Chapter 4 - The Only Woman Who Never Bowed
My apartment door was already open when we reached the third floor.
Not damaged.
Not broken.
Open.
Matteo stopped so suddenly that I nearly walked into his back.
Luca raised one hand, signaling everyone behind us to stay still.
The hallway smelled like old carpet, boiled cabbage, and rainwater drifting through a cracked window at the end of the building.
Normally, I hated that smell.
Now it felt familiar enough to hurt.
Matteo looked over his shoulder at me.
“Did you lock it this morning?”
“Yes.”
“You are certain?”
“I lock it every morning.”
“With what?”
“A key, Matteo.”
His jaw tightened.
“How many copies?”
“One with me. One with the landlord.”
Luca stepped toward the door.
Matteo caught his arm.
“Wait.”
He studied the frame.
No splintered wood. No scratches around the lock.
Someone had entered cleanly.
Someone who knew what they were doing.
Matteo turned to one of the men behind us.
“Check the landlord.”
The man nodded and disappeared down the stairs.
I stepped around Matteo.
He blocked me with one arm.
“No.”
“That is my apartment.”
“And someone may still be inside.”
“Then they are standing on my rug.”
“Tessa.”
“I hate that rug, but that is not the point.”
His eyes sharpened.
“Stay behind me.”
“I do not take orders well.”
“I noticed.”
Matteo drew a handgun from beneath his jacket.
I stared at it.
“You brought another one?”
“I generally do not survive by carrying coupons.”
Luca drew his weapon too.
The two men entered silently.
I waited three seconds.
Then followed them.
Matteo turned instantly.
His mouth tightened.
I lifted both hands.
“You said behind you.”
“This is not what I meant.”
“You should be more specific.”
He looked like he wanted to argue, but Luca moved deeper into the apartment.
The living room had been torn apart.
Couch cushions lay on the floor. My coffee table was overturned. Books had been pulled from the shelves and opened, their pages bent and crushed beneath muddy shoes.
I stopped breathing.
The place had never been beautiful.
The wallpaper was peeling near the ceiling. The windows rattled whenever buses passed. The heater worked only when threatened.
But it was mine.
Every cheap lamp, secondhand chair, and chipped coffee mug had been chosen because I could afford it.
Now the apartment looked violated.
Not robbed.
Searched.
“They did not take the television,” Luca said.
“It barely works,” I replied.
“They were not looking for valuables.”
Matteo crossed the room.
“Bedroom clear.”
Luca checked the kitchen.
“Clear.”
I moved toward the books.
Matteo caught my wrist.
“Do not touch anything.”
“They destroyed my mother’s things.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t.”
His grip loosened.
I pulled away.
“She wrote in these books. There are recipes, translations, notes from when I was a child.”
I picked up a paperback with a torn cover.
A grocery list was written in my mother’s handwriting across the final page.
Milk.
Bread.
Tessa’s medicine.
I pressed my thumb against the words.
Matteo watched me without speaking.
That was the first intelligent thing he had done since we met.
I moved to the bedroom.
My drawers had been emptied. Clothes covered the floor. The mattress had been dragged halfway off the bed.
The old blue scarf from Florence was gone.
My chest tightened.
“No.”
I dropped to my knees and searched beneath the clothes.
“What?” Matteo asked.
“Her scarf.”
“What scarf?”
“The one from the photograph.”
I shoved aside a sweater.
“It was here.”
Luca appeared in the doorway.
“They took it?”
“Why would they take a scarf?”
“To tell you they were here,” Matteo said.
I looked up.
He was standing beside the door, shoulders still, face unreadable.
“They left the door open,” he continued. “They wanted you to see this.”
“Then they failed.”
“What?”
“They wanted me frightened.”
Matteo looked around the room.
“You are frightened.”
I stood.
“I am angry.”
“They are not opposites.”
“I know.”
I crossed the hall to the spare closet.
Boxes were stacked from floor to ceiling.
Most were labeled in my mother’s handwriting.
Kitchen.
Winter clothes.
Tessa’s school.
Books—Florence.
I pulled the last one free.
The bottom had been cut open.
