Chapter 2 - THE MAN IN THE PHOTOGRAPH
Beatrice suffered a bruised hip and a strained wrist.
Nothing broken.
Victor considered that a miracle.
She considered the physician annoying.
Marina was moved to a guest suite under observation while attorneys arrived.
Not detained illegally.
Not threatened.
Simply informed that if she wished to remain on Bellucci property, she would do so under conditions protecting Beatrice and everyone else.
Marina called her own lawyer.
Good.
Victor preferred documents now.
Age had taught him some wars were won more cleanly with paper.
His attorney, Evelyn Shaw, arrived at 7:40 p.m.
She was sixty, sharp, and one of only three people who could interrupt Victor without consequences.
“What happened?”
“Wedding canceled.”
“I gathered that from the fleeing guests.”
“She pushed Beatrice.”
Evelyn’s expression changed.
“Police?”
“Beatrice hasn’t decided.”
“Her decision.”
“I know.”
Good.
Victor was learning.
Then he told Evelyn about the threat.
His father’s grave.
Evelyn went still.
“That is strange.”
“Yes.”
“Did Marina ever ask about Lorenzo?”
“Not directly.”
Beatrice, seated nearby with an ice pack against her wrist, looked away.
Victor noticed.
Again.
“Aunt Bea.”
“Later.”
“No.”
Evelyn raised one hand.
“Victor.”
He stopped.
Beatrice looked exhausted.
Not manipulative.
Afraid.
Victor softened.
“Fine.”
He turned toward security.
“Search only what we are legally entitled to access.”
Frank nodded.
Marina had used a temporary wedding-planning office inside the estate with Bellucci-owned devices.
Those could be preserved.
Her private phone could not be searched without permission or legal process.
Victor accepted that.
Two hours later, the wedding office produced something.
Not from Marina’s personal accounts.
A printed invoice left inside a Bellucci printer queue.
Private investigator:
Caleb Dunn.
Six months of work.
Subject:
ELIAS BELL.
Victor frowned.
“Who is Elias Bell?”
Nobody knew.
The invoice referenced Maine.
A town called Rockport.
Surveillance photographs.
Victor’s pulse changed.
“Find the files.”
Frank did.
A temporary folder on the event computer had been deleted.
Digital recovery restored three images.
Victor opened the first.
An elderly man outside a hardware store.
Gray beard.
Heavy coat.
Nothing extraordinary.
Second.
Same man loading groceries.
Third.
Profile.
Victor stopped.
The room vanished.
Same nose.
Same jaw.
Same way of holding his shoulders slightly forward when reading.
Older.
Much older.
But Victor knew the face.
Or thought he did.
Evelyn whispered:
“Oh.”
Beatrice stood.
Then sat again immediately.
Victor turned.
“You know him.”
Beatrice’s lips parted.
No sound.
Victor placed the photograph in front of her.
“Aunt Bea.”
Her eyes filled.
Victor had seen Beatrice cry at funerals.
Never like this.
She touched the photograph with one finger.
“Oh, Lorenzo.”
Victor felt something inside him fracture.
“No.”
Beatrice looked up.
He stepped backward.
“No.”
“Victor.”
“My father is dead.”
She cried harder.
Victor’s voice rose.
“You told me he was dead.”
“I told you we believed he was gone.”
“You held a memorial mass.”
“I know.”
“You let me search the lake for weeks.”
“I know.”
“You let me spend twenty-nine years—”
He stopped.
Evelyn quietly moved everyone else out of the room.
Only Victor and Beatrice remained.
Beatrice whispered:
“I never knew where he was.”
“But you knew he might be alive.”
Silence.
That was yes.
Victor turned away.
His hands shook.
At twenty-four he had begged Beatrice for answers.
Had his father enemies?
Debts?
Another family?
Federal trouble?
Beatrice told him only:
Your father loved you.
And:
Some answers are not safe.
Victor hated those words now.
“What did you know?”
Beatrice looked at her wrist.
“Not enough.”
“Try me.”
She took a breath.
“The night Lorenzo disappeared, he came to me first.”
Victor froze.
“What?”
“He was injured.”
“How?”
“Cut on his shoulder.”
“From what?”
“He wouldn’t tell me.”
“Then?”
“He gave me a box.”
Victor stared.
“What box?”
“He said if anybody came asking, I had never seen him.”
“You agreed?”
“No.”
Beatrice laughed bitterly through tears.
“I screamed at him.”
That sounded more like her.
“He told me Victor would die if he stayed.”
Victor went cold.
“Me.”
“Yes.”
“Who threatened me?”
“He wouldn’t say.”
“Where did he go?”
“I don’t know.”
“You expect me to believe—”
“I swear.”
Victor stopped.
Beatrice continued.
“He kissed my forehead. Told me I had raised you better than he had.”
Victor’s throat tightened.
“Then he left.”
“And the box?”
“I hid it.”
“Where?”
Silence.
Victor nearly shouted.
Beatrice raised her eyes.
“In the one place no Bellucci man willingly opens.”
Victor frowned.
Then understood.
The family mausoleum.
At Saint Michael Cemetery.
Six generations of Belluccis.
Victor’s father had no grave there.
But an unused crypt had remained sealed since Victor was a child.
Beatrice whispered:
“Marina knows about the crypt.”
Victor stared.
“How?”
“I don’t know.”
Then she looked at the photograph of Elias Bell.
“But if that man is Lorenzo…”
May you like
Her voice broke.
“…then Marina knows far more than I ever did.”
