Chapter 3 - THE WATCH
Luca didn’t blink.
“The night my father died?”
Alessandra nodded.
I could hear the muffled sound of voices from the dining room down the hall.
Twenty-six people still waiting.
Twenty-six people who had arrived expecting dessert and champagne and had somehow ended up trapped inside a family secret more than twenty years old.
Luca handed the photograph to me.
“Where is Margaret?”
Alessandra stiffened.
“No.”
“Where?”
“She’s sick.”
“I understand that.”
“You don’t understand anything.”
“Then explain it.”
Alessandra laughed once, bitterly.
“You want the truth now?”
“Yes.”
“You had four years to ask who I was before you put a ring on my hand.”
Luca’s expression changed.
Not softer.
But wounded.
“That’s convenient.”
“It’s true.”
“You knew exactly who I was.”
“And you knew exactly who my father was.”
“Joseph Vitale drove trucks.”
“That’s what your family called him after he died.”
Luca stared at her.
“What was he before that?”
“My father worked for Antonio Marino.”
That surprised even Luca.
Alessandra wiped beneath one eye.
“He moved things your father didn’t trust anybody else to move. Money. Packages. People when they needed to disappear from one city and show up safely in another.”
She shook her head.
“I was eight when he died. Paolo was thirteen.”
Luca remained silent.
“My mother was working in your parents’ house then. Sofia trusted her.”
Alessandra pointed toward the photograph Grace held.
“That picture was taken three months before my father died.”
“What happened?”
“The official story?”
“Yes.”
“Warehouse accident.”
“And the unofficial story?”
“My brother believes Antonio had him killed.”
“Do you?”
Alessandra hesitated.
“I used to.”
That landed harder than any accusation.
Luca looked away.
“Where is Margaret?”
“Brookline.”
“We’re going.”
“She won’t understand you.”
“She understood enough to keep my father’s watch for twenty-two years.”
Alessandra shook her head.
“She has good days and bad days. Sometimes she thinks I’m sixteen.”
“Then we’ll deal with the day she’s having.”
He looked at me.
“You’re coming.”
My mouth opened.
“Mr. Marino—”
“You found the bottle.”
“That doesn’t mean—”
“You remember details everybody else ignores.”
He looked at Alessandra.
“Apparently that matters tonight.”
Twenty minutes later, the guests had been quietly sent home.
No explanations.
No arguments.
Luca’s men remained at the house.
The three of us rode to Brookline in tense silence.
Margaret Vitale lived in a private assisted-living apartment that looked more like a modest hotel than a medical facility.
Alessandra signed us in.
Her hands shook.
“Please,” she said before we entered the elevator.
Luca looked at her.
“What?”
“Don’t question her like she works for you.”
Something in Luca’s face tightened.
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“You question everyone that way.”
“Maybe that’s because everyone lies to me.”
Alessandra looked toward the elevator numbers.
“So did your father.”
The doors opened.
Margaret’s apartment was small and warm.
A television played quietly without sound.
A knitted blanket lay over the back of a chair.
On one wall hung family photographs.
Alessandra at graduation.
Paolo beside a truck.
Margaret younger, laughing.
And one picture that made Luca stop.
His mother.
Sofia stood beside Margaret in a church basement, both women wearing aprons, serving food from metal trays.
Luca touched the frame.
“I’ve never seen this.”
Alessandra looked away.
“Mom kept everything.”
Margaret appeared from the bedroom wearing a pale blue robe.
She was in her late seventies.
Thin.
Silver-haired.
Her eyes moved first to Alessandra.
Then Luca.
Then me.
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
Margaret walked closer.
Her gaze settled on Luca.
She lifted one trembling hand.
“Antonio?”
Luca didn’t correct her immediately.
“No, ma’am.”
Margaret frowned.
He said quietly, “I’m Luca.”
Something changed in her eyes.
Recognition arrived slowly.
“Sofia’s boy.”
“Yes.”
“Oh.”
She reached for his cheek.
Luca let her touch him.
“You got old.”
To my surprise, Luca almost smiled.
“So did you.”
Margaret laughed.
Then she saw Alessandra.
The laugh disappeared.
“You didn’t tell him.”
Alessandra lowered her head.
“No.”
“I told you.”
“I was scared.”
“So was your mother,” Margaret said to Luca.
Then she looked confused.
“Sofia?”
“She died twelve years ago,” Luca said gently.
Margaret stared at him.
Her hand dropped.
“Oh.”
The grief on her face looked brand new.
That was the cruelty of failing memory.
Old pain could return without warning and feel like it had happened that morning.
Alessandra went to her.
“Mom, we need the watch.”
Margaret’s body stiffened.
“No.”
“Mom.”
“No watch.”
Luca didn’t move.
Margaret pointed toward him.
“His uncle comes looking.”
“Dominic?” I asked.
Margaret looked at me.
“Yes.”
Then her face narrowed.
“Who are you?”
“Grace.”
“Sofia?”
“No.”
She stepped closer to me anyway.
“You fold towels wrong.”
I almost laughed.
“So I’ve been told.”
Something about my answer settled her.
Margaret turned.
Walked into the bedroom.
We waited.
She returned carrying an old man’s gray wool coat.
The elbows were worn shiny.
One button was missing.
Alessandra inhaled sharply.
“That was Dad’s.”
Margaret sat down.
“He wore this when it was cold.”
She slipped her fingers into the inside pocket.
Nothing.
Then the second pocket.
Nothing.
Her breathing changed.
She tore at the lining.
A hidden seam opened.
A watch fell into her palm.
Gold.
Old.
Heavy.
The crystal cracked across one corner.
Luca stopped breathing for a second.
“My father’s.”
Margaret handed it to me, not him.
I didn’t understand why.
Until she said, “You look.”
I turned it over.
Engraved on the back were four words.
TO ANTONIO. COME HOME. — SOFIA.
Luca looked away.
Alessandra covered her mouth.
The watch had stopped at 9:17.
“Why does this matter?” I asked.
Margaret’s fingers closed around my wrist.
Harder than I expected.
“Because Dominic lied about the time.”
Luca looked at her.
“What time?”
“He said Antonio was already dead.”
Margaret’s eyes suddenly became clear.
Completely clear.
“But he wasn’t.”
Luca stepped forward.
“You saw my father?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
She pointed to the watch.
“That had already stopped.”
“Margaret.”
Her voice lowered.
“Your father was alive at 9:20.”
Luca went still.
Margaret stared at him.
“And he kept saying one thing.”
“What?”
She whispered:
May you like
“Joseph didn’t fall.”
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