Chapter 4 - THE BOY WHO KEPT GETTING SICK
-4
By morning, Vittorio had ordered every medical record Luca had accumulated during the previous two years.
There were more than he expected.
Stomach pain.
Unexplained fatigue.
Two fainting episodes.
Three bouts of severe nausea.
A period of strange weakness the previous winter.
Each event had been dismissed as ordinary childhood illness.
Viruses.
Food sensitivity.
Anxiety following the death of his mother.
Vittorio had accepted those explanations because children got sick.
Because doctors knew more than he did.
Because grief did strange things to the body.
Now every page felt like an accusation.
He should have noticed.
He should have connected the dates.
He should have asked why Luca seemed to become ill so often after spending afternoons with Bernadette.
Dr. Patel joined him around eight.
“I reviewed the older records you sent.”
“And?”
“Nothing proves intentional exposure.”
“But?”
“There are patterns I don’t like.”
“What patterns?”
“Several episodes were associated with similar symptoms.”
“The same substance?”
“We can’t know without stored samples.”
“Would the hospital still have them?”
“Possibly from the more recent visits.”
“Get them.”
“I already requested them.”
Vittorio studied her.
“You believe me.”
“I believe your son was exposed yesterday.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
She folded her arms.
“I believe it would be irresponsible to ignore the possibility that yesterday wasn’t the first time.”
Vittorio nodded.
“Thank you.”
She stopped at the door.
“One more thing.”
“What?”
“The level in your blood is very low.”
“I only swallowed once.”
“That explains it.”
“And Luca?”
“Much higher.”
“How much higher?”
“Enough to suggest his glass contained a concentrated amount.”
Vittorio stared at the wall.
“So it wasn’t contamination of the whole pitcher.”
“No.”
“His glass specifically.”
“That is our working assumption.”
A child targeted at his own birthday party.
By his grandmother.
The thought remained impossible, yet the evidence kept repeating it.
At nine, a detective arrived.
Detective Mara Ellis was not impressed by money, reputation, or the number of men standing outside Luca’s room.
She introduced herself, asked Vittorio what happened, and interrupted him twice when he tried to summarize.
“I need details, not conclusions.”
“My mother put something in my son’s glass.”
“You saw her?”
“Security footage.”
“You have the original?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll need it.”
“You’ll get a copy.”
“The original.”
Vittorio looked at her.
“You’ll get forensic access.”
Detective Ellis did not blink.
“Mr. DeLuca, I understand you have private security and expensive attorneys.”
“This has nothing to do with attorneys.”
“It always does once a wealthy family realizes police are asking uncomfortable questions.”
“My son was poisoned.”
“Then help me prove it.”
Vittorio respected her immediately.
By ten-thirty, police had arrived at the estate.
Bernadette demanded to speak with Vittorio first.
He refused.
She asked for Luca.
He refused.
She asked whether Vittorio had “lost his mind.”
He sent no response.
Shortly before noon, the police removed Bernadette from the house for questioning.
She was not yet formally charged.
There was enough evidence to investigate, but the toxicology confirmation was incomplete, and her attorneys arrived within minutes.
As Bernadette walked past reporters gathering beyond the estate gates, her face returned to its familiar calm.
That frightened Vittorio more than her panic had.
She had recovered.
And when Bernadette recovered, she planned.
At the hospital, Luca ate a little soup.
Vittorio sat across from him.
“Dad?”
“Yes?”
“Are you mad at Grandma?”
Vittorio chose his words carefully.
“I’m trying to understand something she did.”
“Will she go to jail?”
“I don’t know.”
Luca looked down.
“Did I get her in trouble?”
“No.”
“But I told you about the tea.”
“You told the truth.”
“She says telling family secrets makes people disappear.”
Vittorio felt a chill.
“What?”
Luca immediately looked nervous.
“Nothing.”
“Luca.”
“She was joking.”
“When did she say that?”
“A long time ago.”
“What secret were you talking about?”
“I asked about Uncle Matteo.”
Vittorio’s entire body went still.
“You know Matteo’s name?”
“I saw it in Grandpa’s old book.”
“What book?”
“The black one in Grandma’s office.”
“Did she know you saw it?”
Luca nodded.
“What happened?”
“She took the book away.”
“What did you ask her?”
“Who Matteo was.”
“And what did she say?”
“That he was bad.”
“Anything else?”
Luca’s voice became very small.
“She said bad sons disappear.”
Vittorio slowly leaned back.
There were sentences adults said carelessly.
Then there were sentences designed to live inside a child’s mind.
“That was not an okay thing for her to tell you.”
“Was he bad?”
“No.”
The answer came before Vittorio had time to think.
He no longer knew what Matteo had done.
But he knew who had controlled the story.
