Chapter 4 - WHAT MY MOTHER CALLED PROTECTION
My mother was drinking espresso when I walked into her townhouse.
Carmela Santoro did not startle.
Not when I came without calling.
Not when Luca waited outside.
Not when I placed Anthony’s red scorebook on her kitchen table.
She looked at it.
Then at me.
“Where did you get that?”
“Jamie.”
Her face hardened.
“You should leave that child alone.”
I laughed.
“No.”
“Matteo.”
“No.”
I sat opposite.
“You have used that tone my whole life.”
“Today it doesn’t work.”
She folded hands.
“Angela told you.”
“Some.”
“Rachel told you more.”
Her jaw tightened.
There it was.
Even now Rachel was problem.
“You knew Dad was Jamie’s father.”
“Yes.”
“From eleven months old?”
“Eight.”
“Months?”
“Yes.”
“What did you do?”
Mom looked toward window.
“What any wife would do.”
“No.”
“Try again.”
She turned back.
“I told your father I would not raise his mistress’s child.”
“Nobody asked you to.”
“He wanted to bring him to Sunday dinner.”
My chest tightened.
Dad had gone farther than Angela knew.
“He wanted us to meet Jamie?”
“Eventually.”
“There’s that word.”
“He wanted everything.”
She laughed bitterly.
“His wife.”
“His sons.”
“His daughter.”
“His mistress.”
“His new baby.”
“He thought if he paid enough bills, people would call it family.”
That sounded painfully like Dad.
“What did Rachel want?”
Mom’s face shifted.
“She wanted him to tell the truth.”
“Did she ask him to leave you?”
“No.”
Important.
“So you punished her anyway.”
“I told her to stay away.”
“You threatened her.”
“She had a child tied to our name.”
“Yes.”
“She needed to understand danger.”
“Did you cut off Dad’s support after he died?”
Mom said nothing.
“Mom.”
“Yes.”
I stared.
“Why?”
“Because Anthony kept helping her.”
“That doesn’t answer.”
“I wanted it finished.”
Finished.
A woman.
A child.
My brother.
“You thought starving them would finish it?”
“They were not starving.”
“You knew she was cleaning nights.”
“Anthony gave her work.”
“Because you blocked everything else.”
Mom’s face flushed.
“She could have worked anywhere.”
“She did.”
“Exactly.”
I leaned closer.
“You told security at a memorial today that a ten-year-old boy was not one of us.”
Silence.
“He is Dad’s son.”
“Yes.”
“He is my brother.”
Her eyes filled.
“I know.”
“Then why?”
She looked at me.
And for first time, not anger.
Pain.
“Because every time I see him, I see your father choosing someone else.”
There.
Ugly.
Human.
Unacceptable.
“Jamie didn’t choose that.”
“I know.”
“Rachel didn’t marry Dad.”
“I know.”
“He betrayed you.”
“Yes.”
“Then why did they pay?”
Tears filled her eyes.
“Because he died.”
Her voice broke.
“I couldn’t punish him.”
So she punished the living.
I leaned back.
No victory.
Just sadness.
Then I changed subject.
“Victor sold my route.”
Mom went still.
There.
Everything else fell away.
“You knew.”
She looked down.
“How much?”
“Anthony came to me.”
“When?”
“Six days before he died.”
“Before or after he confronted Victor?”
“Before.”
“What did he say?”
“That Victor took money from Vale? No. We established Falcone. He took money from Falcone for route. Let's stay. "From Falcone." Good.
“That Victor had sold Falcone information about Red Hook.”
“Did you believe?”
“I didn’t want to.”
“Not answer.”
“Yes.”
My chest tightened.
“Then what?”
“I spoke to Victor.”
“What did he say?”
“That he sold timing.”
“Not route.”
“He said Falcone wanted to disrupt a shipment.”
“Not shoot you.”
I laughed.
“Did that make you feel better?”
“No.”
“Did you tell me?”
“You were in surgery.”
“After?”
“You were barely walking.”
“After?”
Silence.
“Mom.”
“I thought Anthony would handle Victor.”
My chest tightened.
Anthony.
The spare son expected to absorb the family poison.
“What did you ask Anthony?”
She looked ashamed.
“I asked him not to tell you yet.”
“Why?”
“You would have killed Victor.”
Maybe.
Five years ago?
Maybe.
That was uncomfortable truth.
“I might have.”
“You absolutely would have.”
She knew me.
