The Name My Father Buried

Chapter 07 - The Name My Father Buried

My father’s birth certificate was fake.

Not obviously fake.

The kind of fake created by people who knew what official paper should look like.

Miriam found the original within twenty-four hours.

Arthur Joseph Bellini.

Born in Cicero.

Son of Elena Bellini.

No father listed.

I stared at the screen until the letters blurred.

Bellini.

Vanessa’s family.

My father had changed his surname at nineteen.

Carter was his mother’s maiden name.

He cut contact with the Bellinis before I was born.

Vanessa and I were related.

Distantly.

But related.

Luca looked as stunned as I felt.

Vanessa was my second cousin.

I laughed.

It came out wrong.

“Of course.”

Luca frowned.

“Why is that funny?”

“Because apparently being burned by your cousin at a six-thousand-dollar engagement cake is the family reunion I never knew I needed.”

He did not laugh.

Good decision.

Elena Bellini died when my father was twenty.

But Michael had heard Adrian speaking to an older “Mrs. C.”

Miriam dug deeper.

Elena had a sister.

Margaret.

She married a man named Carter.

My father took their surname.

Margaret Carter was alive.

Eighty-one.

Living in Wisconsin.

The grandmother nobody told me about was actually my great-aunt.

She agreed to meet.

Her house sat outside Kenosha with plastic flowers on the porch and wind chimes that sounded like loose silverware.

She opened the door before we knocked.

Small.

White hair.

Sharp eyes.

She looked at me and said, “Arthur’s girl.”

I stopped.

Luca remained behind me.

Miriam beside him.

Margaret ignored both.

“You have his mouth.”

I hated how much that affected me.

She invited us in.

Tea.

Store-bought cookies.

Family secrets.

Apparently those belonged together.

My father’s mother, Elena, was Carlo Bellini’s older sister.

She left the family after witnessing Carlo order a beating.

Arthur grew up hating what the Bellini name meant.

At nineteen, he became Carter.

An accountant.

Ordinary by design.

Then he went to work for Victor Moretti.

I stared.

“Why would he go from one crime family to another?”

“He didn’t know at first.”

Margaret’s mouth tightened.

“By the time he knew, he had a wife and two little girls.”

I looked down.

Fear.

Again.

Always fear.

“Why didn’t he leave?”

“He tried.”

“When?”

“The year before he died.”

My chest tightened.

Margaret said Arthur had discovered Adrian Cole was working with Carlo Bellini to restructure Moretti assets.

Arthur preserved the original trust and planned to testify.

Then my mother became ill.

Adrian offered money.

Treatment.

Protection.

Arthur stayed silent.

“He sold out?”

Margaret looked at me sharply.

“No.”

“He took money.”

“He took money for your mother’s medicine.”

“That is still money.”

“Yes.”

Her answer made me stop.

No defense.

No sainthood.

My father had compromised.

That hurt more than discovering he had secrets.

Margaret continued.

“He hated himself for it.”

“So he kept working.”

“For a while.”

“And then?”

“He began copying everything.”

The letters.

Trusts.

Accounts.

Enough to threaten Adrian.

Arthur died of a heart attack at fifty-two.

I had always believed the stress of my mother’s illness and years of overwork caused it.

Margaret looked at Miriam.

“Tell her.”

Miriam hesitated.

I stood.

“Tell me.”

My father’s preserved medical records showed a cardiac event.

But the toxicology addendum had vanished from the hospital file.

Margaret had a copy.

Traces of digitalis.

Medication Arthur had never been prescribed.

Poison.

Not dramatic.

Not instant.

Enough to create fatal arrhythmia.

I sat.

My father had been murdered.

Luca moved toward me.

Stopped before touching.

I noticed.

Even in grief.

Margaret poured tea I did not drink.

“Who?”

I already knew.

“Adrian?”

Margaret shook her head.

“Carlo.”

Vanessa’s father.

My father’s uncle.

My blood relative killed my father.

The room became too small.

Margaret continued.

“Adrian arranged the hospital.”

“Did Vanessa know?”

“No.”

I believed her.

For once, Vanessa had not inherited every sin.

Only enough of them.

Luca said, “Why did Adrian call you?”

Margaret looked at him.

“To ask where Arthur kept the last ledger.”

“What ledger?”

“Bellini accounts.”

She looked at me.

“Your father hid a book showing payments between Carlo, Adrian, and three Moretti companies.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then why did Adrian think you did?”

“Because Arthur told him only a Carter woman could open it.”

I almost laughed again.

Riddles.

Dead men.

Hidden paper.

My father had spent too much time around criminals.

Margaret stood and walked to a cabinet.

She returned with a small wooden jewelry box.

My childhood initials were carved on the lid.

L.C.

“I was told to give this to you if a Moretti ever came asking.”

Inside was no ledger.

Just a key.

And a photograph.

My father stood beside a row of safe-deposit boxes.

On the back:

NOT THE BANK. WHERE MOM KEPT HER RECIPES.

I stared.

My mother’s recipes.

After she died, Emily and I split her belongings.

I took the photographs.

Emily took the cookbooks.

My sister.

I grabbed my phone.

No answer.

Called again.

Nothing.

Miriam called the agents guarding Emily’s hotel.

No answer.

Her face changed.

We drove back toward Chicago.

Halfway there, my phone rang.

Emily.

I answered.

A man spoke.

Adrian.

Impossible.

He was in federal custody.

Or supposed to be.

“Hello, Lily.”

My blood went cold.

“Where is my sister?”

“Safe.”

Behind him, Emily cried.

Luca’s face hardened.

Miriam was already calling her office.

Adrian continued.

“Bring me Margaret’s key.”

“You’re arrested.”

“Was.”

The line crackled.

Someone had helped him escape transport.

Someone inside federal law enforcement.

“Where?”

He gave an address.

My mother’s old house.

The house Emily and I had sold three years earlier.

Then he said:

“Bring Luca too.”

I closed my eyes.

“Why?”

Adrian laughed softly.

“Because Arthur Carter hid the Bellini ledger under the floor of the room where your mother taught you to bake.”

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And I knew exactly which room he meant.

The kitchen.