I need to know what the hell happened the night everything changed for her.
Was her mother abusive? Did she kill her by accident?
How the fuck does a child plunge a knife into someone’s heart?
Where would she even get one? And why hasn’t she displayed any signs of malice since? It’s been months, and she had plenty of reasons and opportunities to at least attempt something on my life. Yet, she hasn’t.
As gently as I can, I slide from under her, covering her with the sheets. Before I go, I leave the door open, instructing Svetlana to keep an eye on her until I’m back. Then, I pull out my phone and dial Antonio on the way to the office I rarely use a few doors down.
No answer.
I call again.
By the time I enter the room, I’m prepared to dial hisconsigliere, but the Don picks up at last.
“Pronto,” he answers, annoyance lacing his voice. “You’ve got some nerve to be calling at this hour, son.”
I check the time, and it’s barely eleven.
“My bad. I forget you’re old,” I rasp. “But this is an emergency, so you’re going to sit the fuck down and answer my questions.”
“Figlio di puttana?—”
“What thefuckhappened the night Cecilia killed her mother?” I drawl.
A long pause. “If you think I’m going to discuss that with you…”
“Tell me!” I shout, slapping my palm against the desk. With the other, I’m gripping my phone so hard, I’m surprised it doesn’t crack. “Because my wife tried to kill herself tonight, and I need answers.”
“I take it she finally remembered...Cazzo! The shrink said this could happen. Are you sure you want to have this conversation over the phone?”
“Unless you’re able to teleport, yeah, we’re having it right fucking now. Start talking, Antonio, if you care about your daughter at all.”
“If I care?” He snorts. “You have no fucking idea how hard it was to...” A heavy sigh. “Vabene. Where do I even start?” The sound of sheets being moved around tells me he’s getting up.
I put him on speaker and look out the window into the dark, my focused expression staring back at me.
Then, he begins.
“The day Giada died, everything changed for us. My baby girl—la mia picolla—ruined me. She was going to be a star. Giada played the piano, you see, and Cecilia picked it up quickly. That terrible evening, they had a fight. My wife was busy hosting a party for the business—we had just landed a big hit against the Irish—and Cecilia had one of those tantrums because Giada didn’t have time to play with her. The party ended, and we both put her to bed. She seemed fine, then. Like any kid, crying one minute, then laughing the next.”
He continues, “I had to take a phone call, and Giada fell asleep in the master bedroom. When Lucia screamed from the second floor, everyone heard her?—”
My jaw clenches. “Lucia Donatello wasthere?”
“Yes, yes, we had just hired her a year prior to help Cecilia with her piano practice. She came to the party, then stayed for…I can’t remember the reason.” I can practically picture him waving a hand in the air.
“So she’s the one who found Cecilia over her mother’s corpse,” I confirm.
His voice turns rougher. “Si. I went upstairs, and when I entered our bedroom, Lucia was shaking in a corner, afraid of my little girl. Can you imagine? She was only six years old. There was blood everywhere, and she stood by Giada’s bed with that knife in her small hands. She was so pale, so childish, but themess around her made her look a thousand times older. The only word she could say was ‘sorry’.”
“And you believed the piano teacher over a fucking child? What if she’d staged it? In fact, it’s very fuckingplausibleshe did.”
“You weren’t there, son. Lucia was horrified! Cecilia was calm—I’d never seen her so calm before. A child doesn’t look like that unless something’s wrong with her. Plus, Lucia had no reason to lie. She loved my wife. They were friends, met each other at the Conservatory years prior.”
Calm, he says. I’ve seen killers calm. But I’ve also seen people go numb after witnessing something traumatic.
“What did Cecilia say when you talked to her?” I demand.
