"And my father?"
"I believe he helped him."
Isabella lowered herself into the chair.
Adrian continued.
"After my father's death, your father disappeared from the accounts. His employer closed its offices. Several companies were dissolved. The records were buried."
"Why?"
"Because someone wanted the entire investigation to disappear."
She stared at him.
"And you think that person is Salvatore D'Angelo?"
"I think Salvatore is protecting someone."
"Who?"
Adrian looked toward the dark window.
"Someone much closer than we thought."
***
The next morning, Adrian called an emergency meeting.
The family gathered in the underground conference room.
It was a room built without windows, with soundproof walls and a long black table. A large screen displayed maps of the city's financial districts.
Vittorio arrived last.
He removed his coat and placed it over the back of his chair.
"Why have you called everyone here?"
Adrian stood at the head of the table.
"Someone inside this organization is leaking information."
The room became quiet.
Vittorio frowned.
"That's a serious accusation."
"It's a fact."
"Against whom?"
"Everyone."
Marco distributed photographs.
The hotel footage appeared on the screen.
It showed Isabella being taken into the corridor. It showed the gunmen. It showed Adrian entering the hallway.
Vittorio watched without expression.
When the footage ended, he looked at his nephew.
"You brought a private matter into public view."
Adrian leaned against the table.
"They brought a woman into a hotel and held her at gunpoint."
"Because of your relationship."
"Because of my name."
"Those are not always different things."
Adrian studied him.
"Do you know something about the hotel?"
Vittorio's eyes narrowed.
"Are you questioning me?"
"I'm asking a question."
"Then ask it properly."
Adrian placed the photograph of Daniel Romano on the table.
Vittorio looked down.
For a fraction of a second, something moved across his face.
It was gone almost immediately.
But Adrian saw it.
So did Marco.
Vittorio picked up the photograph.
"Where did you get this?"
"At the hotel."
"Who gave it to you?"
"That's what we're trying to discover."
Vittorio returned the photograph.
"Your father made many enemies."
"One of them was Salvatore D'Angelo."
"Your father made enemies in every city."
"Did he make enemies inside this family?"
Vittorio slowly sat down.
"Be careful, Adrian."
"Why?"
"Because you're confusing grief with evidence."
Adrian placed both hands on the table.
"My father died fifteen years ago. I have had fifteen years to grieve."
He looked around the room.
"Now I want answers."
No one spoke.
Vittorio leaned back.
"Then perhaps you should begin with the man who is standing beside you."
Adrian's eyes moved toward Marco.
Marco did not react.
Vittorio continued.
"Your father trusted too easily. You trust too little. Both mistakes can destroy a family."
Adrian smiled faintly.
"Interesting advice."
He closed the meeting folder.
"We're finished."
Vittorio stood.
"One more thing."
Adrian waited.
"Keep the Romano woman away from our business."
Adrian looked at him.
"Her name is Isabella."
Vittorio adjusted his cuff.
"Then teach her to remember that names have consequences."
He left.
Marco remained in the room.
"Do you think he's involved?"
Adrian looked at the empty chair.
"I think he knows something."
"That's not the same thing."
"No."
Adrian gathered the papers.
"But it's a beginning."
***
That evening, Isabella returned to her father's old apartment.
The building was modest, situated on a quiet street in Queens. The hallway smelled of old wood and cleaning products. The apartment had remained almost untouched since Daniel Romano's death.
Isabella still paid the maintenance fees.
She could not explain why.
Perhaps because it was the last place where she could imagine hearing her father's voice.
She unlocked the door.
The living room was exactly as she remembered it.
A worn leather sofa. A small bookshelf. A photograph of her mother beside the television.
Daniel had died when Isabella was twenty-two. Her mother had passed away several years earlier after a long illness.
For a long time, Isabella had believed that grief was something people eventually finished.
Now she understood that grief was simply something that learned to live quietly inside a person.
She placed her bag on the table.
Then she remembered the folder.
The folder she had brought to Adrian's estate.
She had left a copy of the documents in her father's desk.
Walking into the study, she opened the top drawer.
Old receipts.
A broken fountain pen.
Several envelopes.