Chapter Six – Vieri
The soft chime from my phone cuts through the quiet. I reach for it without urgency. The message is brief.
Bugatti: Downstairs.
I slip on my coat, smoothing the collar absently as I make my way down the corridor. My footsteps echo faintly through the marble hall, past the closed doors and quiet portraits. The mansion always feels colder at night.
Outside, the gate sensors click softly as I approach. I step into the night air, sharp and clean.
Bugatti stands just beyond the gate, next to his car—engine running, headlights dimmed. His shoulders are squared, coat drawn tight, hands buried in his pockets.
I walk toward him.
“Well?” I say.
“We’ve got two leads.”
I stop in front of him. He doesn’t meet my eyes right away.
“First,” he says, “Mother J’s son. The one you had me tracking.”
My brow twitches. “Alive?”
Bugatti shakes his head. “No. We think he’s dead. A body turned up three days ago—found at a café in the suburbs. PD picked it up. Multiple gunshots. They listed it under a false name, but something in the chain of handling flagged it for our guy on the inside.”
I watch him closely. “You’re sure it’s him?”
“Not yet. Coroner logs him in as unidentified. Body’s in storage. Autopsy’s completed. They’re treating it as gang violence. But everything lines up. Age, height, scars.”
“Any confirmation?”
“We’re working on it. One of our men lifted a brush from Mother J’s estate before it was stripped. DNA’s being compared now. If it’s a match, we’ll have it by morning.”
“And the second lead?”
Bugatti shifts slightly, bracing one hand against the top of the car door. “It’s about Lena and Vasco.”
My gaze snaps back to him. “What about them?”
“We found a trail. Lena had a financial pattern—quiet donations sent through a dummy trust, routed into a Catholic church here in Melbourne.”
“Donations?”
“Regular. Same day every month. Not to the church directly—but to their adoption center.”
I say nothing, but I can feel something curling in the pit of my stomach.
Bugatti pulls a folded printout from his coat pocket and hands it over. “I had our guy dig deeper. Medical records. She gave birth a week before she died. We don’t know much about the child, they made sure to keep it vague. Same day she signs off the papers—child is registered at the church’s center, then disappears into the system.”
I stare at the paper without reading it.
Lena. Vasco. Two of the six closest to Desmond. Loyal, deeply in love. They wanted a family—everyone knew that.
“They didn’t give her up,” I say quietly. “They hid the child.”
Bugatti’s brow creases. “You think they saw what was coming?”
I nod once. “They knew Desmond was planning something. They knew they wouldn’t survive it. So they made sure their child would.”
Bugatti hesitates, then adds, “I’m heading to the adoption center tomorrow. Ask a few questions. See who remembers what.”
I look at him. “I’ll go with you.”
He blinks. “Boss, you don’t have to—”
“I do.”
There’s a flicker in his eyes—surprise, then something closer to worry. “Alright,” he says finally, nodding. “We leave early.”
I step back from the gate and watch him return to the driver’s side. He opens the door, pauses for a second, then climbs in and drives off without another word.
The gates shut behind him.
****
The house is still wrapped in quiet when I slip out of my room—quiet enough that I can hear the faint clink of the wind against the windowpanes and the ticking of the antique clock at the end of the hall.
I move lightly, coat draped over one arm, shoes in hand until I reach the landing. I skip the fourth step out of habit—it creaks too much. I don’t need my brothers asking where I’m going, especially not Enzo.
By the time I reach the side entrance, I have my coat on and my collar adjusted. The door shuts behind me with barely a click.
Bugatti is already waiting by the gate, leaning against the black SUV, cigarette burning low between his fingers. He straightens when he sees me, flicks the butt to the ground, and opens the door without a word.
I get in, and we pull off the estate before the house has even begun to stir.
We leave the polished streets of our district behind quickly—glass facades giving way to cracked sidewalks and peeling paint. Old Melbourne.
The church sits on a sloped corner—Santissima Trinità, modest but proud, with crumbling stone archways and a rusted bell that hasn’t rung in years. Ivy chokes the southern wall. Statues of saints line the walk, their marble faces worn smooth by time and weather.
We step out and immediately stand out like sin in a confessional. Black coats. Sharp shoes. The way we move—calculated, silent, clean in a place that carries dust under its fingernails.
Bugatti’s steps are slow as we approach the entrance. A young man in a grey cassock stands near the doorway, startled when we come into view.
“We’re here to speak to the one in charge,” Bugatti says flatly.
The boy’s eyes flick between us, then he nods stiffly. “I’ll ask Father Romani if he will see you.”
He leads us through the narrow halls—stone floors, wood-paneled walls, faint scent of old incense and oil.
A few parishioners turn to look. One woman clutches her handbag tighter. A man pauses halfway through lighting a candle and simply watches us with narrowed eyes.
The boy stops outside a tall wooden door and knocks once. He opens it and enters, and there are whispers, then he comes out again and ushers us in.
