Chapter 4
Vincent called three people.
The first was Elena Park, his attorney.
The second was Frank DeLuca, his former head of security.
The third was the governor of New Jersey.
I did not know what he said to the governor because Dr. Levin made me wait outside.
But twenty minutes later, the county prosecutor personally called Detective Cole.
My mother was not released.
The charges were too serious.
But she was moved to a protected room inside the hospital instead of the county jail while detectives verified the new evidence.
Vincent hated that it was the best his influence could do.
“I built half this city,” he said. “And I cannot open one locked door.”
Dr. Levin adjusted the medication flowing into his arm.
“This time, the locked door may be keeping Maria alive.”
Vincent looked toward me.
“Where will Sofia stay?”
“With me,” Elena Park said as she entered the room.
She was a small woman with a sharp voice and a black briefcase.
“I have a secure apartment in Fort Lee.”
“No,” I said.
Three adults looked at me.
“I’m not leaving my mother.”
Elena set her briefcase down.
“Your mother asked me to protect you.”
“I can protect myself.”
“You are eleven.”
“I’m the one who found the pills.”
Vincent almost smiled.
Elena did not.
“That is exactly why you are in danger.”
She opened her briefcase and placed several documents on the bed.
“Anthony posted bail forty minutes ago.”
“What?” Vincent demanded.
“The district attorney charged him only with obstruction and evidence tampering. Harris withdrew his confession before it was formally recorded.”
“He confessed in front of ten witnesses.”
“And now he says he was confused and pressured.”
“By whom?”
Elena glanced at me.
“By Sofia.”
I stared at her.
“He says an eleven-year-old pressured him?”
“He claims you made a reckless accusation, the room became chaotic, and he panicked.”
Vincent struck the bed rail.
“He is buying time.”
“Yes,” Elena said. “And someone inside the police department is helping him.”
Detective Cole entered before anyone could respond.
She closed the door.
“Ms. Park is right.”
Elena studied her.
“You should not have heard that.”
“I hear more than people think.”
Detective Cole placed a photograph on the bed.
It showed Dr. Harris leaving the police station beside a tall man in a gray coat.
“Who is he?” I asked.
“Deputy Chief Nolan.”
Vincent’s expression darkened.
“Anthony paid for Nolan’s house.”
“Can you prove that?” Detective Cole asked.
“I can prove many things if you give me access to my office.”
“Your office has been sealed.”
“By Nolan?”
She nodded.
Vincent looked at Elena.
“Get a judge.”
“I’m trying.”
Detective Cole turned to me.
“Sofia, I need to ask about your apartment.”
“My mother told me not to go there.”
“She was right. Someone broke in this afternoon.”
My stomach tightened.
“Did they steal anything?”
“That is the strange part. The television, jewelry, and cash were untouched. Every drawer was opened, but the person seemed interested in old photographs and papers.”
Vincent looked at me.
“They were searching for proof.”
“Proof of what?” I asked.
“That your mother is my daughter.”
Detective Cole placed a second photograph on the bed.
It showed our living room.
The couch cushions had been cut open.
My schoolbooks covered the floor.
A framed picture of my grandmother lay shattered.
I pointed at it.
“That picture had an envelope behind it.”
Detective Cole leaned closer.
“What envelope?”
“My grandmother gave it to my mother before she died. Mom kept it behind the photograph because she said banks lose things.”
“What was inside?”
“I don’t know. She never opened it in front of me.”
Vincent’s face tightened.
“Elena may have left evidence.”
“Or a warning,” my mother said from the doorway.
A nurse pushed her into the room in a wheelchair.
There were no handcuffs now, but an officer stood behind her.
I ran to her.
She held me so tightly I could barely breathe.
Detective Cole looked at the officer.
“Give us five minutes.”
He hesitated, then stepped into the hallway.
My mother kissed my hair.
“You should not be here.”
“Neither should you.”
She smiled through her tears.
Vincent watched us.
“Maria, what was in the envelope?”
My mother’s smile disappeared.
“A letter from my mother.”
“About me?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you show it to me?”
“Because I was afraid.”
“Of Anthony?”
“Of you.”
Vincent flinched.
My mother looked down at her hands.
“Your name terrified people. My mother taught me never to trust a Rinaldi.”
“I never hurt her.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I loved Elena.”
“She loved you too. That was the problem.”
