24. Lorenzo #2
“He thought I refused because I was weak,” I say. “He never understood. I refused because the man in the chair was already dead. Killing him would not bring my mother back, and it would not teach me the thing I needed to learn.”
Victoria finally speaks.
“What did it teach you?”
The question is barely above breath.
I look at the ticket.
Then at the broken blue ceramic.
“Watch the doors.”
She lowers her eyes.
Now she understands why I brought her here.
Not the office, where I conduct business.
Not the lab, where she has value.
Certainly not the corridors, where too much already went wrong between us.
Here.
Where betrayal first left a mark on my life.
I take a slow breath.
“Today, a door opened.”
Her shoulders tighten.
“Maybe it was incompetence,” I say. “Maybe a camera failed and someone was slow to repair it. Maybe a guard spoke where he should not have. Maybe another left a gate vulnerable because he was careless. Houses are run by people, and people make mistakes.”
Victoria’s fingers tighten around the bloodstained napkin.
“But there is another possibility.”
The room seems to grow quieter.
“The camera line goes down. The gate is vulnerable. The right information reaches the right ears. A stranger appears at the right moment and tells you exactly which road is unwatched.”
I hold her gaze.
“At some point, coincidence becomes difficult to believe.”
Colour drains from her face.
“You do not know which it was, Victoria. Neither do I. Not yet.”
A tear slips down her cheek.
I let her have it.
“Maybe the door was left open by careless men,” I say. “Or maybe someone wanted you to walk through it.”
The words settle heavily between us.
“For all you know, you were running from me.”
Her throat works.
“For all I know, someone could have been guiding you to someone worse.”
Francesco’s name does not need to be spoken.
It fills the space anyway.
I stand.
She goes still.
The movement is small, but I see the way her body prepares itself.
Not for running this time.
For impact.
I walk past her chair and stop near the altar. I do not touch her. I do not raise my hand. I look at my mother’s portrait until my pulse settles.
When I turn back, Victoria is still seated, head lowered, bloodied napkin trapped between both hands.
“Did anyone speak to you before you left?”
She looks up a little.
“Before the garden,” I say. “Before the gate. Did anyone tell you where to walk?”
She shakes her head.
“No.”
“Did anyone suggest the greenhouse?”
“No.”
“Did anyone mention the service road?”
Her mouth opens.
Nothing comes out.
I wait.
The clock in the corridor ticks once.
Twice.
“There were guards outside the dining room,” she says.
My attention sharpens.
“I heard them talking.”
“What did they say?”
“They said you had gone to Cicero. That Matteo and Rocco went with you. That half the house was gone.”
Her fingers tighten around the napkin.
“Then someone came by.”
I do not move.
“A man,” she says. “I didn’t know him. He said the service road was blocked and the south camera line was dead until noon.”
Rocco will need five minutes to find the man.
Three if he is already afraid.
“Could you recognise his voice?”
She hesitates.
Then, quietly, “Yes.”
I walk to the door and open it.
Mateo and Rocco stand on the other side with three other men behind them. Every face turns toward me. Nobody looks into the chapel long enough to see Victoria clearly.
That is also wise.
“The two guards assigned to her this morning,” I say.
Mateo nods once.
“Separate them. No phones. No visitors.”
“Yes, Don.”
I look at Rocco.
“Find every man who entered the small dining corridor between seven and nine. I want radio logs, camera scraps, access cards, repair approvals, and the name of whoever cleared that van.”
Rocco’s face hardens.
“Yes.”
“No one leaves.”
“Understood.”
I close the door.
Victoria has not moved.
Her eyes are fixed on the glass of water, but I do not think she sees anything anymore.
The truth has settled.
This might never have been her escape only.
This could have been an opening.
A test.
A message from someone inside my house.
I return to my chair and sit.
For a while, I say nothing.
She keeps waiting.
The fear in her changes form. At first, she was worried I would kill her.
Now she is worried I may be right.
That is worse for her.
I take the train ticket from the table and turn it over between two fingers.
Only now do I let myself look at the destination printed across it.
I already know the answer. My man sent it the moment he took it from her hand.
Still, I read it again.
Milwaukee.
Victoria sees me looking.
Her whole body changes.
Not with guilt.
With pain.
I place the ticket flat on the table.
“Why Milwaukee?”
Her eyes close.
There it is.
The crack I have been waiting for.
I keep my voice quiet.
“Out of every place you could run, you chose Milwaukee. Not Chicago. Not the police. Not your university. Milwaukee.”
She does not answer.
I lean forward.
“Do not lie to me.”
A tear falls before she can stop it. She keeps her head bowed.
“I’ll tell you,” she whispers.
“When?”
She looks at the broken blue ceramic on the table, then at the ticket, then down at her own hands.
“Please let me speak with my mother first.”
I sit still.
Her mother.
Isabella.
A name from a file. A woman with a second marriage, a quiet house, and too many gaps around her daughter’s life. I know where she lives. I know who she speaks to. I know which accounts carry her name.
Victoria does not know how much I know.
That is why the request has weight.
“You are not in a position to make demands,” I say.
Her face tightens, but she does not argue.
“No,” she whispers. “I know.”
“You broke our agreement.”
“I know.”
“You ran from my protection.”
Her eyes lift at that word.
Protection.
She hates it.
At least she is still alive enough to hate something.
“You caused my men to put their hands on you in a public place.”
Her voice shakes.
“I’m sorry.”
The apology is quiet.
Not for running.
For the trouble that followed.
I can hear the difference.
“You will speak with your mother after you answer me,” I say.
She swallows.
For a moment, I think she will refuse.
Then her shoulders drop.
Not in surrender.
In exhaustion.
“I have family in Milwaukee,” she says.
I do not move.
The chapel seems to lose every sound at once.