Two tequila shots into my twenty-sixth birthday, I poked Boston’s most feared crime boss in the chest
PART 2
“You know?”
My voice came out quieter than I intended.
Matteo Conti sat across from me in the armored SUV, one hand resting loosely against his knee. Outside the tinted windows, Boston slipped past in streaks of amber streetlight and wet pavement.
Thirty seconds earlier, I had been angry.
Now I was afraid for an entirely different reason.
“I know you have a mother,” Matteo said.
“That isn’t what you meant.”
“No.”
“Then explain.”
His eyes moved briefly toward Leo, who sat in the front passenger seat.
Leo looked straight ahead.
That told me everything.
This wasn’t some random fact Matteo had picked up during the last ten minutes.
“You investigated me.”
“I had you checked.”
My mouth fell open.
“That is the same thing with better tailoring.”
Something almost resembling amusement touched his face, but disappeared when he saw mine.
“I needed to know who had been standing beside me when someone opened fire.”
“I was standing beside you because your human wall knocked a tray out of my hands.”
“That human wall has a name.”
“Wonderful. Put it on his apology card.”
Leo coughed into his fist.
I couldn’t tell whether he was hiding a laugh.
Matteo ignored him.
“Your name is Elena Marlowe. Twenty-six as of midnight. You live in Dorchester. You’ve worked at the Velvet Room for fourteen months. Before that, you worked reception at a dental office and evenings at a restaurant in Cambridge.”
My stomach tightened with every sentence.
“Stop.”
“Your mother is Margaret Marlowe.”
“I said stop.”
He did.
Immediately.
The silence afterward somehow felt worse.
I wrapped my arms around myself.
“My mother isn’t part of this.”
“I don’t believe she is.”
“Then why do you know about her apartment?”
For the first time, Matteo hesitated.
It was small.
Most people probably wouldn’t have noticed.
I did.
“Because her name was already familiar to me.”
The vehicle seemed to shrink around us.
“From where?”
“I don’t know yet.”
I stared at him.
“You expect me to believe that?”
“I expect you to believe I’m telling you what I know.”
“Those aren’t always the same thing.”
“No,” he said. “They aren’t.”
The SUV slowed.
I glanced through the window and realized we weren’t anywhere near Dorchester.
Tall iron gates opened ahead of us.
Beyond them stood a brick house overlooking the dark water, large enough to qualify as either a mansion or a municipal building.
“Oh, absolutely not.”
“Elena—”
“No.”
The driver continued through the gates.
I leaned forward.
“Sir? Driver? Person currently participating in my kidnapping?”
“His name is Daniel,” Matteo said.
“Daniel, turn around.”
Daniel’s eyes flicked toward the rearview mirror.
“Sorry, ma’am.”
“Don’t apologize while kidnapping me. It sends mixed signals.”
Matteo rubbed his forehead.
“You can’t go home tonight.”
“You don’t decide that.”
“No. The person who fired at us decided it.”
That silenced me.
I hated that it did.
Matteo continued more gently.
“My people are checking your apartment. They’re also making sure your mother is safe.”
I turned on him.
“You sent people to my mother?”
“To the building. Not into her room. They won’t approach her unless there’s a reason.”
My anger stalled.
“She’s asleep by nine.”
“I know.”
I gave him a look.
He sighed.
“That came from the building’s overnight supervisor. Not a secret file.”
“I’m going to need you to understand that clarification does not make this less creepy.”
This time Leo definitely laughed.
Matteo leaned forward.
“Something happened tonight that I don’t understand. Until I do, I’m asking you to stay somewhere secure.”
“Asking?”
“Yes.”
“Then take me to a hotel.”
“No.”
“That sounds remarkably unlike asking.”
“The hotel isn’t secure enough.”
I folded my arms.
“What happens if I walk out of your house?”
His expression remained calm.
“I’ll give you a car, two guards, and a phone. I won’t lock the door.”
That answer surprised me.
He noticed.
“I protect people,” he said. “I don’t imprison them.”
I glanced toward Leo.
Leo nodded once.
Against all common sense, I believed him.
At least about that.
“Fine,” I said. “One night.”
“One night.”
“And tomorrow morning, you tell me why my mother’s name means something to you.”
Matteo held my gaze.
“Yes.”
I should have known nothing involving Matteo Conti would be that simple.
His house wasn’t what I expected.
