Chapter 2 - THE WORDS HE REMEMBERED
“You were there.”
Matteo’s voice was barely louder than his breathing.
Clara stopped moving.
Vincent’s hand tightened against the doorframe.
For several seconds, no one spoke.
Matteo was still curled against Clara’s chest, exhausted from the spasm. His dark hair was damp at the temples. One small fist had twisted into the front of her pajama shirt.
Clara looked down at him.
“What did you say, sweetheart?”
Matteo swallowed.
“You were there before.”
Vincent stepped into the room.
Clara’s head snapped toward him.
Matteo flinched.
That tiny reaction hurt Vincent more than he expected.
“Before where?” Vincent asked.
His voice was controlled.
Too controlled.
Clara slowly moved away from Matteo, though the boy immediately caught her wrist.
“Don’t,” he whispered.
She stayed.
Vincent noticed.
His son had not voluntarily reached for him in months.
But he was holding Clara as if letting go might cause something terrible to happen.
“Clara.”
Vincent’s gaze never left her.
“What is he talking about?”
Clara looked tired rather than frightened.
That bothered him even more.
“I worked at St. Catherine’s Rehabilitation Center.”
Vincent felt the room change.
Matteo had spent eleven weeks there after the surgeries.
Vincent remembered every corridor.
Every specialist.
Every promise delivered in careful medical language.
He did not remember Clara.
“You never told me.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I wasn’t his nurse.”
Clara rested one hand lightly against Matteo’s shoulder.
“I was a rehabilitation aide on the night shift. I filled water pitchers, changed linens, helped nurses reposition patients.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“I know.”
Vincent walked farther inside.
“When?”
Clara’s eyes met his.
“Fourteen months ago.”
The same week Matteo fell.
Vincent’s jaw tightened.
“You knew my son before you entered this house.”
“I saw him twice.”
“And you concealed it.”
“Yes.”
Matteo’s fingers tightened around her wrist.
“Dad.”
Vincent stopped.
The word was soft.
Careful.
As though Matteo was testing whether it was safe to use.
Vincent forced his voice lower.
“I’m listening.”
Matteo looked at Clara.
“She stayed.”
Vincent said nothing.
“The lights were off,” Matteo continued. “I was scared.”
Clara’s face changed.
She remembered.
Vincent could see it.
Matteo closed his eyes.
“You counted.”
Clara whispered, “To twenty.”
Matteo nodded.
“You said twenty was enough.”
“For one minute.”
Another nod.
Something cold moved through Vincent.
“What happened that night?”
Clara looked at him.
“He had a spasm.”
“Like tonight?”
“Worse.”
Vincent felt suddenly unsteady.
No one had told him.
“The nurse on duty was managing two emergencies,” Clara continued. “Matteo was terrified. I wasn’t supposed to climb onto the bed, but he was trying to pull himself over the side.”
Vincent looked at his son.
History repeating itself.
Same terrified child.
Same woman holding him together.
“What else happened?” Vincent asked.
Clara hesitated.
That hesitation was enough.
Vincent’s voice hardened.
“What did he say?”
Matteo opened his eyes.
“Don’t.”
Vincent stared at him.
“Matteo—”
“I don’t want her in trouble.”
Clara turned quickly.
“You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“But you got fired.”
Vincent’s attention returned to Clara.
“What?”
She exhaled.
“That wasn’t because of Matteo.”
Matteo shook his head.
“Yes.”
“Matteo.”
“The watch.”
Clara went silent.
Vincent felt his heartbeat change.
There were not many watches that mattered in the Rossi family.
Only one mattered to Matteo.
Elena’s.
His mother’s silver watch.
Small oval face.
Blue hands.
A worn leather strap she had refused to replace because Vincent bought it for her during their first year together.
After Elena died, Matteo kept it in a wooden box beside his bed.
The watch disappeared the night of his accident.
Vincent’s men searched the estate.
Then the hospital.
It was never found.
He looked at Clara.
“Tell me.”
Clara’s eyes lowered.
“The morning after I sat with Matteo, security questioned me.”
“Mine?”
“Yes.”
“They said Mrs. Rossi’s watch had been seen beside Matteo’s bed when he arrived from surgery.”
Vincent remembered ordering everyone with access questioned.
He had not personally handled it.
He had been sleeping in a chair outside intensive care, surviving on coffee and fury.
“They searched my locker,” Clara said. “Nothing was there.”
“Then why were you fired?”
“Because I told them I saw someone leaving Matteo’s room with something silver in his hand.”
Vincent’s face became still.
“Who?”
Clara looked toward Matteo.
The boy had begun trembling again.
Not from a spasm.
Fear.
Clara noticed too.
“We don’t have to do this tonight.”
Vincent almost objected.
Then he saw his son’s face.
Fourteen months ago, Vincent would have demanded the answer.
Fourteen months ago, he believed pressure produced truth.
Now he was looking at the result.
He sat slowly in the chair beside the bed.
“All right.”
Matteo stared at him.
Vincent rested both hands on his knees.
“We stop.”
Clara seemed surprised.
So did Matteo.
“I mean it,” Vincent said. “Nobody is leaving tonight. Nobody is being questioned. Nobody is in trouble.”
His son studied him.
“Promise?”
Vincent had made promises involving money, territory, loyalty and consequences.
None had ever felt this dangerous.
“I promise.”
Matteo finally released Clara’s wrist.
Vincent looked at her.
“You’ll tell me the rest tomorrow.”
Clara nodded.
“Yes.”
Vincent stood.
Then Matteo whispered, “Dad?”
He turned.
The boy was staring toward the open closet.
Vincent followed his gaze.
Several coats hung inside.
Matteo lifted one shaking hand.
“The black one.”
Vincent frowned.
His heavy cashmere overcoat hung at the end.
He had owned it for nearly ten years.
“What about it?”
Matteo’s lips trembled.
“That night…”
Clara went very still.
Matteo stared at the coat as if it could see him.
“He wore yours.”
Vincent felt every muscle in his body lock.
“Who did?”
May you like
Matteo looked directly at his father.
“Uncle Gabriel.”
