Chapter 3 - ELEVEN YEARS MISSING
Rocco sent everyone downstairs except Enzo.
Bianca protested.
Matteo started shaking the moment she raised her voice.
That decided it.
Rocco pointed toward the hall.
“Out.”
Bianca stared at him.
“You believe him?”
“I believe he’s alive.”
“He could be anyone.”
Matteo laughed weakly.
Then lifted his left hand.
His little finger was missing the top joint.
Rocco froze.
When Matteo was twelve, he lost it in the old Bellandi butcher shop.
Their father had nearly killed the employee responsible.
Only family knew the story.
Matteo looked at Rocco.
“Still think I’m anybody?”
Rocco’s chest tightened.
Bianca stepped backward.
Rocco turned to Enzo.
“Take her downstairs.”
“Rocco—”
“Now.”
When the door closed, he and Matteo remained on opposite sides of Lucia’s bedroom.
Brothers.
Strangers.
Rocco had imagined this man dead for eleven years.
Had stood at his grave every Easter.
Had taken care of his widow.
Had killed two men he believed responsible for Matteo’s death.
The old anger rose.
He forced it down.
“What happened?”
Matteo sat on the edge of the bed.
His movements were stiff.
“The car exploded.”
“That part I know.”
“I wasn’t supposed to be in it.”
Rocco frowned.
“What?”
“It was Carlo’s car.”
Carlo Mazzini.
One of their father’s captains.
Dead the same night.
At least supposedly.
Matteo continued.
“I borrowed it because mine wouldn’t start.”
“Who planted the bomb?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then how did you survive?”
“I got thrown through the passenger window.”
Rocco stared.
“Police said there were two bodies.”
“There were.”
“Carlo?”
“No.”
Matteo’s eyes lowered.
“Two men who followed me.”
“Whose men?”
“I found out later.”
Rocco’s jaw tightened.
“Who?”
Matteo looked toward the door.
“Bianca’s father.”
Rocco went still.
Anthony Russo.
Bianca’s father had been a respected Bellandi ally.
He died eight years ago from cancer.
“What were his men doing there?”
“Making sure I didn’t survive.”
Rocco’s hands clenched.
“Why?”
Matteo stared at the floor.
“I found out money was disappearing.”
“What money?”
“Union pension accounts.”
Rocco’s expression changed.
The Bellandis had once controlled several construction unions.
Dirty money moved through legitimate funds.
Rocco knew that.
But stealing from workers’ pension accounts had been forbidden even by their father.
“Anthony?”
“Anthony and two accountants.”
“Bianca knew?”
Matteo didn’t answer immediately.
Rocco’s voice sharpened.
“Did she know?”
“Yes.”
Rocco turned away.
“You’re telling me your wife helped her father steal?”
“She said she wanted out.”
“Out of what?”
“The marriage.”
Rocco looked back.
Matteo’s eyes were tired.
“Bianca and I weren’t what you remember.”
Rocco had been twenty-one.
To him, Matteo and Bianca were the perfect couple.
Beautiful.
Expensive dinners.
Kissing at family parties.
“I thought you loved her.”
“I did.”
“And her?”
Matteo gave a sad smile.
“She loved being Mrs. Matteo Bellandi.”
The distinction landed.
Matteo continued.
“When I found the pension records, I told her I was going to Dad.”
“Our father would have killed Anthony.”
“Probably.”
“What did Bianca say?”
“She begged me not to.”
“And?”
“I agreed to wait one day.”
Rocco understood before Matteo continued.
“That night.”
“Yes.”
“The bomb.”
“Yes.”
Rocco paced.
“After the explosion?”
“I woke up near the road.”
His voice slowed.
“One ear barely worked. My leg was broken. Half my face burned.”
Rocco looked at the scar.
“Somebody found me.”
“Who?”
“Truck driver.”
“Hospital?”
“Small clinic first.”
“Then why didn’t anyone call us?”
Matteo’s eyes filled.
“Someone did.”
Rocco stopped.
“What?”
“The clinic called Bianca.”
His chest tightened.
“She came?”
“Yes.”
Matteo’s face changed.
“She cried.”
Rocco stared.
“She held my hand.”
For one second, he could see her.
Young Bianca.
Terrified.
Then Matteo said:
“And told me the family believed I was dead.”
Rocco felt cold.
“What?”
“She said if I came back, Anthony would finish it.”
“Why wouldn’t she bring you to us?”
“She said Dad was involved.”
Rocco’s face hardened.
“Our father?”
“She told me Dad knew about the pension money.”
“That’s a lie.”
“I know that now.”
“But then?”
“I was injured.”
Matteo looked ashamed.
“Drugged. Scared. I believed my wife.”
Rocco sat slowly.
“What did she do?”
“Moved me.”
“Where?”
“Private rehabilitation place in Pennsylvania.”
“For eleven years?”
“No.”
Matteo’s hands began shaking.
“The first year, I was recovering.”
“And after?”
“I wanted to come home.”
His voice broke.
