Chapter 25 25

Chapter 25 25


Days passed after Antonio’s murder. Isabella spent most of her time in the library and tried not to come to the dining hall when Giovanni and she dined in silence, and Chiara threw hateful glances at her. Even Mrs. Russo watched her silently, and Isabella could not stand it. She grieved her godfather, the scene where blood spread over the sidewalk hunting her, haunted by Audrey’s face in the crowd.

The girl was horrified and betrayed by what she saw, and she was scared of what would happen next. One afternoon, Isabella was looking for an old book on art restoration. She wanted something familiar, something connected her to the life she used to live. The book stood on the highest shelf in the farthest corner, so she pulled the old ladder she saw on the wall to get it. But instead of the book, her hand knocked another, something else hidden behind a row of encyclopedias and art books.

A box. She pulled it carefully examining the dusty source of light. It was old, made of leather, with a small brass little mechanism on the lock. There was an old bronze plate on its lid, and what the girl saw on it made her take a sharp breath. “A.G., 1998.” Antonio Genovese. Giovanni’s father. This box belonged to Giovanni’s father.

Isabella’s heart sunk as she took the box carefully and put it on the table. She should not open it. It was not hers to touch. It belonged to Giovanni’s family, to his past. But something inside her pushed her. She needed to know. She needed to find out what kind of people Giovanni’s parents were. What had they done for her godfather to die?

Isabella carried the box to the desk and sat down. She found a letter opener in the first drawer she tried and started to open the lock of the box. The lock was old and stiff, and it took her some time to open it, but finally, she heard a soft click. Photographs. Letters. Documents. Everything in the house spirits’ voices was sort of yellow. Trembling, Isabella took them and moved them across the desk. There were photographs of a woman. She was pretty; her eyes were kind, and her hair was dark. Giovanni’s mother. She was smiling in one picture, and her hand was on the shoulder of a laughing young boy.

In the next photo, the woman stood in what seemed to be a garden, and the flowers bloomed in her hair. She looked gentle. Happy. And then, her son. A younger version of Giovanni. Dark haired, a bit of brown eyes and wide smile. Happy. He held a toy car in one of these pictures; he was in the middle of gathering an art piece in another one.

Pictures of a simple, happy family. A family that looked complete, that seemed to be loved. And then she saw a photo that made her blood run cold. A photograph of a somewhat teenage Giovanni, maybe sixteen. An-almost smile on his face. He stood with his family in that same garden of them. His mother’s arm was around his shoulders. His father stood proud behind all of them, and his younger brother made a silly face.

And in an obvious photo from some sort of function, it’s someone else she sees. Her father. Lorenzo Vinci. Younger, probably in his thirties. Seemingly prosperous from the expensive suit. Smiling while he shook Antonio Genovese’s hand. Isabella stared at the photo in total shock. Her mind wouldn’t form it. Yes, her father knew Giovanni’s father. They worked alongside each other. Posed together in this picture from an event that looked like a business function.

But Giovanni. He never spoke about. He said nothing that indicated her father had any kind of relationship with his family. Beyond being one of the men who killed them. Isabella frantically sorted through more of the old documents. Her hands trembling while opening the yellowed newspaper clippings. She found one from fourteen years ago.

The caption reads, Prominent Businessman Antonio Genovese and Family Murdered during Home Invasion. The article was short. Also kind of gory about the specifics. It said that 5 armed men broke into the house. And that the staff found the family the next morning, decimated. And it said No suspects. No arrests. A household smashed into nothing. And the date. The date made Isabella’s hands shake even more so. Fourteen years ago. When Giovanni was sixteen.

She found a handwritten letter from Antonio Genovese to someone. The writing was neat, controlled. The date at the top almost made her sick. One month before he died. “I’m getting more and more worried about the threats. Business has been hard. Lorenzo keeps telling me it’s just a posturing strategy of the competition to scare us off, but some things just don’t feel right. I’m not happy with him and the kind of men he associates with. If anything happens to my family, quietly look at the crew he’s working with. I just have a hunch.” Lorenzo.

Her father’s name. He was right there. In a letter from Giovanni’s father, a month prior to him being killed. Her father had something to do with it. But what? How? What crew? What associates? Her mind was racing. She had to know more. She had to know what connected her father to the Genovese family. Why Giovanni despised him. The events that transpired some 14 years ago. She started her research again. Secretly this time. She was going through the library, section by section, shelf by shelf. She was looking for something. Anything that would mention father. Genovese, what happened that night. She found old newspapers from that time.

“Gunmen broke into the Genovese estate. Antonio Genovese and his wife Maria were killed in their bedroom. Seven years old son Luca was also found dead in the hallway; it seems like he was trying to flee. Giovanni Genovese, 16, was found almost bled dry, his throat slashed, lying beside his younger brother.”

The article went on. “Police have no suspects at this time. The attack seems to have been professional. Nothing stolen. This was not a robbery. This was a hit.” Five men. A team. And who knows how this is connected with her father. For the next few days, Isabella became obsessed. She tried to find what was the reason for the reporter’s writing. She looked in every hidden corner of the library. Read every document she can find. Old company files. Newspaper archives. Old police reports that somehow got into this collection. During this, Giovanni saw her concern but said nothing. She would catch him occasionally watching her from the doorway. His expression remained the same behind the mask. Chiara watched her with suspicious eyes.

Commenting sometimes how Isabella will lose herself in these in the books. But Isabella barely heard them. She was getting closer and closer to a truth she was uncertain she wants to know. One afternoon, in the back of one filing Isabella almost missed, she finds it. She figures the truth she didn’t want to find. A police report from fourteen years ago. More detailed anything more before. It contained the details of the investigation. What was gathered as evidence. Those suspected, but nobody ever charged or caught. Five men. Marco Bellini, deceased. Paulo Rossi, deceased. Antonio Greco, deceased. Stefano Costa, whereabouts unknown. And the escape driver, Lorenzo Vinci.

Getaway driver. Her father didn’t just know about the murder of Giovanni’s family. It didn’t just go way back in their family. Her father had actually done it. He had been part of the crew that broke into their home, slaughtered them in cold blood, left sixteen-year-old Giovanni bleeding out on the floor beside his brother’s body. Isabella’s hands shook so badly she dropped the document.

The pages scattered across the floor. No no, this couldn’t be true. Her father wouldn’t. He couldn’t. He was a good man. A kind man. He made her breakfast every Sunday. He taught her about art. He smiled when she succeeded. He cried at her gallery opening because he was so proud. And yet, it was all there. In black and white. Lorenzo Vinci. Getaway driver. Feared accomplice to Antonisa Gucchi’s murder and the brutal killing of her two children.

Her father was a murderer. He had helped kill a woman and two children. He had helped their murderers escape. He had been paid to do so. And then he came home and smiled and cooked breakfast and pretended to be a good father. Isabella couldn’t breathe. The room spun around her. She gripped the edge of the filing cabinet to keep from falling. Her father was a murderer. Everything she knew was wrong.