Chapter 2 - THE GRANDSON WHO WASN’T AT CAMP
Carlo stared at his mother.
“Find Nico?”
Rosa nodded.
“Nico.”
His thirteen-year-old grandson.
The only child of Carlo’s late son, Michael.
Carlo looked toward the rehab building.
“Teresa told me he’s at St. Brendan’s winter leadership camp.”
Rosa’s face twisted.
“He isn’t.”
Carlo felt the morning turn colder.
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know.”
That answer frightened him more than anything else she had said.
“What do you mean you don’t know?”
Rosa gripped his hand.
“He ran.”
Carlo stood.
“When?”
“Last night.”
His head snapped toward her.
“And nobody called me?”
“Teresa doesn’t want you called.”
“Ma.”
“I tried.”
Rosa’s voice broke.
“I tried for three weeks.”
Carlo looked down at the bruise around her arm.
The slippers.
The garbage bag containing eighty years of life reduced to things somebody had decided mattered.
He had questions.
Hundreds.
But one came first.
“Why did Nico run?”
Rosa looked at Maya.
The little girl stood quietly beneath the broken umbrella, watching adults make the world more complicated.
Rosa lowered her voice.
“Because he saw Teresa push me.”
Carlo stopped.
“He saw it?”
“Yes.”
“And Teresa knows?”
“Yes.”
Carlo’s jaw tightened.
“What happened after you fell?”
“I couldn’t move.”
Rosa closed her eyes.
“Nico came running down the stairs.”
Her voice trembled.
“He was screaming.”
Carlo could picture it.
Thirteen years old.
Already lost both parents.
Watching the woman raising him standing above his grandmother’s broken body.
“What did Teresa do?”
“She told him I slipped.”
“He saw her.”
“I know.”
Rosa continued.
“He said he was calling you.”
Carlo felt a sharp pain behind his ribs.
“Did he?”
“She took his phone.”
Of course.
“She told him he was hysterical.”
Rosa gave a bitter little laugh.
“Then she told the paramedics the same thing.”
Carlo looked toward his men.
Both were listening now.
Neither spoke.
“What happened to Nico after that?”
“Teresa kept him home from school for four days.”
“Why?”
“She said he was grieving.”
“Grieving what?”
Rosa looked at him.
“Me.”
Carlo went cold.
“She told him I might die.”
His mother was alive enough to insult the rehab administrator before sunrise.
Teresa had told a thirteen-year-old she might die anyway.
“Why?”
“To scare him.”
Rosa’s eyes filled.
“She told him if he kept saying she pushed me, people would think he was upset and confused because of everything he’d already lost.”
Carlo’s voice lowered.
“What did she tell me?”
Rosa looked at him.
Carlo already knew.
“Nico needed space.”
“Yes.”
“The camp.”
“Yes.”
“No calls.”
“Yes.”
Carlo closed his eyes.
For two and a half weeks, Teresa had sent him photographs supposedly forwarded by the school.
Snow.
Cabins.
Boys in parkas.
Nico was never clearly visible.
Carlo had noticed.
Then accepted her explanation that the children weren’t allowed personal phones.
He had transferred money for “extra activities.”
Asked if Nico was eating.
Sleeping.
Making friends.
He had done everything except drive two hours and see for himself.
“Where did he run?”
Rosa hesitated.
“Maybe Brooklyn.”
“Where in Brooklyn?”
“My old apartment.”
Carlo stared.
The apartment on Bay Nineteenth Street had been empty since Rosa moved in with Teresa after her hip injury.
Carlo still owned the building.
Nico knew it well.
“There’s a spare key?”
“Behind the old radiator cover in the hallway.”
Carlo immediately turned.
Then stopped.
His mother.
He couldn’t leave her beside a loading dock.
He looked toward his driver.
“Bring the car.”
Rosa grabbed him.
“No.”
Carlo turned.
“What?”
“Find him.”
“You’re coming with me.”
“I need a hospital.”
He stared.
Not rehab.
Hospital.
Rosa knew the difference.
Maya spoke quietly.
“My mom can go with her.”
Carlo looked down.
“Where is your mother?”
“Inside.”
Then Maya’s face tightened.
“Mr. Coleman told her she could lose her job if she talked to you.”
Carlo’s expression changed.
“About what?”
Maya looked nervous now.
Rosa squeezed her hand.
“Tell him.”
Maya swallowed.
“My mom told the nurse your mom wasn’t confused.”
Carlo looked toward the loading-dock door.
“And?”
“She said Mrs. DeLuca kept asking for her hearing aids and phone.”
Maya’s voice became smaller.
“Mr. Coleman said my mom was getting too involved.”
Carlo crouched so they were eye level.
“Your mother’s name?”
“Aisha Brooks.”
“Did she help my mother?”
Maya nodded.
“Every night.”
Rosa said:
“She brought me tea.”
Maya corrected:
“Decaf.”
Despite everything, Carlo almost smiled.
Then the door opened.
A Black woman in navy scrubs hurried outside.
“Maya!”
The girl ran to her.
Aisha pulled her close.
“What are you doing out here?”
Then she saw Carlo.
Her face changed.
Not fear exactly.
Recognition.
Everybody knew the name.
“Mr. DeLuca.”
“My mother says you helped her.”
Aisha looked toward Rosa.
“I did what I could.”
“What happened here?”
Aisha glanced behind her.
Carlo noticed.
“You’re afraid of losing your job.”
“I have a daughter.”
