Chapter 5 - THE WOMAN IN THE OLD PHOTOGRAPH
-5
The first true break in the Matteo mystery came from someone Vittorio had never heard of.
Her name was Elaine Mercer.
Seventy-one years old.
Retired nurse.
Living outside Hartford, Connecticut.
Marco found her through an address written on the back of a photograph hidden inside Unit 314.
The picture showed Matteo standing beside a young woman near a diner.
On the back, in Matteo’s handwriting:
Elaine knows everything.
Do not let Bernadette find her.
Marco called Vittorio from the car.
“I spoke to her.”
“And?”
“She hung up when I said your last name.”
“Call again.”
“I did.”
“And?”
“She asked whether Bernadette was dead.”
Vittorio stared at the skyline outside Luca’s hospital room.
“What did you tell her?”
“The truth.”
“That she’s alive.”
“Yes.”
“What did Elaine say?”
“She said then she has nothing to tell us.”
“Go see her.”
“I’m already on the way.”
Vittorio wanted to go himself.
But Luca’s doctors were preparing to discharge him.
The boy needed his father more than Matteo needed a brother who had already been absent twenty-eight years.
By late afternoon, Luca was cleared to leave.
Vittorio did not take him back to the estate.
Instead, they went to a secure apartment Vittorio kept in Manhattan.
Only four people knew it existed.
Marco.
Vittorio’s attorney.
A longtime housekeeper named Rosa.
And Sofia.
Luca walked slowly through the living room.
“Are we hiding?”
“For a little while.”
“From Grandma?”
Vittorio crouched.
“From anyone who might try to bother us.”
“Is Grandma bad?”
The question was inevitable.
Vittorio hated it.
“She did something that hurt you.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Does she hate me?”
“No child should have to wonder whether his grandmother hates him.
Vittorio put both hands on Luca’s shoulders.
“Whatever Grandma did, it was because something is wrong with her choices. Not because something is wrong with you.”
Luca nodded but looked unconvinced.
That evening, Marco finally called.
His voice was subdued.
“I’m with Elaine.”
“She agreed to talk?”
“After I showed her Enzo’s letter.”
Vittorio walked into the study and closed the door.
“Put her on.”
A woman’s voice came through.
“Vittorio?”
“Yes.”
“You sound like him.”
“Matteo?”
A pause.
“Yes.”
Vittorio sat down.
“You knew my brother.”
“I loved him.”
The sentence carried twenty-eight years of grief.
“Were you together?”
“We were going to marry.”
Vittorio closed his eyes.
No one had ever told him.
“Why didn’t I know?”
“Because your mother hated me.”
“Why?”
“I wasn’t from your world.”
“That never stopped Matteo.”
“No. It stopped Bernadette.”
Elaine inhaled shakily.
“Matteo found records in your father’s office. At first he thought they were business payments. Then he noticed certain names matched people who had fallen ill.”
“The ledger.”
“Yes.”
“Did you see it?”
“Once.”
“What was inside?”
“Dates. Initials. Notes. Amounts. Things I didn’t understand at the time.”
“Medical substances?”
“I was a young nurse. Some names looked familiar.”
Vittorio’s stomach tightened.
“Did Matteo accuse Bernadette?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“She threatened him.”
“How?”
“She told him the family could survive without one rebellious son.”
Vittorio thought of Luca.
Bad sons disappear.
“What happened the night he vanished?”
Elaine went quiet.
“Elaine.”
“He came to my apartment bleeding.”
Vittorio stood abruptly.
“He was alive?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“The night everyone says he disappeared.”
“Where was he hurt?”
“His shoulder. His head.”
“How?”
“He said Dominic Vale attacked him.”
Vittorio’s mind jumped instantly to Celeste’s father.
“Why?”
“Matteo went to Dominic with copies of the ledger.”
“He trusted him.”
“He was his godfather.”
“What did Dominic do?”
“He told Bernadette.”
Vittorio cursed under his breath.
“Then?”
“Matteo tried to leave with evidence. Dominic stopped him. They fought.”
“Did Matteo kill him?”
“No.”
“Dominic lived another sixteen years.”
“I know.”
“What happened next?”
“Matteo escaped.”
Vittorio’s heart pounded.
“Where did he go?”
Elaine began crying quietly.
“I helped him.”
“Where?”
“Canada first.”
“Then?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s not good enough.”
Marco interrupted.
“Vittorio.”
“No. My brother may have been alive all these years.”
Elaine steadied herself.
“He believed Bernadette would hurt you if he returned.”
“Why me?”
“Because you were seventeen. You still lived at home. You adored your mother.”
Vittorio looked away.
“He thought disappearing was the only way to keep you safe.”
