“Thank you.”
Teresa glanced between us with the sensitivity of someone who understood that a wedding did not always create celebration.
“I’ll bring the tea.”
The house was quiet.
Not empty, but carefully lived in. Books rested on tables. A dark green blanket lay folded over the back of a sofa. Framed photographs stood on a piano.
I moved toward them.
Most showed Niko with Livia and Bianca. In one, he was perhaps sixteen, standing beside a tall man whose expression resembled his own.
Carlo Santoro.
The man accused of arranging my mother’s death.
I picked up the frame.
“My father,” Niko said behind me.
“You look like him.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“Did he know my mother?”
“Yes.”
I turned.
“How?”
Niko loosened his tie.
“They met through a charity foundation. Your mother was investigating missing funds. My father was one of the donors.”
“Was he involved?”
