Chapter 5 - WHAT BEATRICE NEVER TOLD HIM
Victor did not speak to Beatrice for three hours.
Not because he hated her.
Because if he spoke too soon, he might.
He walked the estate alone.
Past the terrace.
Past the crushed roses already being removed.
Past the fountain where wedding photographers had expected to capture a happy man.
Twenty-nine years.
His father had left to protect him.
Beatrice knew enough to suspect.
And said nothing.
At sunset, Victor found her in the kitchen drinking tea.
No staff.
Just Beatrice.
She looked up.
“You can yell.”
Victor sat.
“I’m considering it.”
“Take your time.”
Silence.
Then:
“Why?”
Beatrice did not pretend to misunderstand.
“Because Lorenzo begged me.”
“I was twenty-four.”
“You were furious.”
“My father disappeared.”
“You wanted blood.”
“I wanted truth.”
“Not then.”
Victor stared.
Beatrice continued.
“You wanted someone to blame.”
“That was my right.”
“No.”
Her voice sharpened.
“Pain is your right. Revenge is not.”
There was the woman who raised him.
Still willing to correct a feared Mafia boss over tea.
Victor looked away.
“Did you know Arturo threatened me?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“Lorenzo told me only that Arturo had enough men inside the organization to reach you.”
“So you let Arturo stay beside me for eighteen years.”
Beatrice’s eyes filled.
“I watched him.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“I had no proof.”
“You had Lorenzo’s tape.”
“I promised not to open the box.”
Victor laughed.
“That promise mattered more than me?”
“No.”
She leaned forward.
“Your life mattered more than your anger.”
Victor stopped.
Beatrice continued.
“If Arturo knew I opened it, he would know Lorenzo trusted me.”
“You think he would have killed you?”
“Yes.”
Simple.
Victor looked at the eighty-one-year-old woman across from him.
For the first time, he imagined her at fifty-two.
Alone.
Holding his father’s secret.
Raising a furious twenty-four-year-old who wanted war.
Trying to survive Arturo Vescari.
Maybe silence had not been cowardice.
Maybe it had been a prison.
“Did Lorenzo contact you again?”
“Once.”
Victor froze.
“When?”
“Nineteen years ago.”
“What?”
“A postcard.”
Beatrice went to her handbag.
Removed an old photograph.
A lighthouse.
Maine.
No message except:
Still breathing. Keep him living.
Victor held it.
Nineteen years.
“You never told me.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because you had just survived the warehouse shooting.”
Victor remembered.
Three bullets.
Two dead guards.
Arturo had visited the hospital every day.
The irony made Victor sick.
Beatrice continued.
“I thought if you knew Lorenzo was alive, you would search.”
“I would have.”
“And Arturo would notice.”
Probably.
Victor hated that.
“What about after Arturo died?”
Beatrice looked ashamed.
“I should have told you.”
There.
No excuse.
“I was afraid.”
“Of what?”
“That you’d hate me.”
Victor almost laughed.
“So you delayed until I had more reasons?”
“Yes.”
Human.
Terrible.
Human.
Victor rubbed his face.
“I don’t hate you.”
Beatrice began crying.
“I’m very angry.”
“I know.”
“Possibly for years.”
“I deserve some.”
He looked at her.
“But Marina pushed you down stairs.”
Beatrice smiled through tears.
“So my timing is excellent.”
Victor laughed.
First time since the wedding.
Then became serious.
“What did Marina say before she pushed you?”
Beatrice looked down.
“She asked where the key was.”
“The brass key?”
“I think so.”
“What does it open?”
“I don’t know.”
“Lorenzo gave you the box.”
“Yes.”
“You never used it?”
“No.”
Victor thought of the key inside.
Marina knew about it.
How?
Perhaps Arturo had known.
Maybe another record existed.
They played the second cassette.
Lorenzo again.
“If Victor is hearing this, Bea failed to keep him out.”
Beatrice muttered:
“Rude.”
Victor almost smiled.
Then:
“The brass key opens locker 318 at Union Station.”
Victor frowned.
Chicago Union Station?
Lorenzo continued.
“Arturo knows the locker exists. He does not know the number.”
Twenty-nine years later, no original locker would remain.
But maybe the key indicated something else.
Then Lorenzo said:
“Inside is what Arturo fears most.”
The tape clicked.
Ended.
Victor looked at Evelyn.
“Union Station.”
She shook her head.
“The old locker system was removed decades ago.”
Victor stared at the brass key.
Beatrice whispered:
“Maybe the locker wasn’t meant to stay a locker.”
That turned out to be correct.
The number 318 matched an old private storage receipt hidden inside the ledger.
Transferred three times over decades.
The current successor facility:
Midwest Archive Storage.
Unit 318.
Still active.
Paid every year.
By automatic transfer.
May you like
From an account under the name:
Elias Bell.