There were no marble statues of lions. No gold-plated furniture. No ominous portraits of dead ancestors judging visitors from the walls.
Instead, the place was warm.
Books filled the study shelves. A battered chessboard sat beside a fireplace. Framed photographs covered a table near the stairs.
I stopped beside one.
Matteo, younger by perhaps fifteen years, stood between an elegant dark-haired woman and a smiling man wearing rolled-up shirtsleeves.
The boy in the photograph wasn’t smiling.
But his mother’s hand rested on his shoulder.
“You were adorable.”
Matteo appeared behind me.
“I was twelve.”
“And deeply suspicious of photography.”
“My father had just told me to smile.”
“Apparently you considered that a threat.”
His mouth twitched.
I pointed toward the woman.
“Your mother?”
“Yes. Sofia.”
There was something in the way he said her name.
Softness.
Grief, perhaps, though I didn’t ask.
“And your father?”
“Antonio.”
I looked again at the picture.
Antonio Conti seemed strangely familiar.
Not his face exactly.
Something about his smile.
Before I could place it, an older woman hurried into the room wearing slippers and a blue robe.
“Matteo?”
She stopped when she saw me.
Her gaze went from my torn black work shirt to Matteo’s blood-speckled collar.
Then she closed her eyes.
“Of course.”
Matteo sighed.
“Elena, this is my aunt Rosa.”
Rosa Conti looked at him.
“What did you do?”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“Whenever you say that, I need aspirin.”
Despite everything, I laughed.
Rosa’s attention snapped toward me.
Then she smiled.
“There. Someone sensible.”
“You reached that conclusion extremely quickly,” Matteo said.
“I’ve known you thirty-eight years. I require only three seconds to recognize improvement.”
Rosa took my hands.
“You’re freezing.”
“I’m okay.”
“No one who says ‘I’m okay’ at two in the morning while wearing nightclub shoes is okay. Come.”
She led me toward the kitchen.
I glanced back at Matteo.
He looked almost embarrassed.
Good.
It made him seem human.
Rosa fed me soup.
Not metaphorically.
She actually placed homemade chicken soup in front of me and refused to discuss anything until I ate half the bowl.
Matteo sat across from us while Leo made phone calls in the hallway.
At some point, Rosa discovered it was my birthday.
Her expression changed.
“You spent your birthday working?”
“Rent has no respect for birthdays.”
“Your family?”
“Just my mother and me.”
Matteo looked down.
Rosa noticed.
So did I.
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing,” he said.
“You have a terrible face for nothing.”
“I’ve been told I have an excellent face.”
“By frightened employees?”
Rosa laughed so hard she nearly spilled her tea.
Matteo looked personally betrayed.
Then Leo appeared in the doorway.
His expression changed the room.
“Boss.”
Matteo stood.
“What?”
“Gray jacket wasn’t alone.”
The warmth left his face.
I set down my spoon.
Leo glanced at me.
Matteo noticed.
“She stays.”
Leo nodded.
“We checked security footage. Someone entered the employee corridor twenty minutes before the shooting.”
My skin prickled.
“Who?”
“We don’t know. Baseball cap, maintenance jacket, face mostly hidden.”
“What did they do?”
Leo looked directly at me.
“They opened your locker.”
My spoon slipped against the bowl.
Matteo became completely still.
“My locker?”
“Nothing appears stolen.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“No,” Leo said. “It doesn’t.”
Matteo looked at him.
“Bring me everything.”
Leo left.
I pushed away from the table.
“What exactly does that mean?”
“We’re finding out.”
“No. Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“That calm mysterious thing where you say five words and everyone else runs around.”
Rosa covered a smile with her tea.
Matteo remained serious.
“Someone searched your belongings before anyone fired a weapon tonight.”
“So maybe this wasn’t about you.”
“That possibility has occurred to me.”
My stomach dropped.
The room suddenly felt too warm.
I stood.
“I need to call my mother.”
Matteo handed me his phone.
I stared at it.
“You’re giving me your phone?”
“Try not to sell state secrets.”
“I make no promises.”
I called the assisted-care apartment.
The overnight nurse assured me Mom was asleep and everything was fine.
I asked twice.
Then three times.
Finally, I called Mom’s room directly.
She answered after six rings.
“Elena?”
Relief nearly knocked the breath out of me.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Sweetheart, it’s late.”
“I know. I just wanted to hear your voice.”
A pause.
