Chapter 5 - The Music Box
By two that afternoon, Elena had argued with three doctors, two nurses, Tony Russo, and Vincent Torino.
She lost every argument except the last one.
Vincent wanted her to remain at the hospital.
Elena wanted to go to the flower shop.
“You had surgery less than twelve hours ago.”
Vincent stood at the foot of her bed.
“I know.”
“You can barely walk.”
“I can walk.”
“You nearly fainted going to the bathroom.”
Elena glared at the nurse.
The nurse suddenly became fascinated by a chart.
Vincent continued.
“The music box will be brought here.”
“No.”
“Elena.”
“No.”
Vincent stared at her.
Most men in Chicago stopped speaking when Vincent used that tone.
Elena pulled the blanket aside.
“I don’t care how many men are afraid of you.”
She swung her legs toward the floor.
“I am not one of them.”
Vincent almost admired the timing.
“You should be.”
“Maybe.”
She winced as she stood.
“But right now I’m more afraid there is something inside my husband’s shop that will explain why men tried to kill me in front of my daughter.”
Vincent watched her steady herself against the bed.
“Elena’s Flowers is not safe.”
“That is why you are coming.”
Vincent blinked.
Elena looked at him.
“If you’re going to interfere with my life, at least make yourself useful.”
Tony coughed into his fist.
Vincent gave him a look.
Tony stared at the ceiling.
Twenty minutes later, Dr. Chen surrendered after Vincent promised Elena would remain in a wheelchair and return within one hour.
Elena ignored the wheelchair within four minutes of arriving at the shop.
The front window had been covered with plywood.
Two of Vincent’s men guarded the entrance.
Inside, workers were already clearing broken glass.
Elena stopped.
“What is this?”
Vincent stood behind her.
“Repairs.”
“I didn’t authorize repairs.”
“I did.”
She turned.
“This is my shop.”
“The window was a security problem.”
“The window was my problem.”
Vincent looked at the shattered display case.
“Not anymore.”
Elena’s eyes narrowed.
“You cannot buy your way into controlling everything.”
“No.”
He looked at her.
“But I can buy a window.”
Tony turned away again.
Sophie, who had insisted on coming, slipped between them.
“The expensive window man?”
Vincent nodded solemnly.
“The very one.”
Sophie looked around.
“Which one is he?”
Vincent pointed toward a sixty-year-old contractor measuring the frame.
“That terrifying fellow.”
The contractor looked up, confused.
Sophie giggled.
Elena tried not to.
Vincent saw the beginning of a smile on her face.
It vanished quickly.
But he saw it.
The music box was upstairs in the apartment above the shop.
Elena kept a small bedroom there for nights when work went late.
Daniel’s belongings had been stored in a closet after his death.
Elena opened it slowly.
Dust floated through the afternoon light.
Boxes covered the floor.
Vincent stayed near the doorway.
This was grief territory.
He knew better than to enter without invitation.
Elena knelt carefully beside the nearest box.
Sophie sat beside her.
“Daddy’s things?”
“Yes.”
Elena’s voice softened.
Sophie touched an old sweater.
“Did he wear this?”
“All the time.”
“It’s ugly.”
Elena laughed.
A real laugh.
Vincent felt it like sunlight entering a room that had been locked for years.
Sophie lifted another item.
A baseball glove.
A photograph.
An old cookbook.
Then she pointed.
“There.”
At the bottom sat a wooden music box decorated with carved roses.
Elena lifted it.
Her hands shook.
Vincent came closer.
“May I?”
Elena hesitated.
Then gave it to him.
Vincent examined the box.
The craftsmanship was good.
Italian, perhaps.
He turned it over.
A narrow seam ran across the base.
Sophie pointed.
“Daddy pushed here.”
Vincent pressed the carved leaf near one corner.
Nothing happened.
Sophie frowned.
“The other one.”
He pressed a second leaf.
A small compartment slid open.
Inside was a brass key.
Elena inhaled sharply.
There was also a folded piece of paper.
Vincent handed it to her.
She opened it.
Daniel’s handwriting covered three lines.
Elena.
If you ever find this, I failed to come home.
Trust the flowers.
Box 317.
Do not trust the man who says I died instantly.
Elena read the final sentence twice.
Her face went white.
“Salvatore told me Daniel died instantly.”
Vincent looked toward Tony.
Tony’s expression darkened.
“Box 317,” Vincent said.
“Bank deposit box.”
Elena nodded.
“Which bank?”
She turned the note over.
Nothing.
Sophie was touching the music box.
“What song does it play?”
Elena wound the mechanism.
A soft melody filled the room.
Vincent recognized it.
“Blue Moon.”
Elena looked at him.
“It was our song.”
Vincent examined the box again.
There was an inscription beneath the lid.
B.M.N.B.
Tony frowned.
“Initials?”
Elena stared.
“No.”
She suddenly understood.
“Blue Moon National Bank.”
Tony reached for the phone.
“There’s one downtown.”
Vincent shook his head.
“Not from the name alone.”
Elena looked at the flowers carved into the lid.
Roses.
Lilies.
Rosemary.
Then she noticed something.
“One flower is different.”
She pointed.
A tiny carving of a violet sat near the hinge.
“Daniel always brought me violets from a vendor near Belmont.”
Vincent remembered a Blue Moon branch on Belmont Avenue.
Tony was already smiling.
“Belmont.”
They left twenty minutes later.
