Chapter 2 - THE LETTER ROSA NEVER SENT
Marcel closed the kitchen door behind them.
Elena held the sealed envelope in both hands.
Her mother's handwriting was unmistakable.
She had seen it on birthday cards, grocery lists, and notes left beside the coffee maker.
But why had Marcel possessed this letter for three months?
“Where did you get this?”
Marcel wouldn't meet her eyes.
“Your mother gave it to someone at the restaurant.”
“Who?”
“Salvatore.”
Elena looked toward the dining room.
Vincent was speaking quietly with the elderly man.
“What does he have to do with my mother?”
Marcel swallowed.
“Everything.”
He stepped closer.
“Three months ago, your mother came here looking for me.”
Elena's heart raced.
“My mother came here?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because she told me not to.”
Elena tore open the envelope.
Inside was a single sheet of paper.
The first sentence made her hands tremble.
Elena, if you are reading this, Vincent Moretti has finally found you.
She looked up.
Vincent?
She continued.
There are things I hid from you because I thought hiding them would keep you safe. I was wrong.
Her eyes moved down the page.
Your father did not abandon us.
Elena stopped breathing.
For years, Rosa had told her that her father had left before Elena was born.
There had never been photographs.
No letters.
No name.
Nothing.
Elena had assumed he simply didn't want them.
The letter continued.
Your father was Salvatore Bellini.
Elena's eyes widened.
She looked toward the elderly man.
Salvatore.
The old man who had just walked into the restaurant.
Her father.
“No.”
Marcel stepped toward her.
“Elena—”
She pushed him away.
“No. You're lying.”
She ran into the dining room.
“Who are you?”
Salvatore looked at her.
For several seconds, he said nothing.
Then his eyes filled with tears.
“I am the man your mother spent twenty years trying to protect you from.”
Elena stared.
“Why?”
“Because I wasn't supposed to survive.”
Vincent's expression darkened.
“What happened that night?”
Salvatore looked at him.
“You know exactly what happened.”
“I was seventeen.”
“You were there.”
“I was a child.”
“You saw them.”
Vincent's face went pale.
Elena stepped between them.
“Saw who?”
Neither man answered.
Then Salvatore pointed toward the recipe card.
“Your mother didn't write seventeen because of your birthday.”
Elena looked down.
The number suddenly seemed different.
“It was a date.”
Salvatore nodded.
“September 17.”
Vincent whispered:
“The night they killed my father.”
Silence swallowed the room.
Elena stared at him.
“My mother was there?”
“She tried to stop them,” Salvatore said.
“Who did?”
Salvatore's answer came quietly.
“Your family.”
Elena felt the room tilt.
“My family?”
Salvatore looked directly into her eyes.
“Your grandfather was the man who ordered it.”
May you like
Vincent closed his eyes.
And somewhere beneath the restaurant floor, an old security alarm suddenly began screaming.
