Chapter 4 - The Man I Buried My Daughter Because Of
Tomas smiled when he saw me.
That was the worst part.
Not apology.
Not shame.
A smile.
Like we were meeting for coffee instead of in an interview room at a federal satellite office outside Providence.
Camila insisted the questioning happen on neutral ground.
Lorenzo hated that.
I insisted.
He hated that more.
He came anyway.
He stayed behind the glass.
I knew because I could feel his anger through the wall.
Tomas looked thinner than I remembered.
His beard was untrimmed.
One eye still had the twitch that appeared when he was lying.
“Elena.”
I did not answer.
His smile faded.
“You look good.”
Camila said, “Answer questions only.”
He looked at her.
Then back at me.
“You really working for these people now?”
My stomach turned.
“These people paid your debt.”
His face changed.
Good.
Camila slid payment records across the table.
Forty-eight thousand dollars.
Cleared by a shell company linked to Luca Rossi.
“What did you do for him?” she asked.
Tomas leaned back.
“Nothing.”
His eye twitched.
I said, “You always touch your eyebrow when you lie.”
He stopped touching it.
Camila almost smiled.
Tomas looked at me with old anger.
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Act like you know me.”
I stared.
“I knew you well enough to know when to stop standing near stairs.”
Silence.
His face emptied.
Good.
No tears from me.
Not for him.
Camila continued.
“Luca Rossi paid your gambling debt. In exchange?”
Tomas looked toward the glass.
He knew someone was behind it.
“Protection.”
“From who?”
“Him.”
“Luca?”
“Yes.”
“Why would you need protection from Luca?”
“Because I owed money to his people.”
Circular.
Camila leaned forward.
“Try again.”
Tomas broke after forty minutes.
Not dramatically.
Slowly.
Like weak wood.
Luca had approached him after learning my identity from the staff screening list.
He knew Tomas was my ex.
Knew about the pending assault case.
Knew about the baby.
That last part made my hands shake.
“What did he want?”
“To know whether you were still producing milk.”
My blood went cold.
Luca had known before Leo fed from me.
“How?”
Tomas looked ashamed.
“You told my sister.”
I had.
My sister Isabel and I spoke every night.
“I followed her.”
I stood.
Camila put one hand on my arm.
“Sit.”
I sat.
“What else?”
“He wanted me hired on a vendor crew.”
“Why?”
“To get access.”
“To what?”
“The nursery wing.”
“Why?”
“He didn’t say.”
Liar.
“Tomas.”
His eye twitched.
I waited.
“He said the baby was a problem.”
The room went silent.
“What kind of problem?”
“Succession.”
I stared.
Lorenzo had no other children.
Leo was the heir.
If Leo died, what happened?
I knew the answer before Tomas said it.
Luca became next in line.
Not to legal businesses.
To the entire Rossi organization.
My stomach turned.
“Did he ask you to poison Leo?”
“No.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
“Did you touch the bottle?”
“No.”
“Then what were you supposed to do?”
“Swap labels.”
I frowned.
“Labels?”
“Milk storage labels. Date stickers. Names.”
“Why?”
“He said he wanted a feeding mistake.”
Not necessarily death.
Enough to discredit me.
Enough to remove me.
Enough to keep Leo failing.
“Why keep him weak?”
Tomas shrugged.
“More control.”
I wanted to be sick.
Camila asked, “Who added diazepam?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who had access?”
“A guy named Franco.”
Lorenzo moved behind the glass.
I heard the chair scrape.
Camila’s eyes sharpened.
“Franco who?”
“Bellini.”
Security pharmacist.
I remembered him.
Quiet man.
Gray hair.
Always carrying a silver key ring.
Camila stood.
Interview over.
Tomas looked at me.
“Elena.”
I turned.
“I’m sorry.”
I laughed once.
He flinched.
“You are sorry because you were caught.”
“No.”
“You shoved me.”
“I know.”
“You killed Sofia.”
His face broke.
Good.
The name mattered.
“You do not get to say you’re sorry and make that sentence smaller.”
“I was drunk.”
“You were violent.”
He looked down.
“I loved you.”
“No.”
I stood.
“You loved what you could control.”
The words came from somewhere deeper than anger.
I left.
Lorenzo was waiting in the hallway.
His face was terrifying.
I pointed at him.
“No.”
He blinked.
“You don’t even know what I’m going to say.”
“Yes, I do.”
“I was going to ask if you’re all right.”
I stared.
“Oh.”
He almost smiled.
Then I started crying.
Not gracefully.
Not quietly.
The hallway blurred.
Lorenzo did not touch me.
He stood there.
Waiting.
Choice.
I stepped toward him.
That was my decision.
He opened his arms.
I cried against his chest for several minutes.
Not because I loved him.
Not yet.
Because grief has weight.
Sometimes you need another body to hold part of it.
When I stepped back, he handed me a handkerchief.
“Who carries these?”
“My mother buys them.”
“Of course.”
Camila came out.
“Franco is gone.”
Lorenzo’s face hardened.
“From the estate?”
“Left forty minutes ago.”
“Find him.”
Camila looked at me.
Then back at Lorenzo.
“Police are already involved.”
Good.
He hated it.
Good.
Franco was arrested that night at Logan Airport with cash, forged documents, and three diazepam tablets in his luggage.
He confessed within a day.
Luca had ordered him to sabotage feedings.
Not kill Leo, he claimed.
Sedate him.
Make him lethargic.
Slow weight gain.
Keep Lorenzo distracted.
Keep the organization unstable.
Then came the part that changed everything.
Franco had worked Valentina’s security detail too.
The week before the car bombing.
I sat in the study while Lorenzo read the statement.
His face turned white.
“Ask him.”
Camila hesitated.
“Ask what?”
Lorenzo looked up.
“Whether Luca killed my wife.”
That night, I could not sleep.
The image of Tomas across the interview table kept returning, but it was not his face that hurt most.
It was the old version of me reflected in his eyes.
The woman who used to explain his moods away.
The woman who confused surviving an argument with winning one.
The woman who apologized for things she had not done because peace felt safer than truth.
I stood in the mansion kitchen at 1:30 a.m. drinking water when Lorenzo walked in.
He stopped.
“You’re awake.”
“So are you.”
He opened a cabinet.
“What are you doing?”
“Looking for coffee.”
“At one-thirty?”
“I have poor coping skills.”
“Accurate.”
He found the coffee but did not make it.
Instead, he leaned against the counter.
“You were brave today.”
I shook my head.
“No.”
“Elena.”
“I was scared the entire time.”
“That doesn’t make it less brave.”
I looked at him.
That sentence felt too close to something I needed.
“Don’t make me inspirational.”
“I would never.”
“Good.”
We stood there in silence.
Then I asked, “Did Valentina ever tell you she was afraid?”
His face changed.
“Once.”
“What did you do?”
“I added two guards.”
Of course.
“What did she want?”
“I don’t know.”
“You never asked?”
He looked ashamed.
“No.”
There it was.
The pattern.
Someone says fear.
Powerful man hears logistics.
“Maybe that’s why this keeps happening,” I said.
His eyes sharpened.
“What?”
“You hear danger and immediately try to control the environment.”
“What should I do?”
“Sometimes ask what the person needs.”
He was quiet.
Then:
“What do you need?”
The question stopped me.
I looked down.
“Sleep.”
He nodded.
“Anything else?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Do not let Tomas or Luca turn Sofia into a story about your revenge.”
His jaw tightened.
Then relaxed.
“I won’t.”
I believed he meant it.
May you like
That did not mean he would succeed.
But for the first time, I saw the difference.