Vincent insisted Sophie remain behind with two guards and the contractor.
Sophie objected until Elena promised to bring her a chocolate milkshake.
The Blue Moon National Bank branch was small and old-fashioned.
A manager named Arthur Cole met them personally after recognizing Vincent.
Box 317 belonged to Daniel Martinez.
The account had not been accessed in four years.
At least according to the log.
Vincent examined the sheet.
The last recorded visit was March 7, 1983.
Three weeks before Daniel’s supposed death.
The manager led Elena and Vincent into the private viewing room.
Tony remained outside.
Elena inserted Daniel’s brass key.
The manager used the bank key.
The metal drawer slid free.
Elena’s hands trembled as Vincent placed it on the table.
“You open it,” she said.
Vincent shook his head.
“It belongs to you.”
“It belonged to Daniel.”
“And he left the key for you.”
Elena looked at him.
Then lifted the lid.
Inside lay an envelope.
A cassette tape.
Three photographs.
And a leather ledger.
Vincent felt his stomach tighten.
Elena picked up the first photograph.
Daniel stood beside an older man Vincent recognized immediately.
Luis Martinez.
Daniel’s father.
Luis had worked for the Torino family in the 1950s.
Vincent had not thought of him in decades.
“What?” Elena asked.
“I knew Daniel’s father.”
“You never told me.”
“I didn’t know they were related.”
Vincent studied the photograph.
Luis Martinez had been Vincent’s driver for two years.
More importantly, Luis had been driving Maria on the night she died.
For thirty years, Vincent had believed Luis betrayed them.
Luis disappeared the next day.
Vincent had assumed rival men killed him after using him.
Now Daniel had kept his photograph.
Elena picked up the second image.
Luis stood beside Maria.
Vincent’s breath caught.
Maria was smiling.
Young.
Alive.
Pregnant, though only slightly.
The photograph had been taken shortly before her death.
On the back, Daniel had written a sentence.
My father did not betray her.
Vincent sat slowly.
Elena stared at him.
“You blamed Luis?”
“Yes.”
“Did you hurt him?”
“No.”
“He vanished before I could find him.”
Vincent looked at Maria again.
“But I wanted to.”
Elena understood what that meant.
She set the photograph down.
The third image showed Carlo Torino.
Vincent’s brother.
He stood outside a restaurant with Salvatore Bellini.
The date stamped on the back was November 2, 1957.
Two days before Maria died.
Vincent felt something inside him crack.
Elena opened the envelope.
A letter from Daniel.
She read silently.
Then stopped.
“What?”
Vincent asked.
Elena handed it to him.
Daniel explained that his father Luis had survived until 1978.
For twenty-one years, Luis lived under another name because he believed Carlo Torino would kill him.
Before dying, Luis told Daniel what happened in 1957.
Maria had discovered Carlo and Salvatore were working together to steal from Vincent.
She had asked Luis to drive her to a lawyer.
They were intercepted.
Luis escaped wounded.
Maria did not.
Daniel had spent years trying to prove his father’s story.
In 1983, while working at Bellucci, he found the missing financial records.
He tried to contact Vincent.
Luca blocked the meeting.
Then Daniel realized someone had begun following him.
The final paragraph made Elena cover her mouth.
If anything happens to me, do not believe the body they show you is mine.
Salvatore has friends in the coroner’s office.
I will come home if I can.
If I cannot, protect Sophie.
Vincent read the sentence again.
Sophie.
Daniel wrote the letter before the accident.
Elena had already been pregnant.
He had known she would be named Sophie.
Elena began crying silently.
Vincent did not touch her.
He wanted to.
He did not know whether he had earned the right.
Instead, he opened the ledger.
Names filled the pages.
Payments.
Dates.
Police officers.
Union officials.
Judges.
Businessmen.
Politicians.
Some were dead.
Others were among the most powerful people in Chicago.
Tony entered when Vincent called.
He read three pages and swore.
“This could burn half the city.”
Vincent looked at him.
“It could burn us.”
Tony nodded.
Then Elena pointed toward the back.
A section had been torn out.
Several pages were missing.
Daniel had written another note.
THE ORIGINALS ARE NOT HERE.
THIS IS THE MAP.
Vincent frowned.
“Map to what?”
Elena flipped through the ledger.
Certain flower names appeared beside transactions.
Rose.
Lily.
Violet.
Rosemary.
Sophie’s phrase returned to Vincent.
Trust the flowers.
Elena understood before he did.
“Daniel used flowers as codes.”
She began translating.
Roses represented people.
Lilies represented places.
Violets represented dates.
Rosemary meant something from the past.
Tony leaned closer.
“So where are the originals?”
Elena followed Daniel’s markings.
Her finger stopped beside one entry.
GOLDEN PALM.
Vincent stared.
His restaurant.
A second notation appeared beside it.
CELLAR.
MARIA.
Vincent’s blood turned cold.
Daniel Martinez had hidden something beneath the Golden Palm.
Something connected to Maria.
Then Tony noticed another line.
A recent one.
The ink looked newer than everything surrounding it.
He touched it.
“This wasn’t written in 1983.”
Vincent looked closely.
The date was February 12, 1986.
Daniel’s supposed death had been three years earlier.
Beside the date was one sentence.
L.T. FOUND ME.
Elena stared at Vincent.
Luca Torino had not only known Daniel survived.
May you like
He had found him.
And whatever happened after that was still hidden somewhere beneath Vincent’s own restaurant.
