Chapter 2 - The Name My Grandmother Buried
I quit Bellissimo the next morning.
Marco called seven times.
I ignored all seven.
At 9:14, another number appeared.
Italy.
I answered immediately.
“Hello?”
“Sophia.”
My grandmother sounded weak.
“Nonna.”
“You called last night.”
I sat on my bed.
“I was going to book a flight.”
“No.”
“What?”
“Listen to me.”
Her tone changed.
Even sick, Rosa could still make me feel eight years old.
“Did anyone hear you speaking Italian?”
I went silent.
“Sophia?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“A man named Vincent.”
Nothing.
Then I heard my grandmother breathe sharply.
“Vincent what?”
“I don't know.”
“Describe him.”
“Nonna—”
“Describe him.”
“Dark hair. Maybe thirty-four. Italian-American. Everyone listened to him.”
“Anything else?”
“Tattoos.”
Silence.
Then she whispered a name.
“Vincent Romano.”
My stomach tightened.
“You know him?”
“I knew his father.”
“Who is he?”
“You must leave New York.”
I stood.
“No. I'm done running.”
“This is different.”
“Different from Ryan? Different from starting over with sixty dollars?”
“Much different.”
“Then tell me the truth.”
She didn't answer.
“Bellacosta,” I said.
Her breathing stopped.
“I heard Vincent say it.”
“Sophia…”
“Who are the Bellacostas?”
“My family.”
“What kind of family?”
“The kind I escaped.”
A knock sounded at my apartment door.
Three slow knocks.
“Nonna, hold on.”
“No!”
Her sudden shout startled me.
“Do not open that door.”
I approached silently.
“Who is it?”
A man's voice answered.
“Delivery.”
“I didn't order anything.”
Silence.
Then the doorknob moved.
My grandmother whispered, “Sophia, get away from the door.”
Someone struck it hard.
I ran.
The second impact cracked the frame.
I grabbed the small kitchen knife beside the sink.
The door burst inward.
A large man entered.
He wasn't Vincent.
He wore a gray coat.
“Sophia Bell?”
“Get out.”
“Your grandmother sent me.”
“No, she didn't.”
He smiled.
“Smart.”
Then another voice came from the hallway.
“She said get out.”
Vincent appeared.
Two men stood behind him.
The intruder reached beneath his coat.
Vincent's men moved immediately.
“Don't,” Vincent warned.
The stranger stopped.
Vincent stepped inside.
“Tell Moretti he was too slow.”
The stranger's face changed.
Vincent nodded toward the hallway.
“Leave.”
The man backed out.
I stared at Vincent.
“Who was that?”
“Someone who shouldn't know you exist.”
“Apparently everybody knows I exist except me.”
Vincent looked at my phone.
“Is Rosa on the line?”
I raised it.
My grandmother spoke.
“Vincent Romano.”
Vincent became completely still.
“Mrs. Bellacosta.”
“Put my granddaughter somewhere safe.”
His eyes moved to me.
“I intend to.”
“I wasn't asking.”
For the first time, I saw Vincent Romano obey someone without argument.
“Yes, ma'am.”
I almost laughed from disbelief.
“Can somebody explain what's happening?”
My grandmother sighed.
“Your mother wasn't simply an American girl living in Sicily.”
I sat down.
“Her name was Elena Bellacosta.”
“I know.”
“She was my daughter.”
“I know that too.”
“And her father—my husband—was Salvatore Bellacosta.”
Vincent looked away.
I noticed.
“Who was he?”
My grandmother answered.
“Once, he controlled one of the most powerful criminal organizations in Sicily.”
I stared at the phone.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“My grandfather sold olive oil.”
“That was what I told you.”
I looked at Vincent.
“And him?”
Vincent answered.
“My father worked with your grandfather.”
My head spun.
“Why did you recognize my accent?”
“Your grandmother came from a small area outside Palermo. The dialect is distinctive.”
“That doesn't explain my name.”
“No.”
“Then explain it.”
Vincent hesitated.
“Your mother disappeared after your grandfather was murdered.”
My throat tightened.
“My mother died in a car accident.”
“When you were four.”
“Yes.”
“That wasn't the whole story.”
My grandmother began crying quietly.
I had almost never heard her cry.
“Nonna?”
“Your mother was killed because of her family name.”
The room seemed to tilt.
Vincent spoke softly.
“Rosa took you and disappeared.”
I looked toward my broken apartment door.
“And now somebody found me.”
“Yes.”
“Because you investigated me.”
His jaw tightened.
“They were already watching Bellissimo.”
“So this is your fault.”
“Partly.”
“Partly?”
“Sophia—”
“No. Don't say my name like we're friends.”
He accepted that.
I grabbed a bag.
“I'm going to Italy.”
Vincent shook his head.
“Airports will be watched.”
“By who?”
“Luca Moretti.”
The name meant nothing to me.
My grandmother whispered, “It should.”
“Why?”
“Because Luca believes the Bellacosta family left something behind.”
“What?”
Vincent answered.
“Evidence.”
I laughed bitterly.
“Of course. Criminal grandfather. Murdered mother. Secret evidence. Anything else?”
Rosa spoke.
“Yes.”
I closed my eyes.
“What?”
“Your mother gave it to me before she died.”
I stopped breathing.
“Where is it?”
“I hid it.”
“Where?”
My grandmother's answer was barely audible.
May you like
“Inside something you already own.”
---