Empty.
My stomach dropped.
“They found it.”
Matteo crouched beside the box.
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
He examined the cardboard.
“This was cut recently, but not today.”
I stared at him.
“How can you tell?”
“The edges are dusty.”
Luca took the box and checked the inside.
“He is right.”
I folded my arms.
“The two of you seem very comfortable studying damaged boxes.”
Luca looked at me.
“We have unusual hobbies.”
Matteo ignored him.
“Did you ever move the book?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Think.”
“I returned from Florence with my mother eight years ago. I spent the next five helping her through treatment, bills, and hospital appointments. Forgive me for not memorizing where every book went.”
Matteo stood slowly.
His voice softened.
“I am not blaming you.”
“You sound like you are.”
“I sound like someone trying to keep you alive.”
“And I sound like someone whose home was destroyed.”
The words came out louder than I intended.
Silence filled the room.
Luca looked away.
Matteo remained still.
Then he removed his jacket and placed it carefully over the back of a chair that had been knocked sideways.
He rolled up his sleeves.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Looking.”
“You?”
“Yes.”
“You have men.”
“They do not know your mother.”
“Neither do you.”
“No.”
He met my eyes.
“But you do.”
For the next hour, the most feared man in Philadelphia searched through my dead mother’s belongings.
He did not complain about the dust.
He did not order anyone else to do the difficult work.
He sat on the floor in a suit that probably cost more than my yearly income and opened every book carefully, checking the spines, the margins, and the covers.
His men searched the apartment in silence.
I sat beside him.
At first, we said nothing.
Then Matteo opened a battered copy of Dante’s Inferno.
“Your mother wrote insults in the margins.”
I looked over.
“She hated weak translations.”
“She called this one ‘a crime against rhythm.’”
“She was being polite.”
He glanced at me.
“You sound like her.”
“You never met her.”
“Our mothers corresponded.”
I froze.
“What?”
Matteo reached inside the book and removed an envelope.
It had not been hidden.
Just forgotten between the pages.
The handwriting on the front belonged to my mother.
Sofia Moretti.
Matteo took a slow breath.
“May I?”
I nodded.
He opened it carefully.
The letter was written in Italian.
Dear Sofia,
Tessa believes Florence belongs to poets, painters, and tourists who walk too slowly. I have not told her that it also belongs to women who survive impossible things.
You asked how you could repay me. Please stop asking.
You stayed with me when the test results came. That is enough.
There are matters we should discuss when you are stronger. I found something inside the translation files that does not belong there. Names. Payments. Shipping dates.
I do not know who placed them there.
I fear someone used the hospital as a meeting place because nobody notices sick women.
Keep this letter safe.
Do not trust anyone wearing the red lily.
Matteo stopped reading.
Luca swore quietly.
I took the letter from Matteo.
My hands trembled.
“She knew.”
“Yes.”
“She knew about the symbol.”
“Yes.”
“And she never told me.”
“She was protecting you.”
“By leaving me completely unprepared?”
“She did what parents do.”
I looked at him.
“You say that as though you understand.”
Something cold passed over his face.
“I understand more than you think.”
Luca took out his phone.
“The Red Lily was a network.”
“Was?” I asked.
“It disappeared fifteen years ago,” Matteo said.
“What kind of network?”
“Smuggling. Bribery. Political protection. Judges, shipping executives, hospital administrators.”
“Why hospitals?”
“They moved money through charitable foundations and medical supply contracts.”
I looked down at my mother’s letter.
“She found records.”
“Possibly names tied to the organization.”
“And they think those names are in the poetry book.”
“Yes.”
I stood.
“Then we find it before they do.”
Matteo rose with me.
“No. You leave Philadelphia tonight.”
I laughed.
He did not.
“You are serious.”
“Completely.”
“Where exactly am I going?”
“I have a property in Vermont.”
“Of course you do.”
“You will be protected.”
“I will be trapped.”
“You will be alive.”
“I am not hiding in one of your mountain mansions while strangers tear apart my mother’s life.”
His voice hardened.
“This is not negotiation.”
“Everything with me is negotiation.”
“No.”
I stepped closer.