Vincent tried to swing his legs over the edge of the bed.
Dr. Levin stopped him.
“Vincent.”
“I have waited thirty-five years for an answer.”
My mother looked at him.
“The night I was born, someone set fire to the clinic where my mother was recovering.”
Vincent froze.
“I was told you both died in that fire.”
“Two nurses did die. My mother escaped through a laundry entrance with me.”
“Who started it?”
“She believed Anthony did.”
Vincent stared at the floor.
“He was nineteen.”
“And already afraid of losing what he thought belonged to him.”
My mother’s voice cracked.
“She said Anthony came to her room before the fire. He offered her money to disappear. She refused.”
Vincent closed his eyes.
My mother continued.
“She never told you we survived because she believed Anthony would try again.”
“Why come back to my house?”
“After she died, I wanted to know whether she was right about you.”
“And?”
My mother looked at him for a long time.
“I still don’t know.”
The words hurt him.
I saw it.
But he nodded.
“That is fair.”
Detective Cole’s phone vibrated.
She checked it.
“The officers at your apartment found something.”
“What?” my mother asked.
“A small cassette tape inside the broken picture frame.”
My mother’s mouth opened.
“I didn’t know it was there.”
“Do you recognize this?”
Detective Cole showed us a photograph of the tape.
The label read: FOR VINCENT—IF ANTHONY FINDS MARIA.
Vincent reached for the phone.
“Elena’s handwriting.”
Detective Cole pulled it back.
“It is evidence.”
“Then play it.”
“We need equipment.”
Frank DeLuca entered carrying an old cassette recorder.
He was in his sixties, with silver hair and a scar beside his left eye.
“I never throw anything useful away.”
Detective Cole looked annoyed.
Elena Park smiled.
“For once, Frank’s hoarding has legal value.”
Detective Cole received authorization from the prosecutor.
She placed the tape inside the recorder.
Static filled the room.
Then a woman’s voice began to speak.
“If you are hearing this, Vincent, then Anthony has found our daughter.”
Vincent covered his mouth.
The voice continued.
“He started the clinic fire. I saw him outside my room with a gasoline can.”
My mother closed her eyes.
“I was too afraid to go to the police. Anthony told me your family owned them.”
The recording crackled.
“I took Maria away. I told her you were dead because I wanted her safe. Forgive me.”
A long silence followed.
Then Elena’s voice returned, lower and more urgent.
“There is something else. Anthony did not act alone.”
Vincent leaned forward.
“Your father ordered him to remove us. He said my child would never inherit the Rinaldi name.”
The tape clicked.
A man’s voice suddenly spoke in the background.
“Elena?”
She gasped.
Footsteps followed.
Then the recording ended.
My mother began crying.
Vincent stared at the machine.
“My father,” he whispered.
Frank stepped closer.
“That voice at the end wasn’t your father.”
Vincent looked up.
Frank’s face had gone pale.
“I know that voice.”
“Whose was it?”
Before Frank could answer, the hospital lights went out.
The monitors switched to emergency power.
An alarm sounded in the hallway.
Detective Cole reached for her weapon.
Frank moved in front of me and my mother.
The door burst open.
A masked man rushed into the room.
He was not looking at Vincent.
He was looking at the cassette recorder.
He grabbed it from the table and ran.
Frank chased him.
Detective Cole followed.
I slipped free from my mother and ran after them.
“Sofia!” she screamed.
The masked man reached the stairwell.
Frank was only a few steps behind.
The man threw the recorder down the stairs.
It shattered against the concrete.
Then he turned.
For one second, his sleeve pulled back.
I saw a tattoo on his wrist.
A black crown surrounded by three numbers.
317.
He disappeared through the emergency exit.
Frank stopped beside the broken recorder.
Detective Cole caught up and looked down at it.
“The tape.”
The cassette had cracked open.
The brown ribbon spilled across the stairs.
I picked up one broken piece.
Frank stared at the tattooed wrist vanishing through the door.
“You recognized him,” I said.
Frank did not answer.
“You recognized the tattoo.”
His face became hard.
“That symbol belonged to Vincent’s father.”
Detective Cole looked at him.
“His father has been dead for twenty years.”
Frank shook his head.
“The man who created that mark is dead.”
May you like
He looked toward Vincent’s room.
“But the organization he built is not.”
