Chapter 4
PART 4: THE MAN STANDING BEHIND HIM
Matteo didn't tell Luca what we had discovered.
That was the first decision he made that gave me a reason to believe he might finally be listening.
He stepped into my narrow hallway to make his telephone call.
I stayed at the kitchen table with my mother's notebook open in front of me.
The apartment was quiet.
Too quiet.
Every passing engine made me look toward the window.
Every sound in the building reminded me that somebody might be listening.
I tried to concentrate on the notebook.
My mother's handwriting filled the pages with ordinary instructions.
Do not crowd the pan.
Taste before adding salt.
Use the good olive oil for people you love.
That last line nearly broke me.
I pressed my fingertips against it.
For eleven years, I had read those words whenever I missed her.
Now I wondered how many other instructions had meanings I didn't understand.
I turned backward through the pages.
Between the recipe for roasted chicken and one for almond cookies, I found a small note written along the margin.
Three marks. Not on the blade. Under the handle.
I froze.
I had seen those words before.
Many times.
I had assumed they referred to kitchen knives.
My mother sometimes used little scratches to tell her utensils apart when she helped at church dinners.
But now—
I looked back toward the living room.
Matteo was still speaking quietly outside.
I turned another page.
A recipe for lemon cake.
Nothing unusual.
Then another.
Fish with parsley.
Another.
White beans with garlic.
Near the bottom, in faded pencil, was a date from seventeen years earlier.
I stared at it.
It was the date my mother had taken me out of school without explaining why.
I remembered that day.
I remembered sitting in a strange apartment with our belongings stuffed into grocery bags.
I remembered asking when we were going home.
My mother had answered, This is home now.
She had smiled when she said it.
But she had cried that night when she thought I was asleep.
I pressed my hand over my mouth.
All those years, I had believed we moved because of money.
Perhaps money had been part of it.
But now I knew there had been something else.
Fear.
Matteo returned.
"Elena?"
I looked up.
"She wrote the date."
He came closer.
I pointed at the page.
"This is when we left Cicero."
Matteo examined it.
His face tightened.
"Two days after the dinner."
I nodded.
"She pulled me out of school. We left most of our furniture behind."
He sat opposite me.
"She told me she needed to take you somewhere safe."
"Did you help?"
"I offered."
"And?"
"She refused anything that would make it possible for someone to follow her."
I stared at him.
"You still don't understand, do you?"
His brows drew together.
"My mother wasn't only afraid of the person who poisoned the fork."
I tapped the notebook.
"She was afraid of anyone who might take her back to you."
The words seemed to land somewhere deep inside him.
He said nothing.
I continued.
"If Luca was involved, and she couldn't trust you to believe her, how could she know which of your men would protect her?"
Matteo looked down.
"She couldn't."
"Exactly."
I wanted to be angry forever.
Part of me thought I had earned that right.
But anger was beginning to share space with something more complicated.
My mother had protected me from danger I didn't know existed.
And Matteo, who seemed to control everyone around him, had failed to protect the one person who had warned him.
That failure had followed him for seventeen years.
I could see it now.
Not because he said he regretted it.
Because every time he looked at the notebook, he seemed to remember something he wished he could change.
The phone rang.
Matteo answered immediately.
He listened without speaking.
Then his gaze shifted toward me.
"Are you sure?"
A pause.
"Send the report directly to me."
He ended the call.
"What?" I asked.
He placed the phone on the table.
"The laboratory has completed its comparison of the plate and the silverware."
I felt my heartbeat quicken.
"And?"
"The highest concentration of the substance was found on the fork."
My stomach twisted.
"The fork?"
"Yes."
"The food wasn't poisoned?"
"The sauce was contaminated, but the pattern suggests the substance was transferred from the utensil."
I stared at him.
He explained carefully.
The testing specialist had found much more residue on the fork's tines than in the food itself.
The contamination was concentrated where the metal had touched the sauce.
The remaining food contained only a much smaller amount.
"Then it wasn't my recipe," I whispered.
"No."
"It wasn't something I added?"
"No."
Relief moved through me so suddenly that I nearly cried.
For hours, I had been replaying every moment in the kitchen.
The garlic.
The butter.
The wine.
The fennel.
I had wondered whether something had been contaminated before I touched it.
Whether I had missed a strange smell.
Whether somebody had been watching from the kitchen doorway.
Now I knew the danger had reached the plate from somewhere else.
My food hadn't been the weapon.
The fork had.
"And the scratches?" I asked.
Matteo looked at the notebook.
"Whoever arranged tonight's attempt wanted us to see them."
"Why?"
"I don't know yet."
But I had an idea.
I remembered Luca's face.
The quick glance.
The flash of recognition.
"Maybe he wanted you to remember what happened before."
Matteo considered that.
"Possibly."
"Or maybe he thought you wouldn't."
"Then why bring back the marked fork?"
I looked down.
That was the question.
If Luca had wanted to kill Matteo quietly, why use an object connected to an old attempt?
Why place the exact same scratches where Matteo might discover them?
Unless someone wanted Matteo to look backward.
Unless someone wanted him to look toward my mother.
I suddenly remembered a detail from Bellavita.
"Matteo."
He waited.
"You asked who cooked the dish before you knew my mother's name."
"Yes."
