Chapter 7 - The Son on the Roof
“Leo?”
The word tore from my throat, a ragged, soot-stained gasp.
My thirty-year-old son stood on the gravel roof, his dark coat flapping in the freezing wind. The glow from the flames below cast jagged, dancing shadows across his face.
He was holding a matte-black handgun, and it was aimed directly at my chest.
Clara scrambled to her knees beside me, coughing violently. She looked at her older brother, her eyes wide with absolute horror.
“Leo, what are you doing?” Clara screamed over the roar of the fire. “Put the gun down!”
Leo didn’t lower the weapon. His hands were shaking, and his eyes were wild, frantic with a panic I had never seen in him before.
“I’m sorry, Mom,” Leo choked out, his voice cracking. “I didn’t want it to end like this. But I have no choice.”
I stared at the boy I had carried, the boy I had rocked to sleep, the boy who had inherited his father’s dark eyes but who I always prayed had my heart.
“You set the fire,” I whispered, the realization hitting me with the force of a physical blow.
Rossi hadn’t locked the doors. Rossi hadn’t poured the gasoline. Rossi had taken Matteo and left.
Leo had done this.
Answer one. My own son had tried to burn me and his sister alive.
“Why, Leo?” I asked, my voice entirely hollow. “Why would you do this to us?”
“Because Dad told me to!” Leo shouted, tears spilling over his cheeks. “He texted me from the alley when Rossi’s men were dragging him away! He said if the restaurant burned with you in it, the deed defaults to me as the male heir! He needs me to sell the land to pay off Rossi so Rossi will let him live!”
I closed my eyes. The absolute depravity of my husband knew no bounds. Matteo had ordered our son to murder us to save his own miserable life.
“Leo, listen to me,” Clara pleaded, taking a slow step toward him. “Dad is a monster. He murdered Grandpa Pietro. He burned him alive in the old restaurant just like you tried to do to us.”
Leo flinched, the gun trembling violently.
“That’s a lie!” Leo shouted. “Dad said Grandpa died of a heart attack before the fire started!”
Open two. If Matteo told Leo about the heart attack… it meant Leo already knew Matteo was involved in the 1993 fire.
“You knew,” I breathed, staring at my son. “You knew Matteo burned the old restaurant?”
Leo swallowed hard, his face pale.
“Dad told me on my eighteenth birthday,” Leo confessed, his voice dropping to a shameful whisper. “He said he did it for us. To get the insurance money so we wouldn’t grow up poor. He said it was the burden of men to do terrible things for their families.”
“He didn’t do it for us, Leo,” I said, stepping forward, ignoring the gun pointed at my heart. “He did it for power. And now he’s using you to clean up his mess. If you pull that trigger, you aren’t protecting the family. You’re just becoming the monster he raised you to be.”
“I have to, Mom!” Leo cried, raising the gun higher. “You don’t understand! It’s not just Dad! I owe money too! The construction firm Dad gave me… I lost millions on bad bets. The Russians hold my markers. If I don’t sell this land, they’re going to kill my wife! They’ll kill Sarah!”
My breath caught. Sarah. My sweet daughter-in-law, who was six months pregnant with my first grandchild.
Matteo hadn’t just ruined my life. He had infected my son, dragging him into the same cycle of debt, lies, and mafia blood money.
“Leo,” I said softly, my voice filled with a mother’s unbreakable calm. “Put the gun down.”
“I can’t!”
“Yes, you can,” I said, walking steadily toward the barrel of the weapon. “Because I am your mother. And I have spent thirty-one years cleaning up your father’s messes. I will fix this one too.”
“How?” Leo sobbed. “Dad is gone. The restaurant is burning. The land won’t cover my debts and Dad’s!”
“I still have the first ledger,” Clara shouted from behind me. “The one that proves Rossi’s capos have been stealing from him! We can trade it to Rossi for Sarah’s safety!”
Leo hesitated. The gun wavered.
I didn’t stop walking. I reached out and gently placed my hand over the hot metal barrel of the gun.
“Give it to me, mio bambino,” I whispered, using the Italian pet name I hadn’t called him since he was ten years old.
Leo stared into my eyes. The terrified little boy inside the thirty-year-old man finally broke.
He dropped the gun into my hand and collapsed onto the gravel roof, burying his face in his hands, weeping uncontrollably.
I dropped the gun and fell to my knees, wrapping my arms around my broken son. Clara rushed over, wrapping her arms around both of us.
We sat there on the roof, huddled together in the freezing wind, as the restaurant burned beneath us.
Sirens wailed down below. Firetrucks roared onto the street, spraying massive arcs of water onto the flames.
But as the smoke began to clear on the rooftop, I saw something glowing faintly near the edge of the roofline.
I pulled away from Leo and crawled toward the edge.
Resting on the gravel, half-covered in soot, was a heavy, antique gold pocket watch.
The glass was shattered. The hands were frozen at 2:14.
I frowned, picking it up.
I had thrown this watch at Thomas’s face inside the restaurant. It should be melting in the fire down below.
How did it get on the roof?
I turned the watch over.
Scratched into the gold casing on the back, freshly carved by a sharp knife, were three words:
May you like
Check the basement.
TITLE: The Door in the Dark