“Birthday going badly?”
I laughed, though my eyes suddenly burned.
“You could say that.”
“Did Jimmy make you wear that ridiculous birthday crown again?”
“No crown this year.”
“Good. You looked like a confused princess last time.”
I smiled.
Across the kitchen, Matteo was watching me.
Not with suspicion.
With something I couldn’t read.
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“Do you know anyone named Conti?”
The silence was immediate.
So immediate that my heart skipped.
“Elena.”
“What?”
“Why are you asking?”
I looked at Matteo.
He was no longer pretending not to listen.
“Just answer me.”
Another silence.
Then my mother said quietly, “Not tonight.”
“Mom—”
“Please.”
Her voice wasn’t frightened.
It was tired.
Almost sad.
“Tomorrow,” she said. “Come see me tomorrow.”
The line went dead.
I slowly lowered the phone.
Matteo’s expression told me he had heard enough.
Rosa had stopped smiling.
“What?” I whispered.
Nobody answered.
And for the first time that night, the bullets weren’t the thing frightening me most.
I didn’t sleep.
Matteo gave me a guest room overlooking the harbor.
At four in the morning, I gave up pretending.
I found him downstairs in the study, sitting beside the fireplace with two folders open on the desk.
He looked up.
“Couldn’t sleep?”
“Could you?”
“No.”
“Good. I’d hate to think this was inconvenient only for me.”
He gestured toward the chair opposite him.
I sat.
“What did you find?”
Instead of answering, he slid one folder toward me.
Inside were copies of old business records.
Conti Imports.
Harbor Development Cooperative.
Several names I didn’t recognize.
Then one I did.
Margaret Marlowe.
My mother.
I stared at it.
The date was twenty-seven years ago.
“What is this?”
“Your mother worked for my father.”
I looked up.
“No.”
“Apparently she did.”
“My mother was an accountant.”
“My father employed accountants.”
“She worked for a medical supply company.”
“After this.”
I flipped through the pages.
There were payroll records.
Tax documents.
A Christmas party list.
Margaret Marlowe.
Again and again.
My mother’s name woven into a history she’d never mentioned.
“How long?”
“Six years.”
I stared at him.
“Six years?”
“Yes.”
“She never said anything.”
“Neither did my family.”
“Why would they?”
Matteo leaned back.
“That’s what bothers me.”
I looked toward the old photograph on the table.
Antonio Conti.
That smile.
And suddenly I remembered where I’d seen it.
Not in a photograph.
In my mother’s face whenever she talked about Boston Harbor.
“Your father knew her.”
“It seems so.”
“How well?”
“I don’t know.”
I stood.
“Then I’m going to ask her.”
“It’s five in the morning.”
“I’ll wait until breakfast.”
“Elena.”
I turned.
He was watching me carefully.
“There may be things your mother chose not to tell you for reasons that made sense to her.”
I laughed without humor.
“You’re giving me family advice?”
“Yes.”
“You’re a crime boss.”
“And you’re a bartender who assaulted me with one finger.”
“Twice.”
“Exactly.”
I wanted to stay angry.
Instead, exhaustion pulled a reluctant smile from me.
Matteo smiled back.
And for one strange second, the house became quiet enough that I noticed how tired he looked.
“You should get that cut cleaned.”
He touched his jaw.
“I’ve had worse.”
“That wasn’t a compliment.”
“Elena?”
“Yes?”
“Happy birthday.”
The softness of it caught me off guard.
“Worst birthday ever.”
“It’s technically tomorrow now.”
“Then my twenty-seventh year is already showing improvement.”
He laughed.
And I realized I liked the sound.
That was probably the second most alarming discovery of the night.
At nine, Matteo drove me to see my mother.
I expected security vehicles and dark sunglasses.
Instead, Leo followed several car lengths behind while Matteo drove an ordinary black sedan himself.
“You drive?”
He glanced at me.
“Were you expecting a throne?”
“Possibly.”
“I left it at home.”
My mother lived in a small assisted-care community outside the city, surrounded by maple trees and walking paths.
Her health had been inconsistent since surgery the previous year, but she still insisted on choosing her own clothes, managing her own books, and criticizing my dating life with professional dedication.
She was sitting near the window when we arrived.
Then she saw Matteo.
The color drained from her face.
Not fear.
Recognition.
“Oh,” she whispered.
I closed the door behind us.
“Mom.”