"Why?"
He studied me.
"Because I recognized the taste."
"The fennel?"
He nodded.
"Isabella's version of that dish was unlike any other I'd eaten."
My mind raced.
"Did you order it?"
"No."
I stared at him.
"What?"
"I ordered seafood linguine with lemon."
"But not my mother's recipe?"
"No."
I sat back.
The restaurant's menu had included a lemon seafood pasta for months.
It was popular.
I had prepared a version of it after the sous-chef burned his hand and the first plate was sent back.
But the fennel had been my addition.
A habit.
Something I did almost without thinking.
"Nobody knew I would cook tonight," I whispered.
"Who knew you worked at Bellavita?"
"Everyone who worked there."
"Did Luca know you?"
"I don't think so."
"Had you met him before?"
"No."
"Think carefully."
I closed my eyes.
I remembered serving expensive private dinners.
Men in dark suits.
Whispered conversations.
The occasional envelope exchanged between guests.
Bellavita attracted people who liked privacy.
But Luca?
I remembered seeing him twice before that evening, always accompanying Matteo.
He had never spoken to me.
At least, not directly.
"I've seen him," I said. "But we've never talked."
Matteo nodded slowly.
"Then there are two possibilities. Someone knew who you were and arranged for you to prepare the food. Or the person responsible planned to poison me regardless of who cooked."
I looked at the notebook.
"And the fork?"
"Could have been chosen as a message. Or a warning."
"To you?"
"Perhaps."
I studied his face.
"Or to my mother."
He looked at me.
I continued.
"Luca might not have known she was dead. Or he might have known and assumed the story would die with her."
Matteo leaned back.
"Then he saw you."
"And heard my name."
Something clicked inside my mind.
At Bellavita, Luca had looked at me strangely before Matteo asked who had prepared the dish.
He had seemed attentive.
Not frightened.
But alert.
As though he had been waiting to see what would happen.
I explained.
Matteo listened carefully.
For once, he didn't interrupt.
When I finished, he said, "You're noticing things I overlooked."
"My mother taught me to notice."
He glanced at the notebook.
"Apparently she did."
We returned to Bellavita after midnight.
The customers had been released once their identities and contact details were recorded. Most of the staff had gone home.
The restaurant was nearly empty.
Only the kitchen's refrigeration system and the occasional sound of traffic outside disturbed the silence.
I had never seen Bellavita look so cold.
Without candles and music, the expensive room resembled a stage after the actors had abandoned it.
The table where Matteo had been sitting was still covered with evidence markers.
The porcelain plate had been removed.
The fork was sealed in a protective bag.
I stopped near the aisle.
Just hours earlier, I had stood there expecting to die.
Matteo noticed my hesitation.
"You don't have to stay."
I looked at him.
"Neither did my mother."
He understood.
We continued.
The head chef, exhausted and pale, waited beside the kitchen doors.
He had been asked to remain for questioning, but Matteo had instructed everyone to treat him respectfully.
That mattered to me.
He had spent the entire evening terrified that something which happened under his supervision would destroy his career.
"Elena," he said when he saw me. "Are you all right?"
"I think so."
He nodded.
"I'm sorry."
"For what?"
"For letting you step in."
I shook my head.
"You didn't make me. I offered."
His eyes filled.
"I never imagined—"
"Neither did I."
I looked toward the kitchen.
"Can you tell us exactly what happened to the silverware tonight?"
He glanced at Matteo.
"The private set was brought out before dinner."
"Who requested it?" Matteo asked.
The chef hesitated.
"Mr. Ferraro."
I felt cold.
Matteo remained still.
"Did he explain why?"
"He said you wanted your usual place setting."
Matteo's voice hardened.
"I hadn't requested it."
The chef swallowed.
"I didn't know that."
"Who took the silverware from the cabinet?"
"Marco prepared the table."
My stomach tightened.
Marco.
The kitchen assistant who had garnished my dish.
"Where is he?" I asked.
The chef looked uncomfortable.
"He left after his shift."
"Did Luca speak to him?" Matteo asked.
"Yes."
"When?"
"Before dinner. Mr. Ferraro said he wanted to make certain the table was perfect."
I looked at Matteo.
"Did Luca usually do that?"
"No."
The answer was quiet.
But unmistakable.
We had found a contradiction.
A small one.
Not proof.
Not yet.
But enough to make the danger feel very close.
Matteo turned toward the entrance.
"Luca?"
There was no response.
One of the security men approached.
"Mr. Ferraro left about twenty minutes ago."
Matteo's face went still.
"Where?"
"He said he had to handle something urgent."
"Did he say what?"
"No, sir."
I gripped my mother's notebook.
Something cold spread through my chest.
Luca knew we were asking questions.
And now he was gone.
Matteo took out his phone.
He dialed.
No answer.
He dialed again.
Still nothing.
I stared at him.
"What happens now?"
Matteo looked toward the locked silverware cabinet.
"We find out what he was afraid we'd discover."
Then a faint sound came from the kitchen.
A door opening.
Matteo moved in front of me.
"Who's there?"
A figure appeared between the stainless-steel counters.
It was Marco.
His face was white.
His hands were shaking.
May you like
And the first thing he said was:
"Please don't let Mr. Ferraro know I came back."
