Chapter 23 23
Chapter 23 23
Three days after her meeting in Giovanni’s office Silas caught Isabella in the library. She had been avoiding Giovanni. Ashamed of her outburst. Ticked off at herself for showing weakness.
For screaming at him that she would avenge her father. For allowing him to see how damaged she was. Now she spent her days in the library, surrounded by books she couldn’t concentrate on, trying to puzzle out what had happened.
Silas entered quietly. He was less intrusive than anyone else in the house. He didn’t command attention or take up space with a presence that threatened like Giovanni’s did. He just was, calm and measured.
"Mrs. Genovese," he said with a polite gentlemanly nod. "May I sit?" Isabella motioned to the chair opposite her. Silas had always been respectful. Far away but not deliberately cruel like Chiara. Never cold in the way that Giovanni might be. He was sitting, his grey eyes contemplating her for a moment.
“It’s been a tough couple weeks for you,” he said. It was not a question.
“I guess that’s one way to put it,” Isabella said sourly. She put down the book that she had been pretending to read. "Watching my godfather die. On television, charged with murder in the eyes of half of Sicily. Losing my best friend. Yes, “it’s hard” is one way of putting it.” Silas nodded slowly.
"Antonio Greco's death was unfortunate. And poorly handled."
"He was murdered," Isabella corrected. Her voice was sharp. "By Chiara. In broad daylight. That is what you do. Shoot any motherfucker who stands in your path.”
“You see, Mrs. Genovese, we are not all the same. Sounding different, something in his tone made Isabella look up. Silas's expression was careful. Measured. As if he were selecting each word deliberately. “Some of us believe in justice, not just revenge.”
"What does that mean?" Isabella asked. She leaned forward slightly. Silas glanced at the door. Then back to her. Making sure they were alone. Ensuring no one would overhear. “It’s a sign that sometimes there is more nuance to the truth than meets the eye. Sometimes the stories we are told are incomplete. Sometimes there are pieces missing." Isabella dropped her book entirely.
“So why are you telling me this?”
“Because i was interrogating Antonio Greco before he died,” said Silus. "Questions about strange occurrences. About your father's old enemies. If they were on the move again? And I believe the American people deserve to know you’re asking questions and how they can come to their own conclusions. Isabella's heart pounded.
"Did Giovanni send you?" she asked.
"No," Silas said firmly. "Giovanni's mind is on revenge. On the men who hurt his family. He isn’t seeing the whole picture yet. He does not want to see it."
"What bigger picture?" Isabella demanded.
"Suspicions. Questions. Little bits that don’t fit very well.” Silas rose, and walked to the window. He looked out at the gardens. “I have been very low key with my investigation for years Mrs. Genovese. And the more I discover, the less sense Giovanni’s story of it makes.”
"Giovanni's version?" Isabella repeated.
“The tale he has had recounted to him,” Silas said. "The story he believes. The story that he has been following for fourteen years. But what if that story is false? What if somebody’s been deceiving him, all these years?”
Isabella thought of Moretti. Of his too smooth sympathy. His cautious inquiries into what her father might have said to her. His grandfatherly smile that never touched his eyes.
"You think Moretti is lying."
“I think Moretti’s got some agenda,” Silas said carefully. He was tiptoeing the words like navigating a minefield. “And I think you’re in a unique position to help me find out what it is.”
"Why would I help you?" Isabella asked. She just needed to know what he wanted. What she would gain. "What do I get out of this?" Silas turned to face her.
"The truth about your father. About why he really died. Around whether Giovanni had it coming, or if he was as much a victim of things as you are.”
The idea lingered in their collective air. Heavy. World changing. Her father, innocent. Or so she was feeling less guilty, Giovanni believed. Shittier than the spotty kid's who deserved the death Giovanni had just ordered.
"What do you need me to do?" Isabella asked quietly.
"Watch," Silas said. "Listen. Listen to what Moretti says, when he believes that no really important person is listening. Notice what questions he asks. What information he seeks. Who tells him things when Giovanni isn’t there.”
Silas moved toward the door. "And be careful, Mrs. Genovese. If I’m right about Moretti, if he’s been using Giovanni all this time, then you’re in more danger than you know. You see, you are Lorenzo Vinci's daughter. And daughters are sometimes privy to their fathers’ secrets.”
“But I don’t know one bit of secret,” Isabella protested.
“Moretti doesn't know that" Silas spoke. “Which makes you invaluable and dangerous. Valuable because you might know something. Well, dangerous for the same reason. Watch yourself."