“So you protected Victor.”
“I protected you.”
There it was.
The phrase everybody loved.
I laughed bitterly.
“You let him sit beside my hospital bed.”
“I needed family stable.”
“You let him attend Anthony’s funeral.”
Her face broke.
“I didn’t know Victor killed Anthony.”
“But you suspected.”
Silence.
That was answer.
“What happened that night?”
Mom stood.
Went to a sideboard.
Opened drawer.
Took out an old black phone.
Anthony’s.
My chest tightened.
“You kept his phone?”
“Yes.”
“For five years?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because of this.”
She pressed voicemail.
Anthony’s voice filled kitchen.
Breathing hard.
Wind behind him.
“Ma.”
Pause.
“If Victor comes to you first, don’t believe him.”
My throat closed.
“I met Marchese.”
“He confirmed route.”
“Victor took Falcone money.”
“Matt was supposed to miss sit-down.”
“They improvised.”
Another breath.
“I’m going to meet Victor at Whitestone.”
“Public place.”
“Then I’m going to hospital.”
My eyes closed.
He had been coming to me.
Anthony continued:
“Rachel and Jamie stay out of this.”
“Jamie is Dad’s son.”
“He didn’t ask for our mess.”
Then:
“Ma, if you hide this because Victor is your brother, I swear to God—”
Voicemail ended.
I stared at her.
“You deleted this.”
“Yes.”
“From his phone?”
“No.”
“He left it for me.”
“You never gave it to police?”
“No.”
“Me?”
“No.”
“Angela?”
“No.”
“Why?”
She cried.
“Because the next call came from Victor.”
“What did he say?”
“That Anthony crashed.”
My skin went cold.
“Before police?”
“Yes.”
“How much before?”
“Twenty minutes.”
There.
“Where was Victor?”
“He said home.”
“You believed?”
“No.”
My mother collapsed into chair.
“I knew.”
Not knew murder.
Knew enough.
“I knew Anthony went to meet him.”
“I knew Victor called too fast.”
“I knew Anthony had threatened to expose him.”
“And I…”
She covered face.
“I couldn’t lose another child.”
I stared.
“You already had.”
“I know.”
The room became quiet.
“What did you do?”
“I gave Victor money.”
My stomach turned.
“For what?”
“To leave Brooklyn for six months.”
“Why?”
“So you wouldn’t find him while you were recovering.”
“You paid him to disappear.”
“Yes.”
“You buried Anthony.”
“No.”
“You buried truth.”
Her face collapsed.
“Yes.”
I stood.
She looked up.
“Matteo.”
“No.”
“What will you do?”
The old answer would have been simple.
Find Victor.
A room.
Men.
No witnesses.
My mother expected that.
That was part of why she had lied.
I pulled out phone.
Called Luca.
“Freeze Victor’s access to every Santoro business.”
Mom inhaled.
“No trucks.”
“No docks.”
“No restaurants.”
“No accounts.”
“Nothing.”
Then:
“Call Detective Ruiz.”
My mother stared.
“You’re bringing police into family?”
I looked at Anthony’s phone.
“We already tried family.”
That silenced her.
“Matteo.”
“What?”
“You think the law makes this clean?”
“No.”
“But another grave won’t.”
Her eyes filled.
I took Anthony’s phone.
She did not stop me.
At door, she said:
“I loved him.”
“Anthony?”
“Yes.”
“And your father.”
“Yes.”
“And you.”
I turned.
“I know.”
That was the worst thing.
Love had existed through every betrayal.
She whispered:
“Do you hate me?”
I thought.
“Right now?”
“Yes.”
“Some.”
She nodded.
Then:
“Will you let me see Jamie?”
“No.”
Her face tightened.
“For now.”
That distinction mattered.
“Rachel decides.”
Mom looked shocked.
Not me.
Not Santoro family.
Rachel.
I left.
Outside, Luca was waiting.
“Victor called.”
“When?”
“Three minutes ago.”
“What did he want?”
“To meet.”
“Where?”
“Anthony’s old baseball field.”
I looked back toward my mother’s window.
Of course.
Victor chose the place where truth had started.
“What did he say?”
Luca’s face hardened.
“He said Rachel lied about the last night.”
Then:
“And he says Anthony wasn’t on his way to the hospital when he died.”
“What?”
“He says Anthony was going somewhere else.”
“Where?”
May you like
Luca looked at me.
“To get Jamie.”
