Chapter 4 - The Price of a Family Name
Matteo had spent his adult life believing fear was a kind of armor.
At the tailor shop, he discovered it worked only when he knew where the danger came from.
He called Isabella and ordered her to meet us alone at St. Agnes's church.
I objected to involving another member of his family.
"She's Sofia's mother," he said.
That changed the argument.
In the bakery she'd appeared to be an overenthusiastic sister with expensive taste.
I hadn't realized the quiet girl at my counter was her daughter.
"Why wasn't she with Sofia?"
Matteo stared at the worn floorboards.
"Because Sofia won't let her near."
He explained that the car accident had killed his mother Lucia and seriously injured Sofia.
Isabella had been in another vehicle, arriving too late to help.
Since then, Sofia flinched whenever Isabella tried to ask about that night.
The girl had never explained why.
We crossed the neighborhood by separate routes and reunited in the empty church vestibule.
Isabella burst in wearing the same cream coat she'd worn on the morning Matteo announced I was his girlfriend.
She fell to her knees beside Sofia.
"Baby, thank God."
Sofia backed away.
The movement was slight but unmistakable.
Isabella froze, pain flashing across her face.
"I wasn't there," she whispered. "You have to believe me."
Sofia looked down.
I remembered the evidence rule I'd taught younger investigators: fear isn't proof of guilt, but it is proof that something must be understood.
Matteo showed his sister the photograph.
She drew a sharp breath at the sight of the man on the left.
"Grandpa Enzo," she whispered.
"You remember him?" Matteo demanded.
"No. Mother kept an old portrait in her locked drawer. She said never to mention it around Dominic."
"Why?"
"Because Dominic would burn the house down to protect his father's name."
I asked Isabella about the night of the accident.
She said Lucia had summoned her and Sofia to a family property near the river.
She'd been told to arrive separately.
Her car broke down on the expressway.
By the time she reached the property, ambulances had arrived and Sofia was being carried away.
"Who told you your car broke down?" I asked.
She blinked.
"It did break down."
"Who worked on it last?"
"Dominic's driver. He had it serviced that morning."
Matteo cursed softly.
Isabella looked between us.
"You think somebody arranged it?"
"I think we're past the point of trusting coincidences," I said.
She took out her phone and showed us a text Lucia had sent her that night: IF I DON'T MAKE IT, ASK ROSE ABOUT THE LAST LOAF.
My throat tightened.
The last loaf was a joke between Grandma Rose and me.
On every Sunday, she made one extra loaf and placed it on the highest shelf.
She never sold it.
Sometimes it stayed there until she threw it away days later.
I had assumed it was for the memory of someone she'd lost.
Now I imagined things hidden in hollow bread or exchanged when nobody watched.
"Why didn't you show this to police?" Matteo asked Isabella.
"Because Uncle Dominic took my phone at the hospital and returned it three days later. I found the message only after restoring my backup."
Matteo looked at his sister with new horror.
"You never told me."
"You never asked me what happened. You only told me to be strong."
Her voice cracked, but she refused to cry.
Sofia finally looked up.
She whispered, "Mom told the man where Grandma was."
Isabella's face went white.
"I thought he was coming to help," she said.
The church door opened behind us.
May you like
A priest entered, glanced at Matteo, and quietly said, "Your uncle is waiting in the rectory."