“Bianca said people were watching.”
“Whose?”
“Your father’s. Anthony’s. Whoever was convenient that day.”
Rocco felt sick.
“She kept you hidden.”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Money.”
“Threats?”
“Both.”
“Were you free to leave?”
Matteo looked at him.
“Not always.”
Silence.
Rocco stood again.
“What does that mean?”
“There were doctors.”
“What doctors?”
“Private.”
“Real doctors?”
“Yes.”
“Did they know who you were?”
“Some.”
“What did they give you?”
Matteo laughed bitterly.
“Enough medication that I stopped asking.”
Rocco’s jaw clenched.
“You were drugged.”
“For years, on and off.”
“And nobody found you?”
“I wasn’t Matteo Bellandi.”
“What name?”
“Matthew Russo.”
Rocco stared.
Bianca’s family name.
Matteo continued.
“When Anthony died, I thought Bianca would let me go.”
“She didn’t.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“By then, too much money had moved.”
“What money?”
Matteo looked at Rocco.
“My inheritance.”
The room seemed to tilt.
Matteo had inherited extensive interests after their father died six years ago.
Because Matteo was legally dead, those interests had passed—
mostly to Bianca under trust provisions.
Rocco had approved distributions.
Signed documents.
Defended Bianca when distant cousins complained.
He felt physically ill.
“How much?”
“I don’t know.”
Rocco did.
At least thirty million.
Maybe more.
Matteo looked toward the dresser.
“Mom found me.”
Rocco stopped.
“When?”
“Four years ago.”
A year before Lucia died.
“How?”
“She never believed the body identification.”
Rocco’s chest tightened.
“Why didn’t she tell me?”
“She wanted evidence first.”
“Evidence of what?”
“Bianca.”
Matteo rubbed his face.
“Mom thought if she brought me directly to you, you’d kill Bianca before we understood who else was involved.”
Rocco nearly smiled despite himself.
“That sounds like her.”
“She visited me twice.”
“Where?”
“Connecticut.”
“You were there then?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“Mom started making plans.”
“What plans?”
“To bring me home.”
Rocco’s eyes filled.
“She died before she could.”
Matteo nodded.
“Heart attack.”
Rocco looked away.
Lucia’s death had seemed sudden.
Natural.
At seventy-two, believable.
Now every fact in his family had become suspicious.
“Did Bianca know Mom found you?”
“I think so.”
“Why?”
“After Mom’s second visit, they moved me again.”
“To where?”
“Queens.”
“And now?”
Matteo looked around Lucia’s room.
“Brooklyn.”
“How did you get here?”
“I escaped.”
Rocco stared.
“From where?”
“A house in Staten Island.”
“When?”
“Four days ago.”
“How?”
“Man guarding me got drunk.”
“Who?”
“Name’s Perry.”
“Works for Bianca?”
Matteo nodded.
“I stole his car.”
“Why come here?”
“Mom told me if I ever got free, this room would still be mine.”
Rocco’s throat tightened.
“She left a key?”
Matteo nodded.
“Hidden in an old church in Bensonhurst.”
“How did Bianca get another?”
“I don’t know.”
Rocco did not like that.
Matteo continued.
“I got here three nights ago.”
“Food?”
“Whatever I found.”
“Why didn’t you come downstairs?”
“I didn’t know who lived here.”
Rocco stared.
Matteo gave a small smile.
“You decorate differently.”
Despite everything, Rocco laughed once.
Then Matteo’s face became serious.
“I heard Bianca yesterday.”
“What?”
“Downstairs.”
“Did she know you were here?”
“I think she came looking.”
Rocco felt cold.
“Then why send Teresa upstairs?”
“To confirm.”
Matteo nodded.
“Or maybe to make Teresa discover me first.”
“Why?”
“Because if a housekeeper found a confused man in a locked room…”
Rocco understood.
Bianca could call police.
Hospitalize him.
Declare him unstable.
Make him disappear again.
Rocco stood.
“Not this time.”
Matteo looked at him.
“You don’t know who’s loyal to her.”
Rocco smiled without humor.
“This is my house.”
“Exactly.”
Matteo’s expression hardened.
“It was mine too.”
That sentence cut.
Rocco nodded.
“Fair.”
Downstairs, voices suddenly rose.
Then glass broke.
Enzo’s radio crackled.
“Boss.”
Rocco answered.
“What?”
“Bianca tried to leave.”
“Stop her.”
“We did.”
A pause.
“Then we found something in her purse.”
Rocco looked at Matteo.
“What?”
Enzo’s voice became grim.
“A loaded syringe.”
Matteo went completely pale.
Rocco stared at the bedroom door.
“Loaded with what?”
“We don’t know yet.”
Matteo whispered:
“I do.”
Rocco looked at him.
His brother’s face had drained of color.
“She used to call it the quiet shot.”
And suddenly Rocco understood Bianca had not come to dinner merely to celebrate with family.
May you like
She had expected to find Matteo.
And she had come prepared to make him silent again.
