Chapter 3 - THE WOMAN WHO WAS SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD
Salvo did not shout.
That would have been easier.
He stared at the photograph until the restaurant disappeared around him.
His mother.
Alive twelve years after her funeral.
Standing beside mine.
The date was unmistakable.
October 18.
Nine years ago.
Location written beneath it in faded blue ink:
Palermo.
Gianni finally spoke.
“Her name was Caterina Romano.”
“I know my mother’s name.”
Salvo’s voice could have cut stone.
“Then explain why you carried a photograph proving she survived.”
Gianni looked toward me.
I almost laughed.
“Don’t protect me now.”
He nodded once.
Fair.
“Caterina’s death was staged.”
The room went still.
“By who?”
Salvo asked.
“Your father.”
That answer hit like another dropped bottle.
Salvo sat back.
“No.”
Gianni continued carefully.
“Not because he wanted her dead.”
“Then why?”
“Because somebody did.”
Silence.
When Salvo was nine, the Romano family was fighting an internal succession dispute in Sicily.
His father, Vittorio Romano, had already moved much of the family’s business to New York.
Caterina wanted out completely.
Not only for herself.
For Salvo.
She had seen what family violence did to boys.
A threat came from Vittorio’s cousin, Carlo Romano.
Not a rival family.
Inside.
Caterina agreed to disappear.
A false death.
Closed funeral.
Salvo sent to America permanently.
I stared.
“You let a nine-year-old believe his mother died?”
Gianni’s face looked sick.
“Yes.”
“You were there?”
“Yes.”
Salvo did not move.
“How long did my father plan to keep it from me?”
Gianni answered:
“Until Carlo was dead.”
“When did Carlo die?”
“Thirteen years ago.”
Salvo looked at him.
“My mother was still alive nine years ago.”
“Yes.”
“So why didn’t she come back?”
That was the real question.
Gianni looked toward the photograph.
“She chose not to.”
Salvo’s face changed.
I felt almost cruel witnessing it.
“She chose…”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“She believed returning would drag you back into the old Sicilian conflict.”
“I was already in the life.”
“I know.”
“Then?”
Gianni whispered:
“She was ashamed.”
Salvo laughed once.
No humor.
“Excellent.”
I understood that sound.
I had made it myself.
“What did my mother have to do with her?”
Gianni looked at me.
“Lucia helped her stay hidden.”
I stared.
“My mother knew Salvo’s mother for years?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“They grew up near each other in Kalsa.”
There it was.
The dialect.
Not random.
My mother had not simply taught me Sicilian.
She had carried a neighborhood inside her mouth.
Caterina too.
Gianni continued.
“Lucia moved to New York years later.”
“She eventually worked for Vittorio because he trusted her not to reveal Caterina.”
“Then why take the photograph?”
“Caterina asked her to.”
“Why?”
“She wanted Salvo to know eventually.”
Salvo’s jaw tightened.
“When?”
Gianni closed his eyes.
“That’s what Lucia discovered.”
Everyone went still.
“Discovered what?” I asked.
“Caterina had written letters.”
“To Salvo.”
“Dozens.”
“Vittorio intercepted them.”
Salvo stood.
The chair moved backward hard enough to scrape.
“My father kept her letters?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Lucia found them after Vittorio became ill.”
Nine years ago.
Two years before Lucia disappeared.
“She photographed some.”
“Contacted Caterina.”
“Went to Sicily.”
“That’s where the photograph came from.”
I looked at the picture again.
My mother had traveled to Sicily without telling me.
I remembered.
Nine years ago she had said an aunt was sick.
She disappeared for twelve days.
Came home quieter.
I had been eighteen.
Too busy with school and bills to ask enough.
Salvo said:
“Where are the letters?”
Gianni shook his head.
“I don’t know.”
“Lucia did.”
“Yes.”
“Then seven years ago she called you because she found something else.”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“I never learned.”
I stared.
“Maybe the letters.”
“No.”
Gianni’s face changed.
“Her voice was different.”
“How?”
“Terrified.”
My mother was not easily terrified.
That scared me.
Gianni continued:
“She said, ‘It wasn’t only Vittorio.’”
