Chapter 9 - THE DEAD WOMAN AT LOCKER 417
The woman in the red coat was not Helena Sokolov.
Not exactly.
Her face looked similar enough to fool surveillance at a distance.
But Elena noticed the difference when the footage enlarged.
Different jaw.
Different walk.
Different hands.
Matteo recognized her first.
“Lara.”
“Who?”
“Helena’s sister.”
Elena looked at him.
“She’s alive?”
“Yes.”
“Why did your system identify her as Helena?”
“Because someone wanted it to.”
The security analyst froze the image.
Lara Sokolov carried a small metal case from locker 417.
She walked toward the north exit.
Then disappeared.
No car.
No second camera.
No trace.
Matteo stared at the screen.
“Find her.”
His men moved.
Elena remained seated.
Something bothered her.
“Why would Marco use a public locker?”
“To make recovery possible.”
“For whom?”
Matteo looked at her.
“Us.”
“No.”
She shook her head.
“For me.”
“Elena.”
“He told me Bluebird.”
“Yes.”
“He gave me the key.”
“Yes.”
“Which means he expected me to retrieve it.”
Matteo’s face tightened.
“Then why hide it in the boys’ room?”
“Because nobody else would know.”
She stood.
“Marco wasn’t working for Nadia.”
“He was.”
“He was working with her.”
Matteo studied her.
“There’s a difference.”
“Yes.”
Elena walked toward the board of documents.
“Nadia knew she was in danger.”
“Yes.”
“Marco knew too.”
“Yes.”
“They created a trail.”
“Yes.”
“Not for you.”
Matteo went still.
Elena pointed at the photo.
“If they trusted you completely, Nadia would have simply given you the evidence.”
He did not answer.
“They didn’t trust you.”
“I know.”
The admission came quietly.
“Why?”
Matteo looked out the window.
“Because three months before Marco died, I refused to believe Nadia.”
“About what?”
“My organization.”
“What did she say?”
“That parts of it had become something I no longer controlled.”
“And?”
“I thought she was exaggerating.”
Elena’s voice hardened.
“You didn’t listen.”
“No.”
“That cost people their lives.”
“Yes.”
He did not defend himself.
Elena almost wished he would.
Anger was easier when someone argued back.
“What exactly had changed?”
Matteo sat.
“My father built two worlds.”
“Legal and criminal.”
“Yes.”
“Did you inherit both?”
“Yes.”
“And did you continue both?”
A pause.
“Yes.”
There it was.
No romantic mythology.
No claim that Matteo was secretly innocent.
He had made choices.
People had feared him for reasons.
Elena folded her arms.
“Then Nadia had every reason not to trust you.”
“Yes.”
“Marco too.”
“Yes.”
“And you expect me to?”
“No.”
She looked at him.
His face was tired.
Not performatively tortured.
Simply tired.
“I expect you to judge what I do next.”
That answer stayed with her.
Lara Sokolov was found six hours later.
Dead.
Her car sat beneath an overpass in Queens.
The metal case was gone.
But someone had missed one thing.
A receipt.
She had purchased a disposable camera.
Anton recovered it from a trash bin near the station after retracing her movements.
The film was developed privately.
Seventeen photographs.
Most were meaningless.
Street corners.
License plates.
Buildings.
Then photograph fourteen.
Marco.
Alive.
Elena nearly dropped it.
He stood inside a warehouse.
Date stamp.
June eighteenth.
One day after the crash that supposedly killed him.
“No.”
Her voice vanished.
Matteo took the photograph.
Elena grabbed it back.
“No.”
Marco’s face was bruised.
His hands appeared bound.
But he was alive.
He had survived the crash.
For at least one day.
Elena could not breathe.
Her sons had died immediately.
The autopsy said so.
Marco had not.
Someone had taken him.
“Where?”
Matteo examined the background.
Anton recognized a company logo.
“Pier Nine.”
Matteo’s jaw hardened.
“Owned by the foundation.”
Elena walked away.
Her body felt foreign.
All those nights imagining Marco’s final seconds.
Imagining him realizing the car was going too fast.
Imagining his terror as he understood the boys were behind him.
Wrong.
He had survived.
He had been conscious.
He had known his sons were dead.
And someone had kept him alive afterward.
“Did he suffer?”
Matteo did not answer.
Elena turned.
“Did he?”
“I don’t know.”
“If you say that again—”
“I truly do not know.”
She threw the photograph onto the table.
“Find out.”
“I will.”
“Not later.”
“Elena.”
“Now.”
Her voice cracked.
“I buried an empty idea of what happened to my husband.”
Tears finally came.
“I hated him.”
Matteo stood.
She backed away.
“I hated him for killing my babies.”
“Elena.”
“And if somebody did this…”
Her knees failed.
Matteo caught her.
This time she did not push him away.
She collapsed against his chest.
The grief was not graceful.
It tore out of her.
Three months of rage.
Guilt.
Questions.
She struck his chest once.
Then again.
Not because he was responsible.
Because he was there.
He held her without speaking.
No promises.
No empty comfort.
Just presence.
Eventually, Elena stopped shaking.
She pulled away first.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
“I hit you.”
“I noticed.”
Despite herself, she laughed through tears.
Then immediately cried again.
Matteo handed her a handkerchief.
“Who carries these?”
“My father did.”
“That explains nothing.”
“It explains enough.”
The next photograph showed Marco sitting opposite another man.
The man’s face was turned away.
But his left hand rested on the table.
A distinctive ring.
Black stone.
Silver crest.
Matteo stared.
Elena saw recognition.
“Who?”
Matteo did not answer quickly enough.
“Who?”
“My father wore that ring.”
Elena frowned.
“Your father is dead.”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Four years ago.”
She looked back at the date.
June eighteenth.
Impossible.
Unless the ring had passed to someone else.
“Who inherited it?”
Matteo’s face tightened.
“Dmitri.”
Silence.
Photograph sixteen showed Marco alone.
He held a newspaper.
Written across the front in black marker were three words.
NOT THE BROTHER.
Elena stopped breathing.
Matteo leaned closer.
Marco had left them another correction.
Dmitri was being framed.
The final photograph showed only a wall.
At first.
Then Elena noticed writing scratched near the bottom.
Numbers.
A date.
And one sentence.
SHE KNOWS WHERE THE CHILD BELONGS.
Matteo stared.
“What child?”
Elena’s blood ran cold.
May you like
They both looked toward the nursery.
Sofia.
