Chapter 8 - The Uncle Who Should Have Been Dead
Vittorio Rinaldi was supposed to be dead.
That was the first thing I discovered when I searched his name.
A news report from six years earlier described a boating accident off the coast of Sardinia.
Vittorio, then sixty-eight, had disappeared during a storm.
The authorities had recovered pieces of the vessel.
No body.
After years of legal proceedings, a court had declared him dead.
His estate had been distributed.
His family had held a memorial service.
Dominic had attended.
And now a man with an older voice had answered Dominic's phone and told me I had my father's eyes.
I called back.
No answer.
Again.
Nothing.
Then I called Gabriel.
He answered on the first ring.
"Miss Bennett."
"Where is Dominic?"
"Why?"
"Because someone else answered his phone."
Silence.
"Who?"
"I don't know."
"Where was he?"
"A warehouse in Brooklyn."
Gabriel cursed under his breath.
"Stay home."
"Gabriel."
"Please."
The word surprised me.
Men like Gabriel didn't seem to say please unless things were serious.
"Is Dominic missing?"
"I'm going to find out."
He ended the call.
I stared at my phone.
My mother was asleep in the next room.
Caleb was at the kitchen table reviewing financial-aid applications.
Outside, a patrol car sat near the curb.
I wanted to believe that meant we were safe.
But the woman with my bracelet had already reached our front door.
The police couldn't watch every hallway.
Every window.
Every person who might know our names.
Caleb looked up.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
He gave me a tired smile.
"You know you're a terrible liar."
I sat beside him.
"Pack a bag."
His smile disappeared.
"What?"
"Enough clothes for a few days."
"Where are we going?"
"I don't know yet."
He stared at me.
"Mara."
"Please, Caleb."
He stood without arguing.
That frightened me almost as much as the phone call.
My brother never obeyed me that quickly.
At 4:18 that afternoon, Detective Shaw arrived.
She looked furious.
"Did you speak to Dominic Rinaldi?"
"Yes."
"Where is he?"
"I don't know."
She stared at me.
"What did he tell you?"
I repeated the conversation.
Including the warehouse.
The payment ledger.
The four hundred and eighty thousand dollars.
And the stranger who had spoken at the end.
When I finished, Shaw sat very still.
Then she asked, "Are you certain the voice was male?"
"Yes."
"Approximately how old?"
"Older than Dominic."
"Accent?"
"American."
"Any distinctive sounds?"
I thought.
"He pronounced my name carefully."
"How?"
"Like he already knew me."
Shaw looked away.
I leaned forward.
"Detective."
"Yes?"
"Was Vittorio Rinaldi really killed in that boating accident?"
Her face changed.
It was brief.
But unmistakable.
"You know."
She didn't answer.
I stood.
"Detective, don't do that."
"Sit down, Mara."
"No."
"My father spent years hiding from these people."
"Someone threatened my family."
"Dominic may be missing."
"And you keep acting like I'm a child who needs to be protected from information."
Shaw stood too.
"I'm trying to protect an ongoing investigation."
"From me?"
"From whoever is using you."
The words hit harder than I expected.
I stepped backward.
"Using me?"
She looked at the old photograph on the table.
Then she said quietly, "Your father's name appears in an investigation that never officially closed."
My heart pounded.
"What investigation?"
"Organized financial crime."
"Against Vittorio?"
"Yes."
"And Lucia Ferretti?"
"Among others."
I swallowed.
"Was my father working with the authorities?"
"We're still reviewing records."
"You already knew that."
"I suspected."
I stared at her.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because there's a difference between suspicion and evidence."
Then her phone rang.
She glanced at the number.
And her expression hardened.
"Shaw."
She listened.
Her eyes moved toward me.
"Where?"
Another pause.
"Is he conscious?"
I took a step toward her.
"Dominic?"
She raised a finger.
"Don't touch anything until the crime scene team gets there."
She ended the call.
I couldn't breathe.
"Is he dead?"
"No."
My knees nearly gave out.
"Where is he?"
"At the warehouse."
"Was he hurt?"
"Minor injuries."
I pressed a hand against the wall.
"What happened?"
Shaw hesitated.
Then she said, "Someone attacked him."
"Who?"
"We don't know."
"Is he safe?"
"He's with officers now."
I closed my eyes.
Then she added, "There was something unusual at the scene."
I looked up.
"What?"
"An empty chair."
I stared at her.
"What does that mean?"
"Someone had arranged the room as if they expected a meeting."
"With whom?"
Shaw held my gaze.
"With you."
She took out her phone and showed me a photograph taken inside the warehouse office.
A chair stood beneath a hanging lamp.
On the table in front of it was a folder.
Across the folder, someone had written:
MARA BENNETT - TRANSLATION REQUIRED
Underneath sat a photograph.
My father.
Antonio Rinaldi.
Vittorio Rinaldi.
And a fourth person.
A woman.
Young.
Dark-haired.
Standing slightly behind the men.
I recognized her immediately.
Not from the old photograph.
From a recent society-page picture.
Lucia Ferretti.
May you like
And beneath her image, in my father's handwriting, were four words.
She knows about the child.