Salvo’s eyes narrowed.
“What did that mean?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who else knew Caterina was alive?”
“A handful.”
“Names.”
Gianni listed them.
Himself.
Vittorio.
An old Sicilian priest.
Lucia.
And Salvo’s uncle Enzo.
Salvo’s expression changed.
“Enzo?”
“Yes.”
I knew the name from whispers at The Cathedral.
Enzo Romano.
Vittorio’s younger brother.
Salvo’s uncle.
The man who had guided Salvo after his father’s death.
Currently chairman of several Romano companies.
Family elder.
Almost father.
Salvo looked at Gianni.
“Is he in Manhattan?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Romano Shipping offices.”
Salvo reached for his phone.
I said:
“No.”
His eyes snapped to me.
It was insane.
I knew that.
Still:
“My mother disappeared after saying it wasn’t only your father.”
“And Enzo is one of four people who knew.”
“Yes.”
“You’re going to call him and tell him we know?”
Salvo’s jaw tightened.
“I wasn’t planning to ask about the weather.”
“That’s exactly the problem.”
Nobody breathed.
I continued.
“If Enzo had anything to do with my mother disappearing, you calling him angry gives him warning.”
Salvo stared.
Then looked at Gianni.
The older man said quietly:
“She’s right.”
I almost expected Salvo to throw something.
Instead, he sat.
“Fine.”
One word.
Barely.
Then:
“What do you suggest, waitress?”
There was edge in the word.
I heard it.
So did he.
His face changed immediately.
“Mia.”
Better.
I considered.
“My mother kept copies of everything.”
“How do you know?”
“She distrusted institutions.”
“Banks?”
“Police?”
“Employers?”
“All of them.”
Fair.
“She had a blue sewing box.”
My throat tightened.
“I still have it.”
I had opened it a hundred times after she vanished.
Buttons.
Thread.
Receipts.
Nothing.
But now I remembered something odd.
False bottom.
Maybe.
No.
A second layer beneath the spools.
My mother had slapped my hand away once when I was fifteen.
“Those needles are old.”
That was the excuse.
I stood.
“I need to go home.”
Salvo stood too.
“I’m coming.”
“No.”
“Mia.”
“No.”
“That is not a safe address if someone made your mother disappear.”
My pulse jumped.
He was right.
I hated that.
“I don’t want six armed men in my apartment building.”
“Two.”
“One.”
He stared.
“One outside.”
“Fine.”
Gianni almost smiled.
Salvo looked offended.
“You negotiate security quickly.”
“I negotiate tips with drunk bankers.”
“Same skill set?”
“Less dangerous.”
His mouth twitched.
For half a second, he looked thirty-three.
Not feared.
Just tired.
We went to Queens.
My apartment had belonged to my mother first.
I had never moved because moving felt too much like admitting she was not coming home.
Salvo noticed the second toothbrush still in the bathroom cup.
He said nothing.
Good.
I pulled the blue sewing box from the hall closet.
Dust.
Faded flowers painted on the lid.
My hands shook.
Inside:
Thread.
Buttons.
Needles.
A thimble.
Then I removed the tray.
Wood bottom.
Solid.
I pressed the corner.
Nothing.
Then Salvo crouched.
“May I?”
I hesitated.
Then handed it over.
He ran one finger beneath the inner edge.
Click.
A panel lifted.
I stopped breathing.
Inside were four envelopes.
One cassette tape.
A key.
And a small black notebook.
The first envelope said:
SALVATORE ROMANO.
Salvo stared.
Nobody called him Salvatore except very old men and court documents.
He opened it.
My mother’s handwriting.
Salvatore,
If you are reading this, then I failed to give these to you myself.
Your mother did not abandon you because she did not love you.
Salvo stopped.
His face went still.
Then he kept reading.
She wrote because she wanted you.
Your father hid the letters because he believed keeping you angry at a dead woman was safer than letting you love a living one.
Cruel.
But not the worst thing.
Salvo’s eyes lifted.
I felt cold.
He read the next line aloud.
“Enzo found Caterina before I did.”
Silence.
May you like
Then:
“And he made sure she would never come back to New York.”