When it was evening, Giovanni called Isabella to supper. He hadn’t asked to see her since their fight. A servant brought the news to her room. The Don asks if you will come to dinner. Isabella considered refusing. But curiosity won. Moretti was in the dining room when she came in. Again. Sprawled at the table as if he owned the place. Like he was family.
"Ah, the lovely Isabella!" Moretti greeted her warmly. He rose as she entered, that grandfatherly grin firmly in place. "Giovanni was just giving me a little evidence of your gallery. It’s a real shame about the trouble out front. Do you have plans to reopen anytime soon?” Isabella glanced at Giovanni. He watched her with those opaque amber eyes. What she would say.
“I don’t know,” she said cautiously. She took a chair that was offered her. "The police investigation is ongoing."
"Of course, of course," said Moretti kindly. "These things take time. Random violence is so unpredictable. It is one of those things where everything’s good, and then something happens all of a sudden. Random violence.”
Was that what they called it? Antonio’s death boiled down, to random violence. Isabella remembered Silas's instructions. Watch. Listen. Pay attention. During dinner she watched Moretti closely. How he took control of the conversation, gently pushing things in directions he wanted them to go.
How he spoke of Dante De Santis, so casually disdainful. Last I heard De Santis dropped another load last week. His organization is crumbling. The rats are leaving the sinking ship. The light in his eyes when Giovanni made it clear he was still hunting the rest of the crew.
"I shall seek them out," replied Giovanni.
"You will, of COURSE you will," Moretti said. "You really are persistent, aren't you?"
When the main course was over Moretti devoted himself now entirely to Isabella. "Tell me, dear, did your father talk about his work? His business dealings?" Giovanni’s eyes were on Isabella. They felt the question’s gravity.
"No," she said. “He would always say he worked in security. Consulting work. He never gave details."
"Security," Moretti repeated. He smiled. Well, yes I guess that would be one way to put it. And he never mentioned names? Associates from the old days? People he worked with?"
"Why would he?" Isabella asked. Real confusion crept into her voice. "He died in a robbery. Random violence, like you said about Antonio.” Something flickered across Moretti's face.
Irritation maybe. Or suspicion. It disappeared so fast Isabella almost blinked and missed it. "Of course. Silly me for even broaching the subject. You’ve lost enough without me pointing it out.”
But his eyes lingered on her. Assessing. Calculating. Attempting to figure out whether she knew more than she was letting on. When dinner was over, as Moretti had to excuse himself to make a call, Giovanni reached over to Isabella.
"What was that?" he asked quietly.
"What was what?" Isabella replied. "That performance," Giovanni said. He was studying her face. "You were different. Careful. As if you were pretending.”
Isabella met his gaze directly. “Perhaps I am learning to survive in your world.” Giovanni looked at her for a long time. Something passed across his face. Respect maybe. Or curiosity.
“Maybe you are,” he said softly.
Isabella later encountered Silas in the hallway outside Giovanni's office. She approached him carefully. “Moretti was asking about my father’s friends,” she whispered to him. “What he could have told me before dying. What secrets he may have divulged.”
Silas nodded grimly. "He is fishing. Trying to figure out if you do know something important.”
"But I do not know anything!" Isabella said. Frustration leaked into her voice.
"He don't know that for sure," Silas said.
Isabella leaned against the wall. She was exhausted. "This is insane. Everyone keeps talking in circles. Moretti continues to push Giovanni toward Dante De Santis. You believe there is conspiracy. And I’m supposed to do what exactly? Play detective on display for people to watch me?”
"Yes," Silas said simply. “Right now you’re the only one Moretti just might underestimate. Giovanni is blinded by the desire for revenge. I am too obviously investigating. But you? You are only the prisoner’s wife. The victim. The girl who knows nothing. He may let slip something around you that he would never tell to us.”
"And if he does not?" Isabella asked. “And if this is all pointless and my father really was just a murderer who had it coming to him?” Silas's expression was grave.
"Then you will know, was his reply. I When you see it, you will believe Your father deserved what he received. But Isabella, I have been onto this for three years. I have come across far too many loose ends and contradictions. Too many convenient coincidences. Someone has been lying. The only question is who, and why.
He turned and left, exiting into the dark hallway, leaving Isabella alone. She thought about Antonio's fear. About Moretti's too smooth questions. Of Giovanni's 14 year pursuit of vengeance, ostensibly purely founded on fabrication. And she decided that she had to know the truth. Not for Giovanni. Not for Silas. For herself.