“That wasn’t criticism.”
Aisha looked at him.
He continued.
“If you know something, tell the hospital and the state investigators. Not me alone.”
She blinked.
Maybe she expected threats.
Carlo had lived long enough with his own reputation to recognize the moment.
He said:
“I’m not asking you to become part of my business.”
Good.
Aisha relaxed slightly.
“Your mother should never have been left outside.”
“I know.”
“She also shouldn’t have been given sedatives every night after repeatedly refusing them.”
Carlo’s face went blank.
Rosa whispered:
“They made me sleep.”
“What medication?”
Aisha answered.
“Lorazepam was on her chart as needed for agitation.”
Carlo looked at his mother.
“You take lorazepam?”
“No.”
“Did you authorize it?”
“No.”
Aisha continued.
“Your sister told the doctor Mrs. DeLuca had become combative.”
Rosa snorted.
“I called him a fool.”
Maya smiled.
Aisha tried not to.
Carlo did not.
His anger had passed the point where shouting served any purpose.
He called an ambulance.
Not one of his cars.
An ambulance.
He wanted an independent medical examination.
Aisha rode with Rosa.
Maya sat beside her mother.
Before the doors closed, Rosa caught Carlo’s hand.
“Carlo.”
“I’m going.”
“Don’t scare Nico.”
His throat tightened.
“Why would I scare him?”
Rosa looked at her son with eighty years of knowledge.
“Because you’re angry.”
Carlo understood.
He touched her cheek.
“I won’t.”
Then the ambulance left.
At 6:31 a.m., Carlo’s SUV pulled onto the Belt Parkway.
One of his men, Enzo, sat in front.
“Boss?”
Carlo looked up.
“Teresa.”
Enzo waited.
“No one touches her.”
Enzo’s expression did not change.
“Understood.”
“No threats.”
“Understood.”
“No one goes to her house until I find Nico.”
Enzo nodded.
Carlo looked out the window.
His men had obeyed worse orders than those.
His family expected worse.
Maybe Teresa did too.
That thought bothered him.
The old Brooklyn building looked exactly as Carlo remembered.
Brown brick.
Fire escape.
A grocery cart chained to a railing.
He took the stairs alone.
Second floor.
The hallway radiator cover was loose.
The key was gone.
Carlo’s pulse increased.
He reached Apartment 2B.
Knocked.
“Nico?”
Nothing.
“It's Grandpa.”
Still nothing.
Then a scrape.
Very soft.
From inside.
Carlo tried the knob.
Locked.
“Nico.”
A voice answered.
“You came?”
Carlo closed his eyes.
Relief nearly weakened his knees.
“Yes.”
Silence.
Then:
“Did Aunt Teresa send you?”
Carlo’s jaw tightened.
“No.”
“You swear?”
“Yes.”
Another pause.
The lock clicked.
The door opened four inches.
Nico stood behind it.
Thirteen.
Tall for his age.
Michael’s dark eyes.
Rosa’s stubborn chin.
A bruise beneath one cheekbone.
Carlo’s entire body went cold.
But he remembered his mother’s warning.
Don’t scare him.
So he did not ask who hit him.
Not first.
He said:
“Hi.”
Nico stared.
Then suddenly his face collapsed.
Carlo barely had time to open his arms before the boy crashed into him.
He held his grandson.
Hard.
Nico shook against his chest.
“I didn’t lie.”
Carlo closed his eyes.
“I know.”
“She pushed Nonna.”
“I know.”
“She said nobody would believe me.”
“I believe you.”
Nico pulled away.
His eyes were red.
“You didn’t before.”
That landed exactly where it should.
Carlo said nothing.
Nico continued.
“I called your office.”
“When?”
“Twice.”
Carlo went still.
“What happened?”
“Your secretary said you were overseas.”
He had been.
Geneva.
Three days.
“You never called back.”
Carlo swallowed.
“I didn’t know.”
Nico laughed bitterly.
“That’s what everybody says.”
Carlo had no defense.
Then the boy reached inside his sweatshirt.
Pulled out an old cellphone.
Rosa’s.
“I have something.”
“What?”
“I recorded her.”
Carlo stared.
“Teresa?”
Nico nodded.
“The night Nonna fell.”
His hand shook.
“I thought if I had proof, you’d believe me.”
Carlo felt something inside him break.
His grandson had been thirteen years old and frightened enough to understand he needed evidence before calling his own grandfather.
“Play it.”
Nico pressed the screen.
Teresa’s voice filled the small apartment.
Angry.
Close.
“You are not calling Carlo.”
Then Rosa:
“He deserves to know what you’ve done to that boy.”
Teresa:
“He abandoned that boy here!”
Carlo stopped breathing.
Rosa again:
“He trusted you.”
Teresa laughed.
“Exactly.”
Then a thud.
A scream.
Nico’s voice:
“NONNA!”
Another crash.
Teresa shouted:
“Give me that phone!”
The recording ended.
Carlo stared at the black screen.
But Nico wasn’t finished.
“There’s another one.”
“What?”
The boy opened a second file.
Teresa’s voice.
Quieter.
Talking to someone the following night.
“I need Rosa kept confused long enough for me to move her somewhere permanent.”
A man answered.
Richard Coleman.
“And the boy?”
Teresa said:
“I’ll handle Nico.”
Carlo slowly raised his eyes.
Nico whispered:
“She wasn’t just trying to hide what she did.”
His voice broke.
May you like
“She was trying to get rid of both of us.”
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