“No,” he repeated. “I don’t think he was.”
At one-thirty, Marco arrived carrying Enzo’s diary.
Vittorio waited until Luca fell asleep.
They moved to a private office.
“I found something,” Marco said.
“About Matteo?”
“Yes.”
He opened the diary.
Enzo’s entry from November 3, twenty-eight years earlier.
Matteo confronted Bernadette again tonight.
He says he has proof.
I told him to stop.
God forgive me, I told my own son to leave this family rather than expose his mother.
He asked if I was afraid of her.
I said no.
He knew I was lying.
The next entry was two days later.
Matteo did not come home.
Bernadette says he took cash from the safe.
I checked.
The cash is gone.
But I do not believe Matteo took it.
I am afraid to ask where my son is.
Another entry.
Police came.
Bernadette told them Matteo was unstable and had threatened to leave.
I repeated her story.
I hate myself.
Then six blank pages.
Finally:
I saw the jacket.
I saw blood.
Bernadette said Matteo attacked someone who defended himself.
She said our son ran.
She said if I asked more questions, Vittorio could be next.
I believed her.
Or perhaps I wanted to.
Vittorio closed the diary.
“What does that mean?”
Marco shook his head.
“We don’t know.”
“Who defended himself?”
“Not named.”
“Could Matteo still have survived?”
“Yes.”
“Find him.”
“We’re trying.”
Vittorio stood.
“I want every police record from that time.”
“Already requested.”
“My father says blood.”
“Yes.”
“The clothes in storage had blood.”
“Yes.”
“Why would Bernadette preserve evidence?”
Marco considered it.
“Leverage.”
“Against who?”
“Whoever actually hurt Matteo.”
That thought changed the shape of the mystery.
Perhaps Bernadette had not killed Matteo.
Perhaps she had helped conceal what someone else had done.
Then used the evidence.
“What companies existed around my father then?”
“Hundreds.”
“Who was closest to the family?”
Marco handed him another file.
“One name keeps appearing.”
Dominic Vale.
Vittorio recognized it immediately.
His father’s former attorney.
Godfather to Matteo.
Dead for twelve years.
“What about him?”
“Matteo visited Vale’s office three days before he disappeared.”
“Why?”
“We don’t know.”
“And afterward?”
“Vale became chief legal counsel for DeLuca Holdings.”
“Promotion?”
“Massive promotion.”
Vittorio’s eyes narrowed.
“After Matteo vanished.”
“Yes.”
A coincidence.
Another one.
The DeLuca family seemed to be built from coincidences that benefited the same people.
Marco continued.
“Vale’s daughter, Celeste, still runs the firm.”
Vittorio knew her.
Everyone knew Celeste Vale.
Elegant.
Brilliant.
Sixty-two.
Bernadette’s closest friend for decades.
Celeste had drafted Vittorio’s marriage agreement.
His father’s estate documents.
Sofia’s will.
And Luca’s trust.
The realization struck hard.
“Get Luca’s trust.”
“I did.”
Marco slid it across the table.
“What am I looking for?”
“Section fourteen.”
Vittorio read.
If Vittorio died or became permanently incapacitated before Luca turned eighteen, control of Luca’s family shares would transfer temporarily to a guardian trustee.
“Who?”
“Keep reading.”
He did.
Bernadette DeLuca.
And if Bernadette could not serve—
Celeste Vale.
Vittorio slowly lowered the document.
“You think this is about money.”
“I think money is one possibility.”
“How much does Luca control?”
“When he turns eighteen? Depending on valuation, billions.”
Vittorio stared at the paper.
“But harming Luca doesn’t give Bernadette his shares.”
“No.”
“Then why make him sick?”
“Maybe she didn’t intend to kill him.”
The words settled between them.
Vittorio thought about Luca’s repeated illnesses.
Small episodes.
Enough to make him weak.
Enough to create medical records.
Enough to make a father appear negligent?
Or unstable?
Or incapable?
Marco voiced the thought.
“What if she was building a history?”
“A history of what?”
“That Luca isn’t safe under your care.”
Vittorio looked sharply at him.
“For custody?”
“Or leverage.”
Vittorio’s phone rang.
Detective Ellis.
“We searched your mother’s handbag.”
“And?”
“We found a small bottle.”
His grip tightened.
“What’s in it?”
“Lab is processing it.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“A key.”
“To what?”
“We don’t know yet.”
Then Ellis added, “There was an engraved number.”
Vittorio waited.
“314.”
The storage unit.
His mother had a key.
She knew it still existed.
And suddenly Vittorio understood why Luca finding the blue box had terrified her.
Bernadette was not merely hiding what she had done yesterday.
May you like
She had been guarding a chain of secrets for twenty-eight years.
And one of them had finally started moving toward the light.
