Chapter 4 - Twelve Names
The blank death certificate was not official.
It was a threat.
Or a prediction.
With the Moretti family, sometimes the difference was merely timing.
The date was June 14.
Six months away.
Alessandro stared at it for a long time.
Then he folded it.
Carefully.
That scared me more than rage.
“What happened on June fourteenth?”
I asked.
His expression changed.
“My father died June fourteenth.”
“How many years ago?”
“Eighteen.”
I understood.
Someone had chosen symbolism.
“Anniversary.”
“Yes.”
“Why kill you on your father’s death date?”
“Message.”
Marco answered.
“To whom?”
I asked.
“The family.”
Alessandro looked at the twelve envelopes again.
“My mother knew there was a faction.”
“Faction?”
“People inside the organization who believed my father chose the wrong successor.”
“You.”
“Yes.”
“You were twenty.”
“Twenty-one.”
“And someone wanted Caterina?”
“Not Caterina.”
He looked at Bianca’s envelope.
“Bianca.”
I stared.
“Your grandfather would have chosen a woman?”
“My grandfather would have chosen a shark if it made money.”
Fair.
Alessandro explained.
Isabella controlled thirty-one percent of Moretti Maritime after her husband’s death.
Alessandro controlled twenty-eight.
Several trusts held the rest.
Together, mother and son dominated the company.
But if Isabella died before restructuring her voting shares, a portion passed through an old family trust.
Administered by Caterina.
That had happened.
I suddenly understood.
“Isabella’s death gave Caterina influence.”
“Yes.”
“And your death?”
“Would trigger another transfer.”
“To Bianca.”
Silence.
“This isn’t only organized crime.”
I said.
“It’s corporate succession.”
Marco nodded.
“Money always makes murder less romantic.”
I looked at him.
“Was that a joke?”
“No.”
It was hard to tell with Marco.
The ledgers from the storage unit documented years of payments.
Shell companies.
Consulting fees.
Cash distributions.
Political donations.
Dock contracts.
Nothing I could fully interpret.
Investigators could.
One set of payments led to a company called Nera Holdings.
The beneficial owner was hidden.
Another led to a trust in Luxembourg.
Another to a security consultancy formerly run by Vittorio Rinaldi.
Dead consigliere.
The conspiracy seemed to include the dead as conveniently as the living.
Then came the photographs.
Isabella had documented meetings.
Caterina with port executives.
Bianca with Vittorio.
Dr. Santoro entering a private clinic.
Marco meeting a man outside a church.
That one caused silence.
Alessandro looked at him.
“Explain.”
Marco studied the image.
“That is my brother.”
“I thought your brother died.”
“He did.”
“When?”
“Two months after this photograph.”
“Who was he?”
“Antonio Rossi.”
I knew the name.
Marco rarely spoke about family.
“Why was your brother meeting you secretly?”
“He believed someone inside your father’s old crew was planning to move against you.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I did.”
“No.”
“I told Vittorio.”
The same dead consigliere.
A pattern.
Information traveled toward Vittorio and disappeared.
“What happened to Antonio?”
“Warehouse fire.”
“Accident?”
Marco looked at the photographs.
“At the time.”
Not anymore.
I felt suddenly exhausted.
Every answer created two new graves.
Alessandro noticed.
“Enough.”
“I’m fine.”
“You nearly died.”
“So did everyone in this family apparently.”
His expression almost softened.
“Rest.”
“I hate when you say that.”
“I know.”
Doctors eventually discharged me under strict instructions.
No stress.
An absurd recommendation.
Alessandro wanted me at his penthouse.
I refused.
“You’re a target.”
“So are you.”
“Exactly.”
“You think putting two targets in one apartment is safer?”
“It is if the apartment is mine.”
“That sentence summarizes our relationship problem.”
Marco looked away.
Probably to hide amusement.
We compromised.
A secure property owned through one of Alessandro’s legitimate holding companies.
Not his penthouse.
Not my apartment.
