Chapter 3
PART 3: THE NOTEBOOK SHE LEFT BEHIND
"I need to go home."
The words came out before I had completely decided to say them.
Matteo looked at me.
"To get the notebook?"
"Yes."
He glanced toward the entrance, where two of his men were standing.
"I'll arrange protection."
"I don't want your protection."
"I understand."
"No, you don't."
My voice was shaking now, but I couldn't stop.
"You don't understand what it's like to come to work expecting nothing worse than a rude customer and suddenly find yourself trapped inside a restaurant because somebody poisoned a plate of food."
Matteo said nothing.
"You don't understand what it's like to hear a stranger say he knew your mother better than you did."
That hurt him.
I saw it in his eyes.
But I wasn't finished.
"And you definitely don't understand how it feels to realize the woman who raised you might have spent years being afraid of something she never told you about."
He looked down.
For several seconds, all I could hear was the soft ticking of the clock above the bar.
Then Matteo pulled out the chair across from him.
He sat.
It was such an unexpected movement that I stopped talking.
"I was afraid of your mother," he said.
I stared at him.
"You?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because Isabella knew something about me that I refused to admit."
"What?"
"That I could be surrounded by loyal men and still be completely alone."
I didn't know what to say.
He looked at the fork.
"Seventeen years ago, I had enemies everywhere. Business rivals. People who wanted my position. Men who shook my hand in public and planned my funeral in private."
"That doesn't explain my mother."
"No. It doesn't."
He rubbed his forehead.
"Isabella worked in my household kitchen for almost three years. She was talented. Quiet when she wanted to be. Stubborn when she believed she was right."
Despite everything, I nearly smiled.
That sounded like her.
"She hated waste," Matteo continued. "She used to argue with my chef because he threw away perfectly good bread."
"She did that at home, too."
His expression softened.
"She used to bring the extra bread home to you."
I looked away.
I remembered those loaves.
Sometimes they were wrapped in white paper tied with string. My mother would warm them in the oven, brush them with olive oil, and tell me we were having a feast.
I had never questioned where they came from.
We had been poor.
Children who are loved often don't recognize poverty until they grow old enough to understand what their parents were hiding.
"Why did she leave?" I asked.
Matteo's expression darkened again.
"Because she accused someone of trying to kill me, and I demanded proof she couldn't provide."
My heart sank.
"Who?"
He hesitated.
"She refused to say his name without evidence."
"Maybe she was frightened."
"She was."
"You knew that?"
"Not soon enough."
I stared at him.
"Then why didn't you help her?"
His silence became unbearable.
"Why?" I repeated.
"Because I thought fear had made her suspicious. Because I believed the men around me were loyal. Because admitting she might be right meant admitting I had lost control of my own house."
He paused.
"And because I was arrogant."
At least he understood that much.
I folded my arms.
"She died believing you wouldn't listen."
Matteo looked at me.
"I know."
Something about his answer made my anger feel heavier.
I had wanted him to argue.
I had wanted him to offer an excuse I could tear apart.
Instead, he accepted the accusation.
And I didn't know what to do with that.
A door opened near the kitchen.
Luca Ferraro entered.
He was younger than Matteo, perhaps in his early forties, with a strong jaw and a closely trimmed beard. He moved like someone accustomed to giving orders without needing to explain them.
"Boss," he said. "The lab confirmed the preliminary screening is consistent with a toxic compound. We need a full analysis."
Matteo's expression hardened.
"Where was it found?"
"In the sample collected from the plate."
"The sauce?"
"The sample contained sauce, yes."
Matteo glanced at the fork.
"Have them test the silverware separately."
Luca nodded.
"Of course."
I watched him.
There was nothing openly threatening about his expression.
Yet I remembered how he had looked at the scratches.
Recognition.
I was sure of it.
Matteo stood.
"Elena is going home to retrieve something. I'll accompany her."
Luca's eyes shifted toward me.
"That isn't wise."
"Why?"
"We don't know who arranged the attempt. Moving her puts everyone at risk."
"Keeping her here doesn't make her safer."
Luca's jaw tightened.
"At least let me send a team ahead."
"No."
The answer was immediate.
