11. Chapter Eleven
Chapter Eleven
Lorenzo
Sunday dinner at Mario’s house is usually loud enough that it resembles a wall of noise.
Tonight, everyone keeps looking toward Alessio.
The table is crowded with platters of roasted chicken, bowls of rigatoni in a rich tomato sauce, rosemary potatoes, green beans, bread still warm from the oven, and enough food to feed twice the number of people seated around it.
Victoria sits beside Mario with Leonardo against her shoulder, one hand resting across the baby’s back while he sleeps.
Ricardo is on Mario’s other side with Cecilia cradled in the crook of his arm, Julia beside him.
Dante sits near his father. Matteo and Tomasso are across from each other, as they usually are.
Diego has taken the seat at the end closest to the wine.
Edoardo sits to my right.
Alessio sits to my left.
No one has eaten much since I told them about Rachel Monroe.
Matteo is the first to speak.
“She helped set up her own twin?”
His voice carries disbelief more than anger, though anger is coming.
Tomasso, in as much disbelief as his twin brother, stares at the table. “She discovered she had a twin and set her up for murder?”
No one answers immediately.
The two of them have always been easy to tell apart for those of us who know them. Matteo has a more serious demeanor. Tomasso smiles more easily. There are subtle differences in their faces and their expressions.
To anyone outside the family, the resemblance is close enough to cause frequent confusion.
To them, the idea of mistaking one for the other stopped being amusing a long time ago.
Matteo looks at Alessio. “And you had no idea.”
“No,” Alessio says. “Why would I?”
“I’m not blaming you.”
“It sounds like you are,” he says defensively.
“I’m trying to understand how anyone could do that.”
Tomasso lifts his eyes. “You can’t.”
Matteo turns toward him.
“You can explain the plan,” Tomasso continues. “You can explain what she gained. You can explain how they used the resemblance. But you can’t understand looking at your twin and seeing someone disposable.”
His voice is quiet, appalled.
Matteo’s jaw clenches.
Victoria reaches for the serving spoon and places more potatoes on Matteo’s plate even though he has barely touched what is already there. It is the kind of thing she does without interrupting the conversation, a small act of comfort without words.
“Genevieve may never have known Rachel existed,” Julia says.
“That makes it worse,” Dante replies. “Rachel knew everything Genevieve didn’t.”
“Or someone told her everything,” Ricardo says.
Everyone looks toward him.
His eyes are on me. “Right?”
“Donna is working both theories at the moment.”
“But even if that were the case,” Dante says, reaching for his wine, “they would have to ensure it’s something Rachel would be willing to go along with. That would take time.”
“Yes,” Mario says.
The table quiets.
“Finding the adoption records. Locating both women. Learning enough about Rachel to ensure they have the right target. Watching Alessio long enough to predict his behavior.”
Alessio’s fork remains untouched beside his plate.
“They knew I would leave.”
“They believed you would,” I say.
He looks at me.
“That difference matters,” I continue. “This plan depended on choices they could influence but not guarantee.”
Tomasso sits back. “They got lucky.”
“Maybe not,” I say.
Donna’s theory has stayed with me since she said it outside Genevieve’s apartment a few days ago.
We do not know that the night Genevieve died was the first attempt.
We know only that it worked.
Everyone's gaze shifts to me.
Mario says, “Explain.”
“How many times have the five of you gone out in the past month?”
Dante glances at Matteo.
“Several,” Edoardo answers.
“Right,” I say. “And how many times to the same club?”
“A few,” Tomasso says.
“More than anywhere else,” Matteo elaborates.
“At least four or five times,” Dante says.
“There was that night Tomasso complained about the music,” Alessio says.
“The music was terrible,” Tomasso insists.
“This is what you remember?” Matteo asks.
“It was.”
I lift a hand before the argument can take shape.
I turned to Alessio.
“And of those times, did any women approach you?”
He gives me a look. “It’s not exactly rare.”
Edoardo’s eyes roll.
Alessio notices.
“Very funny.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“Answer your father,” Edoardo says.
Alessio looks back at me.
“Yes. Women approached me.”
“What about what happened the other night? A woman watching you, getting your attention. Trying to get you to approach her.”
He thinks.
“There was that woman near the stairs,” Tomasso says.
I can practically feel the table still around us.
I turn to him. “What woman?”
He turns to Dante. “Remember? The one woman who kept looking over?”
Dante frowns as he searches his memory. “She was looking at you all night.”
“What happened?” I ask.
“I don't know,” Tomasso says. “I was going to go over there, but suddenly she disappeared.”
“Did anything happen before that?” Ricardo shifts Cecilia in his arms when she starts fussing.
“I don't know, we were just—” Then Dante's expression clears. “Yes. Alessio left. We went to that restaurant before the club, and he ate like fifteen tacos. After a couple of whiskies, he had to barf. Then he went home.”
Matteo leans back. “Oh yeah, this was a couple weeks ago.”
“What did she look like?” I ask.