Emma and Noah remained under child-protection supervision while Lucia recovered.
Alessandro paid for everything.
Quietly.
No photographers.
No publicity.
That mattered.
Within forty-eight hours, police searched Bianca’s atelier.
They found wigs.
Shoes.
Cosmetics.
Costumes.
Hundreds of pieces.
Almost useless.
Then a forensic technician found a photograph on an employee’s phone.
Taken the afternoon of our anniversary.
Bianca standing beside a dress form.
Behind her, hanging on a rack, was a black wool coat.
Mine.
Or an exact duplicate.
A red heel sat on the floor.
And on Bianca’s wrist was a small black tattoo.
Funeral lily.
Emma had been right.
Police issued a warrant.
Bianca remained missing.
Caterina gave an interview through attorneys.
She denied everything.
She claimed the coffin order had been a misunderstanding.
She claimed Isabella’s succession concerns were fictional.
She claimed Bianca had gone to Europe for work.
Then she did something strange.
She invited me to tea.
Alessandro said no.
I said yes.
“No.”
He repeated.
“I heard you.”
“You were poisoned four days ago.”
“Five.”
“You are not meeting Caterina.”
“She asked for me.”
“That is exactly why you aren’t meeting her.”
I looked at him.
“Do you want to know why?”
“Yes.”
“Then I go.”
“You are not bait.”
“I am not asking to be bait.”
“You’re asking to sit across from a woman who may have killed my mother.”
“Surrounded by police.”
“No.”
“Recorded.”
“No.”
“Public location.”
“Elena.”
I folded my arms.
He looked toward Marco.
“Do not.”
Marco raised both hands.
“I said nothing.”
I softened.
“Alessandro.”
His eyes met mine.
“She wants something.”
“I know.”
“She could have contacted you.”
“I know.”
“She chose me.”
“I know.”
“Let me find out why.”
His jaw worked.
Finally:
“Ten minutes.”
“Twenty.”
“Twelve.”
“Fifteen.”
“Fine.”
That was how I ended up sitting across from Caterina Moretti in the Palm Court of an old Manhattan hotel while six law-enforcement officers and four Moretti security men pretended not to watch.
Caterina wore gray.
No jewelry.
No visible tattoo.
She poured tea.
“You look well for a dead woman.”
I smiled.
“You look relaxed for someone whose daughter is wanted by police.”
She smiled back.
“I knew I liked you.”
“You once told Alessandro I was socially ambitious.”
“I was wrong.”
“About which part?”
“Socially.”
I almost laughed.
Then she became serious.
“My daughter did not poison you.”
“Did she poison Alessandro?”
“No.”
“Did she impersonate me?”
Caterina lifted her cup.
“She is a costume designer.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“It is the only one you will receive.”
“Why did you ask for me?”
Caterina placed the cup down.
“Because Alessandro will never understand his mother.”
“And I will?”
“You understand what it means to love him without belonging to his world.”
My pulse shifted.
“What did Isabella understand?”
“That the Moretti organization was dying.”
“Financially?”
“Morally.”
I almost smiled at a Moretti criticizing morality.
Caterina noticed.
“Do not confuse me with my nephew.”
“Which nephew?”
“Alessandro.”
Interesting.
“What do you want?”
“For him to walk away.”
“From what?”
“Everything.”
“Why?”
“Because if he doesn’t, June fourteenth will become accurate.”
The death certificate.
“You sent the envelope.”
She smiled.
“No.”
“Who did?”
“Isabella.”
My body went still.
“She’s dead.”
“Yes.”
“Three years.”
“Yes.”
“Then explain.”
Caterina leaned closer.
“Your fiancé’s mother knew she was dying.”
“Because you poisoned her?”
“No.”
“Because someone else did?”
Caterina’s expression changed.
For the first time, genuine fear appeared.
“You are looking at the wrong daughter.”
I frowned.
“You only have Bianca.”
Caterina shook her head.
“No.”
May you like
Then she whispered:
“Isabella did.”
