Chapter 4 - THE PROMISE HE MADE TO A DEAD WOMAN
I closed my eyes.
“My mother asked you to stay away from me?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
I almost laughed, but there was no humor in it.
“You expect me to believe that?”
“I expect you to understand that I was trying to honor her wishes.”
“She was my mother. I deserved to know the truth.”
“Yes.”
The agreement disarmed me.
“You think so too?”
“I have thought so for a long time.”
“Then why did you wait until now?”
“Because you contacted me.”
The answer was quiet, but it carried something beneath it—regret, perhaps, or relief.
I looked again at the number.
Seven years ago, after my mother’s death, I had found it and saved it.
Seven days before my own expected death, I had finally used it.
I wondered whether some choices waited patiently for us, no matter how long we avoided them.
“Did my mother know you were involved in my father leaving?” I asked.
“No.”
“Were you?”
“No.”
“Then what were you protecting me from?”
He drew a slow breath.
“That is what I’m trying to find out.”
The words chilled me.
“What do you mean?”
“I received your message today, and I recognized the number. I thought perhaps someone had sent it deliberately. Perhaps someone knew you had found the old notebook.”
“I hadn’t told anyone.”
“I know.”
“How?”
“Because the message came from a number I had not seen in years.”
“Why would you think it was a trap?”
“I didn’t say trap.”
“You implied it.”
“Your message was unusual.”
“I was dying. People say unusual things when they’re dying.”
“I know.”
There was something in his voice then—something far older than our conversation.
“Who did you lose?” I asked.
He didn’t answer.
“Lucian.”
“My younger brother.”
The words were barely audible.
“What happened to him?”
“He died when he was twenty-two.”
I waited, but Lucian offered no details.
“Was your mother involved?”
“No.”
“Was my father?”
Another pause.
“I don’t know.”
I turned from the window.
“You keep saying you don’t know about my family, but you remember my father, you knew my mother, and you recognize a number she gave you years ago.”
“Yes.”
“That isn’t a coincidence.”
“No.”
“Then what is it?”
“I’m not sure yet.”
The honesty frightened me more than a confident answer would have.
“What happens tomorrow?” I asked.
“I take you to the hospital. Then we return here, and you finish your painting.”
“And after that?”
“I find out why your mother wanted me to protect you.”
I looked at the unfinished sunset. The blank water waited beneath the painted sky, pale and empty.
For years, I had treated it as a promise to myself.
Now it felt like a door.
“Bring Elena,” I said.
“I will.”
“And don’t send anyone to watch my building.”
“I won’t.”
“And don’t make decisions for me.”
“I won’t.”
“You say that very easily.”
“I’m learning.”
The answer was so unexpected that I turned back toward the phone.
“From whom?”
“From you.”
Neither of us spoke for a while.
Then Lucian said, “You should sleep.”
“I’m not tired.”
“You’ve had a difficult day.”
“I’m afraid if I sleep,
“I’m afraid if I sleep, I’ll wake up and find out this was all a mistake.”
Lucian’s silence softened.
“What would you do if it were?”
I looked at the dark window. “I’d be angry.”
“At whom?”
“Everyone. The doctors. My mother. Myself.” I swallowed. “Maybe even you.”
“You would have every right.”
“I don’t want to be angry during my last week.”
“Then don’t spend it being angry.”
“That sounds simple.”
“It isn’t.”
“No,” I said. “It isn’t.”
He remained on the phone while I changed into pajamas and took my medication. He didn’t ask whether I needed help, and he didn’t offer another instruction. Somehow, that restraint made his presence feel safer.
When I returned to bed, I found myself asking, “Do you ever sleep?”
“Sometimes.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I have.”
“Do you live alone?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I prefer quiet.”
“You have a whole criminal empire and no one to talk to?”
“I didn’t say I had no one to talk to.”
“Who do you talk to?”
“My assistant. My attorney. People who want money.”
“Those aren’t the same thing.”
“No.”
The faint sadness in his voice made me picture the man from the photographs—perfectly dressed, surrounded by people, never appearing to belong to any of them.
“Do you have family?” I asked.
“I had a brother.”
The past tense sat between us.
“I’m sorry.”
“You didn’t know.”
“I’m still sorry.”
He accepted the words without trying to dismiss them.
After a moment, I said, “You can tell me about him if you want.”
“His name was Matteo.”
“Was he older or younger?”
“Younger.”
“By much?”
“Four years.”
“You must have been close.”
“We were.”
The answer was immediate. Certain.
“What happened?”
“I told you. He died.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know.”
I heard the faint creak of leather, as though he had shifted in his chair.
“Matteo was the only person who could tell me when I was wrong,” he said. “He did it often.”
“He sounds brave.”
“He was irritating.”
“Those qualities often overlap.”
“That’s what I used to tell him.”
The warmth that entered his voice was fleeting, but I heard it.
“What did he do?”
“Before?”
“Yes.”
“He studied architecture. He wanted to restore old buildings.”
“That doesn’t sound like the work you do.”
“No.”
“Did he know what you did?”
“He knew enough.”
“And did he approve?”
“No.”
I smiled faintly. “He sounds even braver.”
“He thought I could choose differently.”
“Could you?”
Lucian did not answer for several seconds.
“I don’t know,” he said.
That was the third time he had said it that night, but this answer felt different. Less guarded. More honest.
“Maybe you still can,” I said.
“You think people can change that easily?”
“No. I think they can change slowly, if they decide the old version of themselves is too expensive.”
“What has it cost you?”
The question surprised me.
“My health,” I said after a moment. “My friendships. Time.”
“Those were taken from you.”
“Some of them. Some I gave away.”
“Why?”
“Because I thought I would get them back later.”
Outside, rain began to tap against the glass.
Lucian’s voice lowered. “That is how most people lose what matters.”
I closed my eyes.
“You should sleep,” he said again.
“Will you call tomorrow?”
“I’ll be there.”
“That wasn’t what I asked.”
“I’ll call.”
I held the phone closer to my ear, embarrassed by how much comfort the promise gave me.
“Good night, Mr. Moretti.”
“Good night, Amelia.”
I waited for him to end the call, but neither of us did.
Finally, I whispered, “Lucian?”
“Yes?”
“If my mother wanted you to protect me, why didn’t she ever tell me your name?”
“I don’t know.”
“You really need a more interesting answer.”
“I’ll work on it.”
“Please do.”
May you like
The call ended.
I placed the phone on the table beside my bed and lay awake for a long time, listening to the rain.