Her gaze remained on him.
“You look like Antonio.”
Matteo stopped.
“You knew my father.”
Mom looked at me.
Then toward the empty chair beside her.
“Sit down.”
I remained standing.
“I’ve been sitting all night.”
“Elena.”
Something in her voice softened me.
I sat.
Matteo stayed near the doorway.
Mom folded her hands.
“I worked for Antonio Conti when I was nineteen.”
“For six years.”
Her eyes flickered.
“You already know.”
“Some of it.”
She sighed.
“Antonio owned legitimate businesses as well as… other interests. I worked in the shipping office.”
“Why didn’t you ever tell me?”
“Because by the time you were old enough to ask about my life before you, that chapter seemed finished.”
“That doesn’t explain last night.”
“No.”
She looked at Matteo.
“Your father helped me.”
“With what?” he asked.
“With leaving.”
Matteo frowned.
“Leaving what?”
“His company.”
Mom smiled faintly.
“Antonio could be difficult. But he understood that people deserved choices.”
That description seemed to affect Matteo.
“Why did you leave?”
Mom looked at me.
“Because I was pregnant.”
My throat tightened.
“My father?”
She nodded.
“What does that have to do with the Contis?”
“Nothing directly.”
I didn’t miss the word.
“Directly?”
Mom closed her eyes briefly.
“Your father worked there too.”
The room went silent.
Matteo moved away from the doorway.
“What was his name?” he asked.
Mom looked at him.
“Daniel Marlowe.”
The name meant almost nothing to me.
My father had died when I was three.
Mom rarely spoke about him except in small pieces.
He liked jazz.
He burned pancakes.
He hated winter.
He once drove four hours because she wanted a particular pie.
That was the father I’d known.
Fragments.
“What did he do?”
“He worked in logistics.”
“For my father?” Matteo asked.
“Yes.”
“And they were close?”
Mom hesitated.
“Eventually.”
I leaned forward.
“Mom, please.”
Her eyes filled, but she smiled.
“There are secrets people keep because they’re ashamed, Elena. And there are secrets people keep because they believe the past has finished asking to be remembered.”
“Which is this?”
“I don’t know anymore.”
She reached for my hand.
“Your father discovered irregularities in one of Antonio’s companies. Money disappearing. Shipments being redirected. He brought it to Antonio.”
Matteo’s jaw tightened.
“Who was responsible?”
“We never knew.”
“Someone must have.”
“Antonio suspected several people. Before he could prove anything, your father left the company.”
“Why?”
Mom looked at me.
“Because I asked him to.”
That surprised me.
“You?”
“I was pregnant. I wanted a different life. Your father agreed.”
Her thumb moved across my knuckles.
“Antonio gave us enough money for a deposit on our first apartment. Your father hated accepting it.”
A small smile appeared.
“They argued for two hours.”
I tried to picture it.
My father.
Matteo’s father.
Two men whose lives had somehow crossed before ours.
“Then why does any of this matter now?”
Mom looked toward the window.
“I don’t know.”
Matteo spoke quietly.
“Margaret, did Daniel keep records?”
Mom’s expression changed.
There.
A tiny shift.
But I saw it.
“So there were records,” I said.
“Elena—”
“Mom.”
She withdrew her hand.
“Your father kept notebooks.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did he bring them when you left?”
“Yes.”
Matteo looked at me.
The searched locker suddenly made more sense.
Someone wasn’t looking for money.
They were looking for something connected to my family.
“But Dad died twenty-three years ago.”
“Yes.”
“So why now?”
Mom’s gaze drifted toward Matteo.
“Perhaps because Antonio died six months ago.”
Matteo went still.
I looked between them.
“What happened six months ago?”
Matteo answered.
“My father left me control of everything.”
And suddenly, I understood.
Someone had waited until Antonio Conti could no longer answer questions.
We spent the afternoon at my mother’s old house.
She had sold it two years earlier, but most of her belongings remained in storage.
Boxes.
Dozens of them.
Christmas decorations. Tax returns. My elementary-school artwork. A horrifying collection of photographs documenting every haircut mistake I’d made between 2006 and 2014.
Matteo held up one.
I snatched it away.
“You saw nothing.”
“Is that purple?”
“It was artistic.”
“You had bangs.”
“I was fourteen and vulnerable.”
He smiled.
I pointed at him.
“If that photograph ever appears anywhere, I will destroy your criminal empire.”
