Chapter 2 - THE MAN IN HIS MOTHER’S ROOM
For several seconds, Rocco did not move.
Neither did anyone else.
Rainwater dripped from Danny’s sweatshirt onto the kitchen tile.
Teresa stood beside the sink with one hand pressed against her mouth.
And in the dining room behind them, twelve people who had been pretending not to listen were now openly staring toward the staircase.
Rocco looked at Danny.
“My brother?”
The boy nodded.
“Are you sure?”
Danny hesitated.
“He looks like the pictures.”
Rocco’s face changed.
There were photographs of Matteo Bellandi all over his mother’s old room.
Matteo at sixteen.
Matteo at twenty-three.
Matteo holding Rocco as a baby.
Matteo standing beside their mother at a wedding.
But Matteo Bellandi had died eleven years earlier.
Car explosion.
Long Island Expressway.
Closed coffin.
Rocco had been twenty-one.
He remembered identifying Matteo through a watch and dental records.
Or at least—
That was what he had been told.
“Danny.”
Rocco crouched again.
“Did you talk to him?”
The boy nodded.
“What did he say?”
Bianca stepped forward.
“This is absurd.”
Rocco did not look at her.
“Danny.”
The child glanced toward Bianca.
Then whispered:
“He asked me what year it was.”
The kitchen went silent.
Rocco slowly stood.
“What else?”
“He asked if your mother was alive.”
Something cold moved through Rocco’s chest.
His mother, Lucia Bellandi, had died three years earlier.
Danny continued.
“I told him no.”
Rocco’s voice dropped.
“What did he do?”
“He cried.”
Bianca put down her wineglass too quickly.
It struck the counter.
“Enough.”
Everyone looked at her.
She stared at Danny.
“You saw a confused homeless man in a room he should not have entered.”
Danny immediately shook his head.
“He had the key.”
Rocco turned to Bianca.
“You told Teresa to open the room.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“The plumbing.”
Rocco stared.
“What plumbing?”
“There was a smell upstairs.”
“Interesting.”
He looked toward the ceiling.
“My mother’s bathroom hasn’t had water service in two years.”
Bianca froze.
Rocco continued.
“I shut the line off myself.”
No answer.
Rocco turned to Teresa.
“Tell me everything.”
She looked terrified.
“Mr. Bellandi…”
“Everything.”
Teresa took a breath.
“Yesterday morning, Ms. Bianca gave me the key.”
“Where did she get it?”
“I don’t know.”
Rocco’s jaw tightened.
He had kept the only key in a safe in his office.
Or thought he had.
“She told me to clean the room before tonight.”
“Why?”
“She said family would be staying.”
Rocco looked toward Bianca.
“What family?”
Bianca folded her arms.
“You travel constantly. I was reorganizing rooms.”
“You reorganized my dead mother’s room?”
“It has been three years.”
Rocco ignored her.
Teresa continued.
“When I opened the door, the curtains were closed.”
“And?”
“I thought the room was empty.”
Her voice trembled.
“Then somebody moved.”
Rocco felt every muscle tighten.
“Where?”
“Near the window.”
“What did you do?”
“I screamed.”
Danny said:
“I heard.”
Teresa nodded.
“I almost ran.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No.”
“Why?”
Teresa looked at him.
“Because he knew my name.”
Rocco went still.
“He called you Teresa?”
“Yes.”
“How would Matteo know you?”
Teresa had worked for Rocco six years.
Matteo supposedly died eleven years ago.
“He shouldn’t.”
“No.”
“What exactly did he say?”
Teresa swallowed.
“He said, ‘Please don’t scream, Teresa. Lucia said you were kind.’”
Rocco stared.
His mother had known Teresa.
Trusted her.
Loved her cooking.
But if Matteo had learned Teresa’s name from Lucia—
then his mother had known Matteo was alive.
The realization hit like a physical blow.
Rocco looked toward the staircase.
“My mother knew.”
Bianca said:
“No one knows anything yet.”
Rocco finally looked at her.
“You seem unusually invested in that.”
She stiffened.
“I’m trying to keep you rational.”
“That has never been your responsibility.”
Bianca’s lips tightened.
Rocco turned back to Teresa.
“What happened after he spoke?”
“He asked for water.”
“You gave him some?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“He asked whether you still lived here.”
Rocco’s chest tightened.
“What did you say?”
