
I turned.
Michael looked confused.
“I don’t know.”
Carlo’s smile faded slightly.
Interesting.
He believed Michael knew.
Maybe Michael did not.
“Who?”
Carlo said:
“Nicholas.”
My blood went cold.
No.
“His name was added five years ago.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Your brother signed access.”
I thought of Nicholas’s gambling debt three years ago.
Carlo had known him earlier.
“How?”
“He needed money.”
“Five years ago?”
“Yes.”
Nicholas had lied about the timeline.
Again.
Carlo continued.
“Your brother has been taking small draws ever since.”
I almost moved.
Ruiz’s voice:
Stay.
Carlo looked satisfied.
“You see?”
“No family survives truth.”
That sentence was the trap.
The philosophy behind everything.
If everyone had dirt, everyone stayed quiet.
I looked at him.
“You’re wrong.”
Carlo smiled.
“Am I?”
“Yes.”
Then lights came on.
Doors opened.
Federal agents.
NYPD.
Carlo froze.
He looked at Michael.
Then me.
“You brought police.”
“Yes.”
He almost laughed.
“Your father would spit on you.”
“Probably.”
Agents moved.
Carlo reached into his coat.
I did not.
That mattered.
He pulled—
not a gun.
A phone.
He hit one button.
Somewhere in the building, an alarm screamed.
Ruiz shouted.
“Hands!”
Carlo dropped the phone.
Agents took him down.
No gunfire.
No heroic execution.
Handcuffs.
Alive.
He looked at me from the floor.
“You think this ends because I go to prison?”
“No.”
I stared.
“It ends because people stop protecting you.”
His smile disappeared.
Then Michael’s phone buzzed.
Message from Nicholas.
Three words:
I’M SORRY, GABE.
My chest tightened.
Then another:
CHECK THE OLD HOUSE.
He was gone.
Not at surveillance van.
He had slipped out.
Ruiz swore.
I called.
No answer.
Old house.
Our father’s brownstone in Carroll Gardens.
Empty for years.
I knew exactly what Nicholas meant.
Dad’s study.
We arrived twenty minutes later.
Front door open.
Upstairs light on.
Nicholas sat on the floor beside our father’s old desk.
A bottle of bourbon beside him.
No gun.
Thank God.
He held a folder.
I stopped in the doorway.
“What did you do?”
He looked up.
Eyes red.
“Carlo told you.”
“Yes.”
Nicholas laughed bitterly.
“Of course.”
“How long?”
“Five years.”
“What did you sign?”
“Access agreement.”
“For the account.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He looked ashamed.
“I was already gambling.”
“Before you told me.”
“Yes.”
“How much did you take?”
“Seven hundred thousand.”
Not forty-eight million.
Still theft.
“Did you know where it came from?”
“Not at first.”
“And later?”
“Yes.”
My chest tightened.
“When?”
“Four years ago.”
“So you knew Teresa’s death funded it.”
His face broke.
“Yes.”
I stepped closer.
“And stayed quiet.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I was ashamed.”
I almost laughed.
Everyone in my family had been powered by shame.
Nicholas held up the folder.
“Dad left this.”
“What?”
“I found it five years ago.”
Inside:
My father’s handwritten account notes.
And another letter.
Not to me.
To Nicholas.
Nicky,
If you find this, do not use the Vescari account.
It is poisoned money.
If Gabriel finds out what I did, tell him the truth.
He will hate me.
He should.
Nicholas sobbed.
“I read it.”
“And still took money.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I was sick.”
Gambling addiction.
Not excuse.
Explanation.
“I kept thinking I’d pay it back.”
Of course.
Everyone thought they would fix it later.
I sat across from him.
“Did you send Carlo Lucy’s photo?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know he would threaten her?”
“No.”
“Would that matter if something happened?”
Nicholas cried harder.
“No.”
I looked at my brother.
The old Gabriel wanted consequences immediately.
Pain.
Exile.
Maybe worse.
The new question was harder.
What stops this from happening again?
“You’re going to Ruiz.”
Nicholas looked up.
“What?”
“You’re going to tell everything.”
His face went pale.
“I could go to prison.”
“Yes.”
“You’d let that happen?”
I stared.
“I’m not Dad.”
Silence.
“I am not protecting you by burying the truth.”
Nicholas cried.
Then nodded.
“Okay.”
No fight.
Maybe he was tired too.
As we stood, my phone rang.
Rosa.
I answered immediately.
“Lucy?”
“She’s fine.”
I exhaled.
Then Rosa continued.
“She found something.”
Of course she did.
“What?”
“Inside Frank’s funeral jacket.”
I closed my eyes.
“What now?”
Rosa almost laughed through tears.
“A note.”
“From Frank?”
“Yes.”
“What does it say?”
She read:
GABRIEL WILL WANT TO KNOW WHO DESERVES TO PAY.
TELL HIM THAT IS THE WRONG QUESTION.
My throat tightened.
Then:
ASK WHO STILL NEEDS PROTECTING.
I looked at Nicholas.
At my father’s study.
At twelve years of secrets.
Frank DeLuca had died before I could apologize to him.
But he had still managed to leave me one final instruction.
May you like
And for once—
I intended to listen.