“Noted.”
Leo, standing nearby, looked deeply entertained.
We searched for three hours.
Nothing.
Then Mom remembered something.
“The blue suitcase.”
I looked up.
“What blue suitcase?”
“Your father’s.”
We found it behind two boxes marked KITCHEN.
Inside were old clothes, a watch, postcards, and a leather-bound book.
My heart started beating faster.
I opened it.
Not financial records.
Recipes.
I stared.
Matteo leaned over.
“Your father cooked?”
“Apparently badly.”
A piece of paper slipped from between the pages.
Leo picked it up.
His expression changed.
“What?”
He handed it to Matteo.
It was an old photograph.
Antonio Conti stood on a dock beside my father.
Both were younger than I’d ever seen them.
Between them stood another man.
Tall.
Fair-haired.
Smiling.
On the back, someone had written three names.
ANTONIO.
DANIEL.
VICTOR.
Matteo read it twice.
“Victor Hale.”
Leo’s expression tightened.
“You know him?” I asked.
Matteo nodded.
“He worked for my father.”
“Still does?”
“No.”
“When did he leave?”
“Twenty-three years ago.”
The same year my father died.
A chill traveled across my arms.
I looked at Matteo.
He was already looking at me.
“Coincidence?” I asked.
“I don’t know.”
For once, he didn’t pretend he did.
And strangely, that made me trust him more.
That evening, Jimmy called.
I answered from Matteo’s kitchen.
“Elena?”
“Still alive.”
“Thank God.”
“You sound disappointed.”
“I have aged fifteen years.”
“You already looked forty.”
“I am thirty-one.”
“Stressful profession.”
He lowered his voice.
“Your manager says the police released the employee area.”
“Okay.”
“And I found something.”
I straightened.
“What?”
“When I cleaned behind the lockers, there was an envelope.”
My stomach tightened.
“Whose?”
“Yours.”
“What?”
“It has your name on it.”
“Don’t open it.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“Jimmy, I’m serious.”
“I know.”
Matteo entered the kitchen.
One look at my face and he stopped.
“What’s wrong?”
I covered the phone.
“Jimmy found an envelope behind my locker.”
Matteo’s expression sharpened.
“Tell him not to touch it.”
“I already did.”
“I’ll send Leo.”
I looked at him.
“No.”
“Elena—”
“We go together.”
His jaw worked.
Then he nodded.
“Together.”
The Velvet Room looked completely different with the lights on.
Ordinary.
Smaller.
Almost harmless.
Jimmy met us at the rear entrance and hugged me so hard my ribs hurt.
Then he noticed Matteo.
His hands immediately dropped.
“Mr. Conti.”
“Jimmy.”
“You know my name?”
“Elena mentioned you.”
Jimmy looked at me.
“What did you tell him?”
“That you make terrible margaritas.”
“I make excellent margaritas.”
Matteo walked toward the lockers.
Jimmy whispered, “Why is he funny?”
“I don’t know. It’s upsetting.”
The envelope lay on a stainless-steel counter.
My name was handwritten across the front.
ELENA MARLOWE.
No stamp.
No return address.
Leo photographed it before opening it carefully.
Inside was a single key.
And a note.
I read it aloud.
“Daniel said someday his daughter might need the truth.”
My knees weakened.
Matteo caught my elbow.
This time, I didn’t pull away.
Jimmy whispered, “Daniel was your dad.”
“Yes.”
Below the sentence was an address.
Not a street address.
A bank.
And beneath it:
BOX 417.
I looked at Matteo.
“Someone knew my father.”
“And knows you,” he said.
“Who?”
He studied the handwriting.
Then turned the note over.
There was one more line.
So faint we’d nearly missed it.
Ask Margaret why Daniel changed his name.
The room disappeared around me.
I stared at those words until they blurred.
“My father changed his name?”
Nobody answered.
I thought of Mom’s hesitation.
The unfinished sentences.
The careful fragments of a man I’d spent my whole life believing I understood.
I looked at Matteo.
“Take me back to my mother.”
“Elena—”
“Please.”
His hand was still beneath my elbow.
Steady.
Warm.
“All right,” he said.
And for the first time since I’d poked Boston’s most feared man in the chest, I wasn’t thinking about escaping him.
May you like
I was thinking about the locked box waiting beneath the city.
And wondering whether the most important secret in my life had been hidden long before I was born.