“So he abandoned me.”
“No.”
Elaine’s voice sharpened.
“He saved you.”
The words hurt more than anger would have.
“Did you stay in contact?”
“For a while.”
“How long?”
“Four years.”
“Then what?”
“He stopped writing.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“Was he alive?”
“The last letter came from Arizona.”
“Do you still have it?”
“Yes.”
“Read it.”
Elaine unfolded paper.
Her voice trembled.
Elaine,
I finally understand what Bernadette was protecting.
It was never just money.
The ledger is only one piece.
Dominic helped her create medical histories for people who stood between them and control.
Some were made sick.
Some were discredited.
Some signed documents they barely understood.
Dad knows more than he admits.
I’m sending proof to three places.
If anything happens to me, one copy should survive.
Do not contact Vittorio.
If she realizes I’m still alive, she’ll use him to reach me.
I’m sorry.
M.
Vittorio whispered, “Three copies.”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“He never told me.”
“Anything in the letter?”
“No.”
“Did he mention Sofia?”
“Sofia?”
“My wife.”
“I never knew your wife.”
Vittorio frowned.
Then why had Sofia become involved years later?
Maybe Enzo had found one of Matteo’s copies.
Maybe Sofia had stumbled into the same truth.
“Elaine, I need the original letters.”
“I won’t give them to Bernadette.”
“She doesn’t control this anymore.”
“You don’t know your mother.”
Vittorio looked through the glass door toward Luca.
“No.”
He spoke quietly.
“I’m beginning to.”
Elaine agreed to give everything to Detective Ellis.
Before hanging up, she said one last thing.
“Vittorio?”
“Yes?”
“Matteo loved you.”
Vittorio could not answer.
“He talked about you constantly. He wanted to take you with him.”
“Why didn’t he?”
“Because you refused.”
Vittorio froze.
“I never saw him.”
“You did.”
“No.”
“According to Matteo, he came to your school.”
A memory surfaced.
Rain.
A dark car.
Vittorio, seventeen, leaving basketball practice.
A figure across the street.
Matteo.
Vittorio remembered anger exploding inside him.
The family had already accused Matteo of stealing.
Bernadette had spent two days crying.
Vittorio had believed every word.
He had shouted across the street.
Thief.
Coward.
Don’t ever come near us again.
Matteo had stood there silently.
Then returned to the car.
Vittorio covered his mouth.
He had forgotten.
Or chosen not to remember.
“He came,” Vittorio whispered.
“Yes.”
“And I sent him away.”
“You were seventeen.”
Vittorio closed his eyes.
“That doesn’t change what happened.”
After the call, he remained alone for a long time.
Then Luca entered.
“Dad?”
Vittorio wiped his eyes before turning.
“What are you doing awake?”
“I heard you talking.”
“You should rest.”
“Were you crying?”
Vittorio almost denied it.
Then stopped.
“Yes.”
“Because of Uncle Matteo?”
“Yes.”
Luca climbed onto the chair beside him.
“Is he dead?”
“I don’t know.”
“Can we find him?”
Vittorio looked at his son.
“I’m going to try.”
Luca leaned against him.
“Mom used to say lost people leave clues.”
Vittorio’s chest tightened.
“When did she say that?”
“When we did treasure hunts.”
“Of course.”
Luca smiled faintly.
Then frowned.
“Dad?”
“Yes?”
“I remember something.”
“What?”
“The blue box.”
Vittorio leaned closer.
“There was a number on one paper.”
“What number?”
“I thought it was a phone number.”
“Do you remember it?”
“Not all.”
“Try.”
Luca closed his eyes.
“Three-seven…”
He frowned.
“Seven-two-one…”
Then shook his head.
“I don’t know.”
“That’s okay.”
“No. Wait.”
His eyes opened.
“There was a word too.”
“What word?”
“Phoenix.”
Vittorio immediately thought of Arizona.
Matteo’s last letter had come from Arizona.
Phoenix.
Maybe Luca had not seen a phone number.
Maybe he had seen an address.
Or a safe deposit reference.
Vittorio called Marco.
“Get everything connected to Matteo in Phoenix.”
“I already started.”
“Search 3721.”
“Address?”
“Maybe.”
“And if it isn’t?”
“Search everything.”
An hour later, Marco called back.
“3721 East Clarendon Avenue.”
“What’s there?”
“Small apartment building.”
“Current tenant?”
“Unit four is registered to a man named Matthew Cole.”
Vittorio stood.
Matthew.
Matteo.
“Age?”
“Fifty-two.”
Matteo would be fifty-two.
“Photograph?”
“Driver’s license database.”
“And?”
May you like
Marco’s next words changed twenty-eight years of history.
“It’s him.”
