The uncle I had been told died of a sudden heart attack in South America when I was ten years old.
The uncle whose closed-casket funeral I had attended as a child, watching my mother weep tears that I now realized were made of terror, not grief.
“Boss…”
La voz de Rocco rompió mi silencio aturdido.
Estaba mirando los extractos bancarios.
“Look at the dates on these Swiss medical bills.
They aren’t historical.
These bills were paid… last month.”
“My mother isn’t dead,” I whispered, the crushing weight of the revelation sinking into my chest.
“She faked her death two years ago.
She’s being kept in a private facility… or hiding.”
Suddenly, the heavy silence of the house was shattered by a scream coming from the lower floor—the laundry quarters near the servant entrance.
“Lorenzo!”
It was Vivien’s voice.
Pero no era la voz de un asesino tranquilo y calculador.
