Chapter 6 - THE MAN ROSA BURIED
Mrs. Caruso sat down heavily.
For twenty-six years, she had run Luca Moretti’s household with military precision.
Now her hands trembled in her lap.
“My husband died in 1998.”
Vittorio shook his head.
“No.”
“I buried him.”
“You buried a closed coffin.”
Her face changed.
I looked between them.
“Why was it closed?”
Mrs. Caruso answered slowly.
“Fire.”
Luca’s eyes narrowed.
“What fire?”
“A warehouse on Archer Avenue.”
Vittorio said, “Salvatore owned part of it through a shell company.”
Mrs. Caruso looked at him with hatred.
“You told me he was trapped inside.”
“I believed it.”
“You identified the body.”
“I identified his watch.”
Silence.
A watch.
Another object that had been allowed to speak for a dead man.
Luca lifted the Christmas photograph again.
“If this is Salvatore, then he was alive sixteen years after his funeral.”
Mrs. Caruso’s face had gone pale.
“He never came back.”
Vanessa said softly, “Maybe he couldn’t.”
Mrs. Caruso looked at her.
“You don’t know him.”
“No.”
Vanessa’s voice stayed calm.
“But I know what it’s like when family members decide disappearing is easier than explaining themselves.”
Mrs. Caruso looked away.
Luca turned the photograph over.
Nothing.
Then I noticed a slight ridge beneath one corner.
“Wait.”
I peeled back the old photographic paper.
A second image had been stuck beneath it.
Smaller.
Passport-sized.
Salvatore Caruso.
Older.
Gray at the temples.
On the back, my father had written:
S.C. — CALLED HIMSELF SAM CARTER.
CICERO.
2009.
My chest tightened.
“My father found him.”
Luca looked at me.
“Or Salvatore found your father.”
I kept searching the toolbox.
Under the gloves was an old silver wristwatch.
Cracked face.
Blackened edges.
Mrs. Caruso made a sound.
She reached for it.
“My God.”
Vittorio stiffened.
“That’s the watch.”
“The one used to identify him?” I asked.
“Yes.”
Mrs. Caruso held it against her chest.
“But this was supposed to be buried.”
Luca’s expression darkened.
“If Thomas had it, then he knew Salvatore survived.”
Mrs. Caruso closed her eyes.
“Why wouldn’t he tell me?”
I understood the question.
It was the same question I had been asking about my father all night.
Why hide the truth?
Why protect people with silence?
Why let children grow up inside stories that were easier than reality?
Then I noticed something else inside the toolbox.
A folded piece of blue paper.
Physical therapy stationery.
New.
Not twenty years old.
I unfolded it.
My father’s handwriting was shaky.
Stroke handwriting.
Recent.
EMMA —
IF YOU FOUND THIS, SOMEBODY STARTED ASKING ABOUT HALSTED AGAIN.
DO NOT BLAME ROSA.
SHE DIDN’T KNOW.
ASK LUCA MORETTI WHY HIS FATHER PAID OUR MORTGAGE.
I stopped breathing.
Luca read over my shoulder.
“What mortgage?”
“My parents’ house.”
Vittorio looked at him.
“You didn’t know?”
“No.”
My childhood home had nearly been lost twice.
Or that was what I believed.
Dad always said work became slow.
Mom said a “union fund” helped them through.
Now I knew differently.
“Your father paid for our house?”
Luca shook his head.
“I never heard about it.”
I looked at Mrs. Caruso.
She seemed equally surprised.
The note continued.
GIUSEPPE WAS NOT THE MAN I THOUGHT HE WAS.
NEITHER WAS SALVATORE.
ONE OF THEM SAVED CATHERINE.
THE OTHER KILLED MARIA.
Vanessa grabbed the paper.
Her face changed.
“My mother?”
Vittorio took a step toward her.
She backed away.
“No.”
“Vanessa.”
“You told me aneurysm.”
“I believed it was safer.”
Her laugh cracked.
“For whom?”
No answer.
Adrian moved beside his sister.
For the first time that evening, the two stood together.
Luca took the note.
“When did Maria die?”
Vanessa answered.
“Eleven years ago.”
“Three years after my father.”
Mrs. Caruso whispered, “Salvatore.”
Luca looked at her.
“You think your husband killed her.”
“I don’t know what to think.”
Her eyes filled.
“I spent twenty-eight years believing he died before our son started kindergarten.”
I froze.
“You have a son?”
Mrs. Caruso closed her mouth.
Luca’s gaze sharpened.
“I’ve known you my entire life.”
“Yes.”
“You never said you had a child.”
“He changed his name.”
“Why?”
“So he wouldn’t become his father.”
Vittorio’s expression changed.
That frightened me.
“Rosa.”
She looked at him.
“What?”
“Where is your son?”
Her face tightened.
“You don’t get to ask me about him.”
Luca said quietly, “Tonight we may have to.”
Mrs. Caruso looked around at all of us.
Then she reached into her pocket.
She removed a Christmas card.
The front showed a little boy standing beside a snowman.
No.
Not a current little boy.
An old photograph reproduced on a card.
On the inside were only two handwritten words.
MERRY CHRISTMAS.
No signature.
Mrs. Caruso said, “It arrived this morning.”
Luca took it.
The envelope had no return address.
Vanessa whispered, “Same time as my photograph.”
“Yes.”
“Your son sent this?”
“I don’t know.”
Luca turned the card over.
A logo appeared at the bottom.
ST. MATTHEW REHABILITATION CENTER.
My heart stopped.
I knew that logo.
I had seen it three times a week for the last eight months.
“That’s where my father does therapy.”
Everyone looked at me.
I felt cold all over.
Mrs. Caruso whispered, “Thomas?”
I grabbed my phone.
No missed calls.
No messages.
I called my brother.
He answered on the second ring.
“Emma?”
“Where’s Dad?”
A pause.
Too long.
“Ben.”
“I thought he was with you.”
My stomach dropped.
“What?”
“He said you sent a car.”
I gripped the table.
“I didn’t send anything.”
Luca was already moving.
“When?”
I put the phone on speaker.
My brother sounded confused.
“About forty minutes ago. Black sedan. Driver said Emma needed him at work.”
Luca’s expression changed instantly.
“Did Dad know the driver?”
Another pause.
“Yeah.”
My brother’s voice lowered.
“He called him Michael.”
Mrs. Caruso made a choking sound.
The Christmas card slipped from her fingers.
I turned.
“Who is Michael?”
May you like
She looked at me as if twenty-eight years had just returned from the dead.
“My son.”