Father Romani stands by his desk, rosary beads in hand, fingers slowly moving over each one. He has white-streaked hair, hollowed cheeks, sharp eyes behind thin-rimmed glasses. He doesn’t smile when we enter.
“I’m told you asked for me,” he says.
Bugatti steps forward. “We’re looking into an old matter from twenty years ago. Two people who were connected to this parish—Lena Vescari and Vasco Brunetti.”
Romani’s expression barely changes. “I don’t remember them. But then again, so many good people have passed through these walls.”
Bugatti nods. “They made generous donations to your adoption center years ago. We have reason to believe they left a child in your care.”
“I wouldn’t know anything about that,” the priest replies.
Bugatti tries again. “You oversee the center. You sign off on transfers, adoptions, intakes. Are you saying you never saw a file under their names?”
“I oversee many things,” he says coolly. “But not every child is mine to account for.”
I’ve already begun pacing the room, scanning everything—the heavy wooden crucifix on the wall, the polished chalice on a shelf, a glass-encased relic near the window—a small sliver of bone labeled San Battista. A cracked leather Bible sits open on the desk beside an old silver incense holder and a carved figurine of Saint Michael trampling a demon underfoot.
Nothing here is out of place. That’s what makes it unsettling.
Bugatti is getting nowhere. Romani’s posture stays firm—shoulders square, hands clasped behind his back. But the way he doesn’t quite meet our eyes tells me more than anything he says.
I stop walking.
“I know you, Father.”
His gaze snaps to me.
“You knew my father. You remember what happened with the church accounts, don’t you?”
Something flickers in his face.
“You remember when six Vatican auditors came knocking on your door,” I continue. “When your books were bleeding, and the diocesan council nearly buried you.”
Father Romani’s hands tighten slightly around his rosary. “That matter was resolved.”
“Mm,” I murmur. “You were nearly excommunicated. Church funds used for laundering—six accounts traced back to this parish. You were one tribunal hearing away from disgrace. But the Tavano name cleared your ledger. You’re here because we let you be.” I step closer. “So don’t insult me with vague answers. You know exactly who Lena and Vasco were. They had millions pumped into this damn place. You know about the child.”
He is still now. The rosary in his hand slides through his fingers, bead by bead.
Then—he begins muttering prayers under his breath, soft.
“Lena… she begged us,” he says finally. “She and Vasco came together. Said if anyone from the old circle ever came asking, I was to say nothing. For twenty years, I have kept my word.”
“Why?” I ask.
“They feared what would follow. But they gave so much. They gave everything to the Lord.”
“Where is the child?”
“In safe hands.”
I don’t move.
“That wasn’t an answer.”
His shoulders tense. “I can’t—”
“You will.”
“I made a promise.”
“You made a deal with my father once,” I say quietly. “You know what happens when those promises are broken.”
The priest’s breath catches. His lips begin moving again, faster now. “Blessed Mother, forgive me. Blessed Saint Anthony, hide my weakness, protect me…” He clutches the crucifix on his chest, then straightens—jaw clenched, eyes clouded with dread. “Follow me.”
He turns and opens the side door of his office, gesturing stiffly for us to follow.
Bugatti meets my eyes briefly, then falls in behind him.
I follow last, pulling the door shut behind me.
The hallway beyond is narrow and dim—faded plaster walls, worn flooring beneath our steps. The air feels heavier here. Like something old has been waiting.
We exit through a private entrance at the rear of the church.
A small silver Fiat is parked in the lot. Romani moves toward the driver’s side, fishing for keys in the folds of his cassock.
Bugatti opens the backseat door without pause.
“I’ll drive,” he says flatly.
The priest hesitates, eyes darting toward him.
I step forward. “You’ll ride with me in the back, Father.”
Romani freezes for a second, then silently hands Bugatti the keys.
We climb in—Bugatti behind the wheel, me in the backseat beside the priest. As the engine shifts into gear, the priest clutches his rosary and begins muttering under his breath.
“Padre misericordioso… deliver us from temptation… Dio mio, don’t let me be swallowed by darkness…”
His voice trembles, switching back and forth between English and Italian, like he’s not sure which language Heaven will hear first.
“Santa Maria, proteggi questo cuore… Holy Mother, shield this heart…”
Bugatti glances once in the rearview mirror, but says nothing.
Romani gives directions in hushed tones, guiding us through twisting side streets and quiet intersections—each turn more obscure than the last.
I don’t ask where we’re going. I watch him instead. His knuckles have gone white around the rosary. His prayers never stop.
“Abbi pietà di me, Signore… Have mercy on me, Lord…”
Eventually, the buildings grow smaller, the roads narrower. We turn into a modest street lined with flowering hedges and weathered shops.
Romani raises a hand. “Here.”
Bugatti slows the car and pulls up in front of a little café tucked between a laundromat and a smaller shop. A faded wooden sign above the door reads: Fiore del Mattino – Morning Flower.
We step out.
A small bell jingles above the door as we enter.
The smell of warm pastries and roasted espresso drifts around us.
A few tables sit empty. Doilies line the windowsills. The walls are decorated with pressed flower frames and old photos. It’s the kind of place people come for comfort.
