“For our mother.”
Our mother.
I had never met her.
Alessandro’s mother, Isabella, still lived part of the year in Connecticut after a stroke.
“Mom believed Marco was brilliant.”
“He was.”
“Yes.”
“And wrong.”
“Yes.”
“You let me believe David caused the losses.”
“I did not tell you he caused them.”
“You let me believe Marco’s accusation.”
Victoria looked down.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because Marco died before the audit finished.”
Silence.
“He never got the chance to explain.”
“That does not make the records false.”
“No.”
“He blamed an employee to hide losses.”
“Yes.”
“You buried that because he died.”
“Yes.”
Alessandro stood.
Not angry in a dangerous way.
Just
unable to sit.
He walked toward the window.
Victoria watched him.
“I was wrong.”
He did not answer.
“I thought correcting the story would make grief worse.”
He turned.
“It makes grief worse now.”
“Yes.”
“Four years later.”
“Yes.”
He looked at her for a long time.
Then asked:
“Did Mom know?”
“No.”
“Will you tell her?”
Victoria swallowed.
“If you want.”
He shook his head.
“No.”
Her face changed.
“You tell her because it’s true.”
That landed.
Not revenge.
Not punishment.
Truth.
Victoria nodded.
“I will.”
Alessandro sat again.
His face had changed.
Less like a man in control.
More like a younger brother learning someone he loved had been flawed in a way everyone hid from him.
I understood more than I wanted to.
David had been flawed too.
And maybe I had simplified him because anger was easier than ambiguity.
But one thing remained.
“Where is David?”
Anthony answered.
“We don’t know.”
I looked at Victoria.
“When was the last contact?”
“Ten months ago.”
“What did he say?”
She hesitated.
“Read it.”
She gave me a printed email.