“I said yes.”
Teresa’s eyes filled.
“He smiled.”
Rocco looked away.
“He said something else.”
“What?”
“He said, ‘Then maybe Lucia kept her promise.’”
Rocco slowly turned back.
“What promise?”
“He wouldn’t tell me.”
Bianca moved toward the hallway.
“I’m done listening to this.”
Rocco’s voice stopped her.
“Where are you going?”
“Home.”
“You are home.”
She looked at him.
“My apartment.”
“No.”
Her face hardened.
“You cannot hold me here.”
“Watch me.”
Every man in the dining room understood the tone.
Rocco looked toward his driver.
“Enzo.”
“Yes, boss.”
“No one leaves.”
Bianca laughed.
“Now we’re prisoners?”
“No.”
Rocco stepped toward the staircase.
“You’re witnesses.”
He turned to Danny.
“Stay with your mother.”
Danny immediately said:
“I can show you.”
Rocco paused.
“No.”
“I know where he is.”
“If there is someone upstairs, you are not going near him.”
Danny looked almost offended.
“He’s nice.”
Rocco nearly smiled.
Nearly.
“Nice men can still be dangerous.”
The boy frowned.
“You’re nice to me.”
A few men in the dining room looked away to hide reactions.
Rocco stared at Danny.
“That is a terrible argument.”
Danny shrugged.
Rocco climbed the stairs with Enzo and two guards.
Bianca followed.
“I said nobody leaves, not nobody moves.”
“I’m coming.”
Rocco turned.
“Why?”
“It’s my family too.”
“Matteo was my brother.”
Bianca’s expression flickered.
“And my husband.”
That stopped him.
Of course.
Bianca Bellandi.
His sister-in-law.
Matteo’s widow.
She had been twenty-six when Matteo died.
She never remarried.
For eleven years, the Bellandi family treated her like blood.
Supported her.
Protected her.
Rocco had given her access to nearly everything.
Including, apparently, his house.
They reached Lucia’s bedroom.
The brass key Danny carried fit.
Rocco turned it.
The door opened.
Darkness.
Dust.
His mother’s perfume somehow still trapped in the curtains.
Rocco stepped inside.
The bed had been disturbed.
A blanket lay on the floor.
An empty soup bowl sat on the nightstand.
Someone had been living there.
Recently.
“Matteo?”
Nothing.
Rocco’s throat tightened saying the name.
He hadn’t spoken it toward a room in eleven years.
“Matteo?”
A noise came from the bathroom.
Enzo reached inside his coat.
Rocco held up one hand.
The bathroom door opened.
A man stepped out.
Thin.
Gray in his beard.
Hair too long.
A scar running from his temple toward his ear.
His left leg dragged slightly.
But his eyes—
Rocco knew those eyes.
He had seen them in the mirror his entire life.
The man looked at him.
For several seconds, nobody breathed.
Then his mouth trembled.
“Rocco?”
Bianca made a sound behind them.
Not surprise.
Terror.
The man looked past Rocco.
Saw her.
And instantly backed against the wall.
“No.”
Rocco turned.
Bianca had gone completely white.
The man pointed at her.
His hand shook violently.
“Get her away from me.”
Rocco stared.
“Matteo?”
His brother’s eyes filled.
“You got old.”
Rocco almost laughed.
Almost cried.
Almost crossed the room.
Then Matteo shouted:
“Don’t!”
Rocco stopped.
Matteo looked from him to the guards.
Panic rising.
“No doctors.”
“No doctors?”
“No hospitals.”
Rocco frowned.
Matteo pointed again at Bianca.
“She’ll send them.”
Bianca whispered:
“This is impossible.”
Matteo flinched at her voice.
Rocco saw it.
He looked at Bianca.
“What did you do?”
She shook her head.
“Nothing.”
Matteo laughed.
The sound was broken.
“Still good at that.”
Rocco’s stomach dropped.
Matteo looked at him.
“You really don’t know?”
Rocco’s voice became cold.
“Know what?”
His brother stared at Bianca.
Then at Rocco.
“I didn’t die in that car.”
Silence.
“I survived.”
Rocco’s throat tightened.
“Where have you been?”
Matteo’s face collapsed.
“Ask my wife.”
Every eye turned toward Bianca.
May you like
And for the first time since Rocco came home—
she had absolutely nothing to say.