Behind the counter, an older woman is pouring tea into a delicate ceramic cup. She looks up as the bell chimes.
Her eyes light up at the sight of Romani. “Padre!”
Her voice is warm, affectionate. She wipes her hands quickly on her apron and comes around the counter, arms half-reaching as if to embrace him.
But then she sees us.
Bugatti stands near the door, arms folded across his chest. I remain beside the priest, coat still on, posture still.
Her smile falters.
Romani doesn’t return her warmth. His face is pale. Heavy.
He lowers his voice.
“Carmela… è giunta l’ora. The time has come. Darkness has come.”
Her expression changes slowly—from welcome, to confusion, to dread.
She looks at me. Then Bugatti.
Her hands fall to her sides.
No one speaks.
But the room is no longer warm.
****
Carmela’s droopy eyes settle on us with hate burning in them. We’re seated at her carefully polished coffee table in the now empty café.
Father Romani shifts beside me, adjusting the rosary at his chest, hands trembling slightly as he explains how the old woman in front of us is connected to the child we’ve been searching for.
“They chose her,” the priest continues, turning slightly to glance at me. “Lena Vescari and Vasco Brunetti. They came to me when the walls started closing in.”
I watch Carmela closely.
“Lena didn’t trust institutions,” Romani goes on. “She wanted a soul to protect what she couldn’t. Carmela was fifty then. She had just found her footing in the faith, and they saw strength in her.”
“And when Lena and Vasco died?” I ask.
“The child was given to her,” Romani says. “The adoption records made it official. The child belongs to her—legally and spiritually.”
I turn to Carmela, nodding slowly. “Then thank you—for keeping the child safe.”
Her arms fold across her chest. “You’re not welcome.”
“I’m not here to argue. I just want the child.”
She laughs, bitter and low.
“That child,” she says, “is safe. A child filled with the spirit of God. A soul that has no place among men like you.”
Bugatti pulls an envelope from his coat pocket—crisp, thick, heavy with cash. He places it gently on the table between us.
“We can make it worth your while.”
Carmela’s expression darkens.
“You think this is about money?” she spits. “You think I’m scared of you or your offers?” She leans forward now, voice rising. “You think I don’t know what you’re trying to do? You want to blackmail me? Pressure me? My life is an open book, Signore. You want dirt? Here it is.”
She jabs her finger into her own chest.
“I was born to addicts. I stole to eat. I slept in alleyways. I did things with men just to get through the day. I’m filth, and I know it. I was forty before I even tasted dignity. Forty before I looked in a mirror and saw someone worth saving. And when I begged God for a second chance, he gave me one.” Her voice cracks. “He gave me that child.”
She points to her heart now, tears in her eyes but no weakness in her spine.
“Twenty years I’ve protected that child. Twenty years I’ve poured everything into raising the child right. You want what’s mine?” Her voice drops cold. “You’ll pry that child out of my cold, dead hands.”
I study her for a moment, impressed in spite of myself.
“I can kill you now,” I say, tone neutral.
She smiles. “I dare you.”
There’s no bluff in her eyes.
Just a soul so used to loss, it doesn’t fear death anymore.
I glance at Bugatti. He exhales slowly, frustrated.
Carmela waves us toward the door, standing up and turning her back to us like we’re nothing more than dust in her café.
“You’ve done enough,” she mutters. “Get out of my café.”
I look around the room again. The small frames on the wall. The delicate lace over the windows.
And then—the doorbell chimes.
The soft jingle cuts through the tension like a knife.
Two girls step in, arms looped together, laughing in that careless, youthful way that doesn’t belong in a world like mine.
The tall one is all sharp limbs and sass—slim, pretty, light on her feet.
But my eyes don’t stay on her.
They land on the other one.
The one with a full figure wrapped in soft fabric—a deep burgundy cardigan hugging round hips and a chest that pulls at the buttons, a calf-length floral skirt, curls tied in a loose bun atop her head. She carries light like a flame, just like Lena did.
Her cheeks are flushed from the cold. Her smile slips when she sees us.
Something about her stops me completely.
“Nonna?” she says, her voice gentle, sweet, soaked in innocence. “Is everything okay?”
She rushes toward the old woman, her hands lightly touching Carmela’s arm. The tall girl—the sharper one—watches us with a frown.
Bugatti sighs softly beside me. “This has to be a joke.”
And I chuckle as I stare at the girl holding the old woman. So this is it.
The child Lena and Vasco died protecting. She looks exactly like them. She has her mother’s charm and her father’s eyes. It's been years but I remember their faces clearly.
A girl who now stands with her arms around her grandmother, eyes wide, trying to understand what she’s just walked into.
I stand up from the coffee table and step forward, just a little. “Hello,” I say to the girls and they pull back in fear.
Carmela’s head snaps up.
“Get the fuck out of my café.”
I smile faintly. “I’ll be back.”
And then I turn and walk out, Bugatti behind me.
The doorbell chimes again as we leave.