Chapter 10 - LORENZO COMES HOME
Lorenzo refused to return to Chicago.
Victor expected that.
Beatrice did not.
She called him from Victor’s kitchen and shouted for seventeen minutes.
Then booked a car.
Victor stopped her at the door.
“You are eighty-one.”
“I noticed.”
“You bruised your hip four days ago.”
“Also noticed.”
“He has heart failure.”
“Then he can fail here.”
Victor stared.
Beatrice had spoken.
Two days later Lorenzo arrived.
Not publicly.
No press.
No old associates.
An ambulance transport brought him through the private entrance.
Victor watched his father cross the Bellucci threshold for the first time in twenty-nine years.
Lorenzo stopped.
Looked around.
“Too much marble.”
Victor laughed.
“That was your choice.”
“Then I was stupid.”
“Also inherited.”
Beatrice hugged her brother.
Hard.
Then slapped his shoulder.
“You left me.”
“I know.”
“You made me lie to him.”
“I know.”
“You owe me twenty-nine birthdays.”
“I probably can’t deliver.”
She began crying.
So did Lorenzo.
Victor looked away.
Family reunions were humiliating.
Lorenzo moved into a ground-floor suite.
Doctors came.
Beatrice hovered.
Victor pretended not to.
At dinner, the three sat together.
No staff.
Lorenzo looked at Victor.
“Marina?”
“Under investigation.”
“For?”
“Assault complaint. Financial conduct. Possible fraud. Whatever evidence supports.”
Lorenzo raised an eyebrow.
“You’re letting courts handle it?”
Victor glared.
“Everyone seems surprised.”
“Growth.”
“Beatrice already used that word.”
Lorenzo smiled.
Then became serious.
“Your mother.”
Victor stopped eating.
“Tell me.”
Lorenzo did.
Sofia was smarter than all of them.
She noticed inventory irregularities.
Asked why shipments changed at night.
Arturo dismissed her.
Then threatened.
Lorenzo did not believe danger until after the crash.
He spent years suspecting but unable to prove.
Eventually Arturo admitted enough during an argument.
Victor listened.
No dramatics.
No broken glasses.
He had spent enough of life letting anger perform for him.
“Why didn’t you kill him?”
Lorenzo looked at him.
“I almost did.”
“What stopped you?”
“You.”
Victor frowned.
“If I killed Arturo, his people killed me.”
“So?”
“Then you inherited war.”
Victor looked away.
Instead Lorenzo gathered evidence.
Reached federal investigators.
Tried to dismantle Arturo’s network.
Then disappeared when Victor was threatened.
“Did it work?”
“Partly.”
“Arturo lived eighteen more years.”
“Yes.”
Victor’s voice tightened.
“Beside me.”
“I know.”
“Advising me.”
“I know.”
“Watching me.”
Lorenzo’s eyes filled.
“I know.”
Victor stood.
Needed space.
Lorenzo did not stop him.
Good.
Outside, Victor stood on the terrace where Beatrice had fallen.
Frank joined quietly.
“Boss.”
Victor almost laughed.
“Still calling me that?”
Frank shrugged.
“What else?”
Victor looked toward the lake.
“What happens if I stop?”
Frank understood.
“The organization?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve been reducing it for years.”
“Not enough.”
Victor thought of Elena Brooks saying:
You’re Victor Bellucci.
Fear had kept her silent.
His father disappeared because this world made sons leverage.
His mother died because routes mattered more than life.
Marina nearly married him because control of legitimate assets was worth betrayal.
Maybe legacy was simply a nicer word for recurring damage.
“What if I close what’s left?”
Frank stared.
“Some men won’t like it.”
“Not a reason.”
“No.”
“Some leave.”
“Yes.”
“Some threaten.”
“Probably.”
Victor smiled faintly.
“Finally, an honest business forecast.”
Frank looked at him.
“You serious?”
Victor turned toward the house.
Beatrice laughing at something Lorenzo said through the open window.
An eighty-one-year-old woman.
An old man who had spent three decades hiding.
Enough.
May you like
“Yes.”
Victor began planning the end of the Bellucci criminal organization that night.