“Dark hair,” Dante says. “She was far away.”
I pull my phone out of my pocket, and I scroll through the pictures. I stop at one of the ones without my son plastered to the woman's face. Then I hand the phone to Dante.
He studies it for several seconds before passing it to Tomasso.
“Could be,” Dante says. “I can’t swear to it from that picture.”
Tomasso enlarges the image. “Definitely. I remember that dress. She looked damn good in it.”
The red dress.
“She was wearing the same dress?” I confirm.
Tomasso nods and hands the phone back to me. “Definitely.”
“Then Donna's theory is correct.”
“And that theory would be?” Diego asks.
“That whoever set this up knew that there were too many factors to plan it out perfectly. What happened the other night wasn't the first try.”
Tomasso’s expression changes as the implication reaches him.
“She was waiting for Alessio that night too.”
“And when he left before she could approach him, the plan was abandoned,” Ricardo says.
“So they simply waited for the next opportunity,” Mario adds.
Alessio stares at the phone in my hand. “They had already chosen me.” His voice is quiet.
“Yes,” I say. “They were simply waiting for a night when every piece fell into place.”
“Someone had the resources for this,” Julia says.
“And the patience,” Mario adds.
Ricardo looks toward Alessio. “They watched long enough to learn your habits, but they also had Rachel ready to step in whenever the opportunity came.”
Diego reaches for his wine. “That means this was organized well before Genevieve died.”
“Yes,” I say. “And whoever arranged it had no problem waiting until Alessio gave them the right night.”
“Which means,” Mario says, authoritatively, immediately getting everyone's attention, “that this—what you five have been doing—it's over.”
No one dares argue with him, though I can feel that they want to.
I already had plans to put a stop to all of this club going. But having Mario do it makes it much easier for me.
“Naples rules are back,” he says, his eyes slowly tracking over each of them in turn.
“We allowed you the freedom of living normal lives here in Chicago because we are not as well known, but that's done.
I know all of you can defend yourselves, but what happened to Alessio is not a matter of self-defense.
“It was manipulation,” Mario continues. “They studied your habits, waited for the right opportunity, and used what they learned against you. Your lives have become too public and predictable, and you cannot fight something you do not see coming.”
Tomasso shifts in his chair but keeps his mouth shut.
“You didn't have a normal upbringing, and so we allowed you a little bit more freedom here,” Mario says. “I blame myself for letting it go too far.”
“It's not on you, Papà,” Matteo says immediately. “We should have known better. You're right. This is not how we were raised.”
For a moment, I feel for Matteo. He's not just Mario's son. He's his eldest son. He's the heir and future don of this family. His father taking responsibility for his mistakes would be a great shame for any heir.
Mario studies him for a long moment. I know he still blames himself, but he knows that Matteo needs to take this responsibility.
“Then learn from it,” Mario says. “All of you.”
Matteo inclines his head. “We will.”
Tomasso follows a second later, then Dante, Edoardo, and Alessio.
No one argues. No one needs the rules explained.
They already know them.
They simply hoped Chicago had made them unnecessary for a little longer.
Cecilia begins to fuss softly in Ricardo’s arms. Julia reaches for her, cooing at her softly, Leonardo reacts, waking a moment later, stretching against Victoria’s shoulder until Mario places a hand over his small back.
The sight of both babies shifts something in me.
This is what the people behind the plan chose to mess with.
A family that includes more than business and men who know how to answer violence with violence.
Children. Parents. Brothers. Sons.
Matteo looks at Tomasso again.
“I still cannot understand it.”
Tomasso knows what he means without asking.
“Neither can I.”
Across the table, they look almost identical.
But they are not interchangeable.
No one who knows them would ever believe they are.
Rachel relied on the fact that no one knew her at all.
I look toward Alessio.
“Tomorrow, you and the others meet with Donna and disclose every date you went out over the past two months. Every club, restaurant, bar, event, and person you remember approaching.”
Tomasso groans. “Two months?”
“Yes.”
“That will take hours.”
“You have hours.”
Matteo points his fork at him. “Most of it will be your fault.”
“My fault?”
“You are always the one who wants to go out.”
“That is absolutely untrue.”
“It is usually you,” Dante says.
Tomasso looks betrayed. “You too?”
Diego reaches for more chicken. “I would enjoy this more if I did not have to endure it as well.”
“You do,” Mario says.
Diego sighs and serves himself anyway.
Dinner slowly resumes.
Plates are passed again. Victoria insists Matteo take more chicken.
Julia tells Dante to quit his complaining and eat.
Ricardo keeps Cecilia against his chest while managing his fork with one hand.
Mario listens more than he speaks, watching all of us as the conversation moves from speculation back toward action.
Alessio remains quieter than usual.
But he eats.
For tonight, that is enough.
I look around the table and think of Donna’s theory again.
Maybe this was the second attempt.
Maybe it was the fifth.
Either way, whoever planned it had patience.
They watched.
They waited.
And now the entire family is watching back.