Chapter Twenty-Five #2
“What happened to everything else?”
“Your stepfather removed most of it after she died. This room, he forgot.”
I move behind the desk.
The drawers are empty except for old stationery, dried pens, and a stack of invoices tied with string.
“Did she work here often?”
“Before she married Romanov. Afterward, not so much.”
“But she still came here?”
“Now and then. After Alexei died, she brought you with her once or twice. You were very small.”
“Did anyone visit her?”
Enzo’s expression becomes guarded.
“Many people came through Rossi Imports.”
“A man named Matteo Moretti?”
He looks toward the door.
Armando and Dario remain in the hallway, far enough away to give us privacy but close enough to hear if I raise my voice.
“You know the name,” I say.
“Everyone in this neighborhood knows that name.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
Enzo studies my face.
Then the glass horse in my hand.
“He came through the back entrance.”
My pulse quickens.
“How often?”
“For a time? Once a week. Sometimes more.”
“Did my grandfather know?”
“Carlo noticed more than people believed he did.”
“But Matteo used the back entrance.”
“Yes.”
“So either my grandfather didn’t know at first or Matteo didn’t want to be seen.”
“That would be my guess.”
A guess.
Not a fact.
I have learned how easily one becomes the other when people repeat a story often enough.
“Did Matteo stop coming after she married Alexei?”
Enzo looks away.
“He came once that I remember.”
“When?”
“The night before the wedding.”
“What happened?”
“I was downstairs closing the shop. I heard raised voices above me.”
“Could you hear what they said?”
“No.”
“Did you come up?”
“After Matteo left.”
“What did you see?”
“Your mother was here alone.”
He looks toward the windows.
“She had been crying.”
I wait for him to say more.
He doesn’t.
“Did he know she was pregnant?”
Enzo’s gaze returns to mine.
“I didn’t know she was pregnant.”
“But afterward?”
“I heard things afterward. Most of this neighborhood did.”
“That doesn’t tell me what Matteo knew.”
“No.”
His answer is gentle.
“It doesn’t.”
“Did my mother ever tell you what was between them?”
“No.”
“Did they love each other?”
Enzo is quiet for a moment.
Then he shakes his head.
“I saw him visit. I saw Maria after they argued. Anything more would be me telling you a story about two people who never told it to me themselves.”
The answer disappoints me.
It also makes me trust him.
I look toward the dusty windows.
Below us, people move along Prince Street. A delivery driver balances three boxes against his shoulder. Two women stop beneath the fire escape to continue an argument that began somewhere else.
Twenty-three years ago, my mother stood in this room with the man who may have been my father.
Whatever passed between them belongs to the dead woman who cannot explain it and the possibly living man who hasn’t yet been asked.
“Did my mother leave anything here? Letters? Records?”
“Nothing I found.”
The filing cabinets wait along the wall.
“May I look?”
Enzo’s brows rise.
“It’s your building.”
The words are simple.
They follow me for the rest of the afternoon.
Your office.
Your keys.
Your decision.
Your building.
The filing cabinets contain little of value. Most records are old invoices, shipping manifests, and contracts whose dates mean more to Armando than they do to me.
Near the bottom of the final drawer, I find a folder labeled CROWN FISH.
Inside are old receipts from the restaurant.
One carries my mother’s signature.
Another is charged to M. Moretti.
The receipts establish that they were both there.
Nothing more.
I give them to Armando.
“I want copies made.”
He places them carefully in a document sleeve.
“Of course.”
I keep the glass horse.
Before we leave, Enzo walks me through the rest of the building.
The fourth floor was once used for storage. It has high ceilings, wide windows, and enough dust to bury several bodies.
Sunlight falls through the dirty glass in pale columns. Empty wooden crates have been stacked against one wall, their old Rossi Imports markings still visible beneath the grime.
“What will happen to the building?” Enzo asks.
“I don’t know.”
“Developers have offered to buy it.”
“How much?”
He names a number that makes me stop.
“You refused?”
“I passed the offers to the address listed in the building records. No one accepted them.”
“Who responded?”
“Lawyers. Different ones over the years.”
He lifts one shoulder.
“I manage the tenants and the repairs. People in offices manage the paper.”
I turn toward Armando.
“Who has been managing it?”
“The trust’s administrators handled the property until Marco discovered Mikhailov was trying to gain access to the Rossi assets,” he says. “After that, our legal team monitored it.”
“Did Marco purchase the building?”
“No. It never left the trust.”
“Who paid the outstanding taxes?”
Armando hesitates.
“How much?”
“Lucia.”
“How much did Marco pay?”
“On the Rossi properties? Just over four hundred thousand.”
The number settles heavily.
“And Viktor?”
“What about him?”
“The marriage agreement. Where did the six million come from?”
Armando’s expression closes.
“Ask Marco.”
“I’m asking you.”
“His personal accounts.”
“Not Catenzio business funds?”
“No.”
“The debts he forgave?”
“Purchased with his money.”
“How much?”
“Four-point-six million.”
I stare at him.
“Marco spent close to eleven million dollars.”
“Yes.”
“To get me out.”
Armando says nothing.
“He didn’t tell me.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“He thought you would have believed he expected repayment.”
“Doesn’t he?”
“No.”
The certainty in his answer bothers me.
“How can you know?”
“Because I prepared the transfers. There are no reimbursement agreements, liens against the trust, or repayment schedules.”
Facts.
Armando gives me facts.
What Marco expects privately is something else.
I look through the windows at the rooftops beyond.
Money has always been another kind of control.
Viktor paid for clothes and food, then used the expense to demand obedience.
Marco spent eleven million dollars and never mentioned it.
That doesn’t erase what he did.
It makes understanding him more difficult.
Enzo waits near the stairs.
I look around the empty floor.
“What would it cost to restore the building?”
Armando follows my gaze.
“For what purpose?”
“I don’t know yet.”
A library.
Offices.
Apartments with working plumbing.
A business bearing the Rossi name that does more than hold forgotten licenses.
Something chosen rather than inherited.
“I want estimates,” I say.
“Marco’s people can—“
“No.”
Armando stops.
“I want my own contractors. My own attorney will review everything.”
A smile touches his mouth.