The Road to St. Anselm
Chapter 09 - The Road to St. Anselm
Luca did not panic.
That frightened me more than if he had.
He took Enzo’s phone, asked three questions, and listened to three answers. His face settled into something so cold I understood, finally, why men crossed streets to avoid his name.
“When?”
“Seven minutes ago,” Enzo said. “Service garage. Black Escalade. Driver identified as one of Victor’s.”
“Nora?”
“Safe. Locked in the pantry. Furious.”
“Victor?”
“Also gone.”
Rose, still in the car because I refused to leave her alone, whispered, “This is insane.”
“Yes,” I said. “But it is very organized insanity.”
Luca looked at Enzo.
“St. Anselm.”
Enzo nodded.
The driver changed lanes so sharply that horns screamed around us.
Luca called a number and said, “Close every private gate between here and Briarcliff.”
A pause.
“I do not care whose name is on the property. Close them.”
Another call.
“No police yet. I want Matteo alive, not inside a jurisdictional circus.”
I heard myself say, “He needs police.”
Luca turned.
The old version of me would have apologized for speaking.
That woman had been left somewhere between the forged complaint and the green box.
“You cannot handle a kidnapped child like a business inconvenience,” I said.
Pain flashed across his face.
“You think I don’t know that?”
“I think men like you are used to solving things privately.”
Rose made a small sound that might have been fear or approval.
Luca held my gaze.
Then he called again.
“Detective Salerno. My son has been taken. I am sending location data now.”
He ended the call.
“Better?”
“No,” I said honestly. “But less wrong.”
For the first time that night, he almost smiled.
Then the green box shifted on my lap, and the flash drive clicked against the metal side.
“The drive,” I said.
Luca pulled a small laptop from the compartment between the seats.
Of course he had a laptop hidden in a car. Men like Luca prepared for ambush, lawsuits, and apparently ghosts.
He inserted the drive.
Folders appeared.
ACCIDENT_REPORT_DRAFT
SANTORO_PAYMENTS
ST_ANSELM_BOARD
MARA_FINAL_CALL
Luca’s hand hovered over the last folder.
Then he opened accident report first.
It took less than two minutes to see why my mother had hidden it.
Mara Moretti’s car accident had been ruled weather-related. Wet road. Lost control. Guardrail. Tragic.
But the draft report on the drive included photographs the final report did not.
Cut brake line.
Tool marks.
A repair invoice from a garage connected to Santoro Maritime.
Luca went pale in a way anger cannot explain.
“You were told weather?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“By whom?”
He did not answer at first.
Then: “Rockwell.”
Of course.
Every lie that lasted in rich houses seemed to require a lawyer, a doctor, and someone paid to call cruelty discretion.
We opened the payments folder.
Victor Santoro had paid Rockwell Grant three times in the month after Mara died.
Consulting fees.
I had cleaned enough offices to know how expensive words become when they hide crime.
Then Luca opened MARA_FINAL_CALL.
A single audio file sat inside.
He stared at it.
“You don’t have to,” I said.
“Yes,” he said. “I do.”
He pressed play.
My mother’s voice came first.
Mara, listen to me. Don’t drive tonight. Bring the baby here. I’ll call Luca myself.
Then another voice, crying softly.
Mara.
He wants Matteo.
My mother again.
Who?
Mara’s answer broke through static.
Victor. And someone in Luca’s house is helping him.
The recording ended with a sound of rain.
Luca closed the laptop.
No one spoke.
Then his phone buzzed.
A video message from Vanessa.
He opened it.
Vanessa appeared in the back seat of a moving car, her red gown covered by a coat. Matteo sat beside her, rigid and furious. Victor was not visible, but his voice was.
“Luca,” Vanessa said, “before you turn this into war, understand something. Matteo is safer away from you. Sign the guardianship transfer, and he comes home after the wedding. Refuse, and Victor files Mara’s separation petition, the accident evidence, and every Moretti secret attached to your name.”
Matteo lunged for the phone.
The video cut.
Luca’s hand closed around the device so hard I thought it might crack.
My sister whispered, “Where are they taking him?”
Enzo looked at the map glowing on his phone.
“Not St. Anselm.”
Luca leaned forward.
“Then where?”
May you like
Enzo’s voice changed.
“To the old Santoro dock.”