For the first time, I noticed that Matteo hadn't given Luca complete control of the situation.
He had started questioning him.
And Luca didn't like it.
My apartment was on the second floor of an aging brick building near a busy street where traffic never completely stopped.
The hallway smelled of floor cleaner, old wood, and somebody's late dinner.
Normally, I found those familiar smells comforting.
That night, every shadow seemed dangerous.
Matteo came with me.
Two security men remained outside.
Luca stayed at Bellavita.
I had insisted on knowing who would enter my apartment and why. Matteo agreed that nobody would search my belongings without permission.
I was still frightened.
But I needed the notebook.
I unlocked my door.
The apartment was exactly as I had left it.
A pair of work shoes beside the couch.
A sweater hanging over a chair.
A half-finished cup of tea near the sink.
Everything ordinary.
Everything suddenly precious.
Matteo stopped just inside the doorway.
His gaze moved over the narrow room.
"You live here alone?"
"Yes."
"How long?"
"Three years."
He nodded.
I could tell he wanted to ask whether I needed money.
I was grateful when he didn't.
I went into my bedroom and pulled a small wooden box from beneath the bed.
My mother had given it to me during her final winter.
The wood was worn.
One corner had cracked.
Inside were photographs, a silver necklace, some letters, and a recipe notebook with a faded blue cover.
I touched the notebook.
For a moment, I couldn't open it.
I could almost see my mother's hands resting on the cover.
Her fingers had been thin near the end.
Cancer had taken so much from her.
Her strength.
Her appetite.
Eventually, her voice.
But whenever she was awake enough to speak, she asked the same questions.
Had I eaten?
Was I keeping up with school?
Did I remember the recipe?
I had always thought the last question was her way of keeping some part of herself alive.
Now I wondered whether she had been trying to protect me.
I carried the notebook into the living room.
Matteo stood when he saw it.
"That's hers?"
"Yes."
His face changed.
"She had it when she worked for me."
I hugged the notebook against my chest.
"You're not taking it."
"I won't."
I sat at the small kitchen table.
He remained standing.
I opened the cover.
The first pages were familiar.
Tomato sauce.
Sunday bread.
Roasted peppers.
Chicken with rosemary.
My mother's handwriting leaned slightly to the right, the letters crowded together whenever she became excited about a variation.
There were stains everywhere.
Olive oil.
Coffee.
Something brown that might have been chocolate.
I knew every one of those pages.
Near the middle was the recipe I had prepared that evening.
Linguine with lemon, garlic, and fennel.
The measurements were written in blue ink.
But there was a sentence beneath them, underlined twice.
The final ingredient must never go in early.
Matteo leaned forward.
"May I?"
I turned the notebook toward him.
He studied the words.
"She always did that," he whispered.
"What?"
"Added the fennel after the heat was off."
I nodded.
"She said cooking it too long made the flavor disappear."
"She told me it was the only way she wanted that dish served."
I looked at him.
"Why did she make it for you?"
He hesitated.
"On nights when I had important guests, the kitchen prepared whatever I requested. One evening, I asked Isabella to cook something she would serve her own family."
My throat tightened.
"And she made this?"
"Yes."
He looked at the page.
"I told her it was the best meal I'd had in years."
I imagined my mother hearing that.
She would have smiled modestly.
Then complained that the pasta was probably overcooked.
I could almost hear her.
I turned toward the back of the notebook.
My fingers trembled.
The folded page was still there.
Yellowed tape crossed the paper.
On the outside were the same four words.
Only when he remembers.
Matteo stopped breathing for a moment.
"May I see that?"
I shook my head.
"I'll open it."
He moved back.
I carefully lifted the tape.
The paper made a faint tearing sound.
My heart pounded.
Inside the fold, my mother had written several short paragraphs.
I recognized her handwriting immediately.
But the words were nothing like the recipes that filled the rest of the notebook.
If this page is being opened, someone has remembered the silver fork.
I stared.
Matteo gripped the back of the chair.
I continued reading.
There were three scratches beneath the handle. I made them myself.
My mouth went dry.
"She made the marks?"
Matteo's expression became unreadable.
"Keep reading."
My mother's handwriting grew smaller toward the bottom.
