Chapter 12 Isabella #2
“Like he was surprised. Like they all were.” Vincenzo looks directly at me. “Women and children aren’t targets. Not in La Corona.”
“What about a black Cadillac?”
Vincenzo shakes his head. “I don’t know anything about a black Caddy. It’s not something Don Calabresi would drive.” Vincenzo leans forward as if he’s going to tell me a secret. “He’s a bit of a car snob. I always had to arrange for an Audi or Beemer for him.”
Roman smirks at me with an “I told you so” expression.
I ignore him. “If you scheduled the drivers, then you set up my mom’s, right?”
“I did. Tony Carlotta. Good kid, rest his soul.”
“He’s dead too?” Roman asks.
Vincenzo nods. “Drug overdose a week or so later.”
Roman’s brow furrows. Something exchanges between him and Vincenzo.
“What?” I ask.
Roman shakes his head. “Just a waste of a life. Before he passed, did he say anything to you?”
Vincenzo looks at me and shrugs. “Not really.”
I scan my brain for any memory of reading the name Tony Carlotta in the reports Agent Blackwood gave me, but I don’t recall.
Isn’t that something the FBI would have noted?
And isn’t it odd that he’d be dead not long after my mom’s murder?
“Where was my mom going?” I ask.
Vincenzo glances at Roman again as if he’s looking for permission to speak. “There was talk…” He hesitates.
“What talk?” I press, starting to feel irked. Roman brought me here for answers, but I feel like both men are hiding something from me.
Vincenzo shifts uncomfortably in his chair, his eyes darting to Roman and back to me. "Your mother was seen meeting someone a few times in the weeks before she died."
"Meeting someone?" What does that mean? "Who?"
"A man. Not from any of the families." Vincenzo's weathered hands fidget in his lap. "I drove her once to this café downtown. Small place, not fancy. She asked me to wait around the corner. When I picked her up an hour later, she seemed… agitated."
My mind races. My mother meeting a stranger in secret? It doesn't fit with the woman I remember, devoted to my father, always proper, always careful.
"Why would she meet this man?" I ask, my mouth suddenly dry. It reminds me of the day I learned who my father was… what my father was.
Vincenzo shrugs. "Some thought maybe an affair, but…"
“No.” I don’t believe that. “My mother would never—”
"Others said maybe an informant. FBI or police." Vincenzo looks apologetic as he says it. "Nothing certain, just whispers."
My mother talking to law enforcement?
The idea seems absurd. She was born into this world, understood its rules better than anyone.
Then again, so was I and I wanted out. Did she want out too? "Did my father know about these meetings?"
"If he did, he never said, but I’m just a driver." Vincenzo's eyes grow sad. "After she died, no one talked about it. It was like everyone wanted to forget."
I sit back, trying to process this new information.
My mother, meeting a mysterious man in secret.
Rumors of an affair.
Or an informant? But why?
What could have driven her to take such a risk?
“That was around the time with all that hoopla with Ernie Abr—”
“That was separate.” Roman’s expression hardens.
“Who is Ernie?” I ask.
He shakes his head slightly. “No one. Just a fucking hassle. Not related to this.”
But I don’t believe him. He’s holding something back. He knows something that he doesn’t want me to know.
“Roman,” I press, but Vincenzo interrupts.
“There was one other thing. Your mother had a notebook. Red leather. She always carried it with her.”
My breath catches. “I remember that notebook. My father said it was lost when she died.”
“No,” Vincenzo says firmly. “The police collected it from the scene. Your father asked about it afterward.”
“Did Blackwood show you that?” Roman asks with an edge to his tone. Like he’s wanting to point out that I haven’t been given all the information.
“No,” I admit. “Maybe it’s not important. Maybe he doesn’t have it if the police have it.”
“Thank you, Vincenzo,” Roman says, standing abruptly. “We should go.”
“Of course. Give Angelica a hug from Uncle Vinny, would you? I miss singing songs with her.”
Roman laughs. “I will. Thank you again.”
I slump back against the leather seat as Roman pulls away from Vincenzo's house, disappointment settling heavily in my chest.
All that anticipation, all that hope—for what?
A vague story about my mother being “agitated” and some missing notebook the police supposedly took.
“That was a waste of time,” I mutter.
Roman glances at me. “You don't think what he said was useful?”
“Useful?” I turn to face him. “He didn't tell us anything concrete. Just rumors and secondhand observations. My mother was meeting a strange man. She was agitated. She had a notebook. None of that tells us who killed her.”
“Sometimes the pieces don't make sense until you have more of them,” Roman says, his voice maddeningly calm.
I cross my arms. “I've been collecting 'pieces' for a year, Roman. I'm tired of cryptic half-answers and maybes.”
The truth is, I'd been hoping for something definitive, a name, a motive, something I could grab onto.
Instead, I got more questions.
Who was my mother meeting that day? Why would a notebook matter? And why did Roman suddenly look like he'd seen a ghost when Vincenzo mentioned Ernie?
I glance at Roman, who is pensive as he drives. I can't shake the feeling that he’s connecting dots I can't see.
“What aren't you telling me?” I ask directly.
His eyes remain fixed on the road. “Nothing.”
“You know something.”
Roman's jaw tightens. “I know lots of things, but not about this.”
He’s lying, and it’s surprising how much that hurts.
We drive in silence over the bridge into Manhattan, a familiar sense of helplessness creeping back in.
For a brief moment, I'd allowed myself to believe that with Roman's help, I might finally get answers. Now I'm not so sure.
“What did you expect to learn today?” Roman finally asks.
“The truth,” I say simply. “Who killed my mother and why.”
“You’re not worried that the truth might be something you don’t want to know?”
Anger seethes in my belly. “You think my mother was having an affair? Or betraying the family?”
Roman laughs, and I want to hit him. “You betrayed the family.” He glances at me. “I wonder, dear wife, if maybe you’re not finishing something your mother started.”
I gape at him. “You really think that?”
He shrugs. “I’m not the only one with secrets here.” He gives me a pointed look. “Am I?”
I whip my head away to look out the passenger side window, irritated and a little worried. Does he know about the new phone?
“Don’t worry. I’m committed more than ever to find out what happened to your mother.”
It sounds like a threat. “What do you think you’ll find out?” I ask, although I’m not sure I want to know.
“The truth.”
I swallow. “And what will you do with the truth?”
“What I always do. Whatever it takes to protect the family.”
I know without a doubt that he’ll do just that, even if it means having to kill me.