He was taller by nearly a foot, broader, armed, and surrounded by men who obeyed him without question.
I still did not lower my eyes.
“You came into my workplace and called me stupid.”
His jaw tightened.
“You insulted my job, my clothes, and my shoes.”
“I remember.”
“You believed I was beneath you.”
“I was wrong.”
“Then do not stand in my home and make decisions for me.”
His gaze remained on mine.
“I am trying to protect you.”
“No. You are trying to control the variables.”
“That is how protection works.”
“That is how prisons work.”
Luca shifted near the door.
Matteo looked at him.
“Leave us.”
Luca hesitated.
“Matteo—”
“Now.”
Everyone left the room.
The apartment became quiet.
Matteo lowered his voice.
“You do not understand what they will do if they take you.”
“Then explain it.”
“They will hurt you.”
“I assumed.”
“They will not begin with questions.”
I swallowed.
He stepped closer.
“They will make you believe nobody is coming.”
His expression changed.
Not much.
But enough.
“You have seen that happen,” I said.
“Yes.”
“To whom?”
He looked toward the broken window blinds.
“My younger brother.”
I said nothing.
“He was nineteen,” Matteo continued. “He was taken because someone wanted leverage against my father.”
“What happened?”
“We found him after three days.”
“Alive?”
“Yes.”
The word sounded worse than no.
Matteo looked back at me.
“He never recovered.”
I felt some of my anger loosen.
Not disappear.
Just shift.
“What was his name?”
“Gabriel.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I do not need sympathy.”
“No. You need therapy.”
He stared at me.
Then, unexpectedly, he laughed.
A real laugh.
Quiet, brief, and tired.
It changed his face completely.
For one second, he did not look like a crime boss.
He looked thirty-four.
Human.
Then the moment passed.
He stepped closer.
“I will not allow the same thing to happen to you.”
“You cannot promise that.”
“I can promise what I will do to prevent it.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“No.”
He glanced down at my shoe.
The tape had begun peeling from the sole.
“You still need new shoes.”
I looked down.
“Is this really the time?”
“I dislike unfinished problems.”
“I am not a problem.”
His eyes lifted to mine.
“You are several problems.”
I almost smiled.
Almost.
Then someone knocked twice on the apartment door.
Luca entered holding a small paper bag.
“We found the landlord.”
“And?” Matteo asked.
“He gave a duplicate key to a man claiming to be from the gas company.”
“I’m going to kill him,” I said.
Luca blinked.
Matteo looked faintly amused.
“You objected when I threatened the gunman.”
“The gunman did not let strangers into my apartment.”
Luca handed me the paper bag.
“What is this?”
“Shoes.”
I looked at Matteo.
He said nothing.
I opened the bag.
Inside was a pair of black nonslip sneakers.
My size.
“I told you I do not want your money.”
“They cost thirty-nine dollars.”
“That is not the point.”
“You said forty-five.”
“They were on sale?”
“Apparently.”
I stared at him.
“You sent an armed man to buy discounted work shoes.”
“They had good reviews.”
Luca looked offended.
“I compared three brands.”
Despite everything, I laughed.
It came out suddenly.
Matteo watched me with an expression I could not identify.
I held the shoes against my chest.
“I am paying you back.”
“No.”
“Then I will throw them out.”
His eyes narrowed.
“You are difficult.”
“You are controlling.”
“Wear the shoes.”
“Say please.”
Luca turned toward the door.
“I have survived ambushes that were less dangerous than this conversation.”
Matteo waited until he left.
Then he looked at me.
“Please.”
I blinked.
It sounded unnatural in his mouth.
Careful.
Almost gentle.
I sat on the edge of the bed and replaced my broken sneakers.
The new shoes fit perfectly.
When I stood, Matteo looked satisfied.
“Now,” he said, “we move you somewhere safe.”
I exhaled.
“Fine.”
His eyebrows rose.
“But I choose the location.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Tessa.”
“There is one place my mother hid things when she thought I was too young to understand.”
He went still.
“Where?”
“The university library.”
“In Florence?”
May you like
I shook my head.
“Philadelphia.”
