Chapter 7 - My Mother’s Apartment
I called my mother.
No answer.
Again.
No answer.
My younger brother, Ryan, answered on the third call.
“Emma?”
“Where’s Mom?”
“At home.”
“Are you with her?”
“No. I’m on campus.”
“Ryan, listen to me. Don’t go home.”
Silence.
“What happened?”
“Just do what I’m saying.”
“Emma—”
“Please.”
He heard something in my voice.
“Okay.”
Luca had already sent men.
We reached my mother’s apartment twenty minutes later.
The door was open.
I ran inside.
“Mom!”
Luca caught my arm.
“Slow down.”
The living room was empty.
Kitchen empty.
Bedroom.
Empty.
Then I heard water running.
Bathroom.
My mother opened the door holding a towel.
“Emma?”
I nearly collapsed.
She stared at the armed men behind me.
“What on earth is happening?”
I hugged her.
Hard.
She laughed nervously.
“Emma, I can’t breathe.”
Only later did we learn someone had entered while she showered.
Nothing stolen.
Nothing disturbed.
Except one photograph.
My father’s.
On the kitchen table, they left a card.
315.
My mother looked at it.
Then at me.
“Oh, Michael.”
I stared.
“You know what this is?”
Her face changed.
She sat slowly.
“I knew your father had secrets.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because he made me promise.”
She began to cry.
“He told me if anything happened, I was supposed to forget everything.”
“Forget what?”
“That he worked for Salvatore Moretti.”
Luca remained silent.
My mother looked at him.
“You look like your father.”
“So I’m told.”
She sighed.
“Michael believed Salvatore was trying to make things right.”
She looked at me.
“But he also believed somebody close to Salvatore would betray him.”
“Marco?”
“No.”
We all froze.
“Then who?”
“I never knew his name.”
She reached into a kitchen cabinet.
Behind a bag of flour was an old envelope.
Inside was a photograph.
Salvatore.
My father.
Marco.
And another man.
Peter Russo’s father.
Anthony Russo.
The former underboss of Salvatore’s organization.
Luca looked at it.
“Anthony died ten years ago.”
My mother shook her head.
“That’s not what Michael believed.”
A phone rang.
Luca answered.
His security team had identified the sniper from the mansion.
His name was Joseph Russo.
Anthony’s younger son.
Peter’s uncle.
The betrayal inside Luca’s home suddenly had a family name.
Russo.
Then my mother whispered:
“Your father used to call him the man who died twice.”
Luca looked at her.
“Anthony?”
She nodded.
Three hours later, facial recognition from the Lake Geneva property returned a match on one of Carlo’s men.
A seventy-year-old man with gray hair.
Anthony Russo.
May you like
Alive.
And standing beside Carlo Bellini.