I scratched the fork because I needed to recognize it. I knew something was wrong before dinner was served. The fork had been removed from the usual silverware drawer and returned by someone who had no reason to touch it.
Below that was a single sentence.
I saw who carried it.
I looked at Matteo.
"Who?"
His eyes remained on the page.
I unfolded the final corner.
There was a name.
Not written in full.
Just two initials.
L.F.
For several seconds, I couldn't speak.
Then I whispered, "Luca Ferraro."
Matteo closed his eyes.
When he opened them, the expression on his face frightened me more than anything I had seen at Bellavita.
Because he wasn't confused anymore.
He was beginning to understand.
But the worst part was still waiting.
Beneath the initials, my mother had written one last warning.
If those three scratches appear again, the danger isn't coming from the kitchen.
It is coming from the man who brings the fork.
I looked down at the notebook.
Then at Matteo.
And suddenly I remembered something from the restaurant.
Luca had been standing directly behind Matteo when the plate arrived.
Close enough to touch the table.
Close enough to replace a fork.
Close enough to watch his boss take the first bite.
I whispered, "He knew."
Matteo's voice sounded like stone scraping against stone.
"Yes."
I swallowed.
"Then why did he let me walk into that dining room?"
Matteo didn't answer immediately.
When he did, his words made my skin turn cold.
"Because, Elena, I don't think you were supposed to survive the explanation."
My first instinct was to close the notebook.
My second was to run.
I looked toward the apartment door.
Matteo noticed.
"You can leave," he said.
I laughed once, without humor.
"Where?"
He didn't answer.
"Where exactly am I supposed to go? Someone knows my name, where I work, probably where I live, and apparently wanted me blamed for poisoning you."
"That may be what they intended."
"Then why should I trust you?"
His expression softened.
"You shouldn't. Not without reason."
That was not the answer I expected.
He sat across from me.
"Seventeen years ago, your mother brought me a warning. I didn't believe her. Tonight, her daughter has brought me the same warning."
He glanced at the notebook.
"I won't make the same mistake twice."
I wanted to believe him.
But my mother had trusted him once.
And look where that had left her.
I stared at the initials on the page.
"L.F."
Matteo nodded.
"Your mother wrote them."
"She never told you?"
"She said she would name the person when she could prove what she had seen."
"Why didn't she?"
His eyes darkened.
"Because the next morning, the marked fork disappeared."
I looked at the paper.
"And you thought she was lying."
"I thought she might be mistaken. The last thing I told her was that accusations like hers could destroy lives."
I shook my head.
"So she left."
"Yes."
"Because you frightened her."
He didn't deny it.
A bitter feeling rose in my chest.
My mother had spent years teaching me to stand up for myself.
Yet somewhere in her past, she had been forced into silence by a man powerful enough to make her words worthless.
And now that same man sat at my kitchen table asking me to trust him.
I closed the notebook.
"There's something you need to understand," I said.
Matteo waited.
"I don't care about your businesses. I don't care about who controls Chicago. I don't care whether Luca wants your position or your money."
His expression remained still.
"I care that my mother was afraid. I care that somebody turned her warning into a lie. And I care that you let it happen."
Matteo lowered his gaze.
"You're right."
I shook my head.
"Stop saying that."
"Why?"
"Because agreeing doesn't change anything."
He looked up.
"No. It doesn't."
Outside, a car moved slowly down the street.
Its headlights crossed the curtains.
Then disappeared.
Matteo stood.
"I need to make a call."
"To whom?"
"Someone who can examine the evidence without going through Luca."
My stomach tightened.
"How many people do you trust?"
He looked at me.
"Fewer than I did an hour ago."
That answer stayed with me.
Because I realized Matteo was frightened not only of being killed.
He was frightened of discovering how completely he had misjudged the people closest to him.
And I was beginning to understand something equally disturbing.
My mother hadn't preserved that recipe merely because it reminded her of a happy memory.
She had preserved it because the meal itself was connected to the only piece of evidence she had ever managed to leave behind.
The notebook.
The scratches.
The initials.
All of it.
She had kept the truth waiting.
May you like
For seventeen years.
And tonight, it had finally found us.
