Chapter 6 – The Call He Wouldn’t Make

Luca stared at Michael.

“There was a nurse in Dad’s bedroom?”

Michael looked toward Teresa.

“She stopped by earlier that evening.”

“You told me nobody came.”

“I told you nobody was there when he died.”

Teresa shook her head.

“She was there before.”

Luca leaned forward.

“Mom, do you remember her name?”

Teresa closed her eyes.

For several seconds, she seemed to be searching carefully through her memory.

“Margaret,” she said at last. “Margaret Ellis.”

I recognized the name.

Not because I’d ever met her.

But because I’d seen it written inside Antonio’s old appointment calendar.

Mrs. Ellis had been a visiting nurse during the last months of his illness.

Her appointments appeared regularly.

Then they stopped.

On the day before his death.

Luca turned toward Michael.

“Why wasn’t she mentioned afterward?”

Michael rubbed his face.

“Because she wasn’t involved in his death.”

“Then why did Mom say she told you to call an ambulance?”

“She was worried about his breathing.”

“That sounds like a reason to call.”

“Dad didn’t want another hospital stay.”

Luca hesitated.

That much was true.

Antonio had spent too much of his final year inside medical facilities.

He’d asked repeatedly to remain at home whenever possible.

Luca remembered those conversations.

“He had instructions about emergency treatment,” Luca said slowly.

Michael nodded.

“Exactly.”

“But that doesn’t explain why you hid the fact that Margaret was there.”

Michael looked away.

Teresa tightened her grip on the blanket.

“She said Antonio was getting worse.”

Luca turned back.

“Did she stay?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Teresa looked at Michael.

“He told her he would take care of it.”

Michael’s jaw tightened.

“She had other patients.”

Luca stared at him.

“Dad’s nurse said he needed help. You said you’d handle it. And then nobody called me.”

Michael folded his arms.

“You were in Milwaukee. What were you going to do?”

Luca looked stunned.

“Come home.”

“He could have died before you got here.”

“I still would have come.”

Michael said nothing.

Luca’s voice dropped.

“That’s what you took from me.”

I watched the brothers.

For most of the evening, Michael had treated the conversation as though it concerned paperwork.

Money.

Bills.

A care facility.

But now Luca was looking at him as a son who had missed his father’s final hours.

And I understood that Michael had been trying to avoid this moment for four years.

Teresa suddenly reached toward the green notebook.

“Antonio wanted the records fixed.”

Michael exhaled sharply.

“Mom—”

She looked at him.

“He said you could still make it right.”

Michael stopped speaking.

Luca turned.

“What did he mean?”

Teresa swallowed.

“Your father wasn’t trying to punish Michael.”

Michael looked down.

“He wanted his son to stop hiding things.”

The room became quiet.

That was a different version of Antonio Moretti from the one Michael had been describing.

Not a confused old man suspicious of his son.

A dying father who knew something was wrong and wanted it corrected before he left his family.

Luca seemed to recognize that.

He looked at the torn note.

Then at the green notebook.

“Michael, what did Dad want you to fix?”

Michael shook his head.

“I told you. The investment.”

“What was wrong with it?”

“It lost money.”

“How much?”

Michael hesitated.

“More than I expected.”

Luca waited.

Michael looked toward Vanessa.

She slowly shook her head.

“Don’t look at me.”

He stared at her.

“You encouraged this.”

“I encouraged you to arrange care for Teresa. I didn’t know what happened the night Antonio died.”

Michael’s face hardened.

“You knew I couldn’t let her keep asking questions.”

Vanessa went still.

Luca turned toward her.

“What does that mean?”

Vanessa looked suddenly frightened.

“Michael told me your mother was becoming distressed by old memories.”

“Did he tell you why?”

“No.”

Michael laughed bitterly.

“That’s convenient.”

Vanessa looked at him.

“I didn’t know about the nurse. I didn’t know you were in that room.”

Luca watched her.

“Then what did you know?”

She swallowed.

“That he was afraid Teresa would tell you something about your father’s accounts.”

The room went silent.

Michael looked toward the floor.

Vanessa continued.

“He said it had all been settled years ago. He said reopening the matter would destroy the family.”

Luca stared at his brother.

“And you believed him?”

Vanessa’s expression tightened.

“I wanted to.”

It was an unexpectedly honest answer.

She looked toward Teresa.

“I thought moving her somewhere with professional care would solve two problems. She’d have help, and these memories wouldn’t keep upsetting her.”

Teresa stared at her.

“You wanted me to forget.”

Vanessa lowered her eyes.

“I wanted things to be peaceful.”

Teresa’s voice trembled.

“They were peaceful before everyone started telling me I had to leave.”

Vanessa didn’t answer.

I watched her face.

She looked ashamed.

But shame wasn’t the same thing as taking responsibility.

Luca returned to the notebook.

The torn pages bothered him.

I could see it.

He examined the binding, then the remaining entries.

Something had been removed deliberately.

Not an old receipt.

Not a random page.

The missing section came immediately after Antonio’s notes about the care account.

Luca looked toward me.

“Hannah, did you see Michael remove anything from this notebook?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you see where he put the torn pages?”

“No.”

I hesitated.

Then remembered something else.

“But I saw him carry a bundle of papers from your father’s study last Tuesday.”

Michael looked up sharply.

Luca turned.

“Where did he take them?”

“To the library.”

Michael sighed.

“I was sorting archives.”

“Did he leave them there?” Luca asked me.

I thought carefully.

“I don’t know.”

Then I remembered the thin brown envelope I’d found while polishing the library shelves.

It had been tucked behind a row of old books.

I’d assumed it belonged to the household accounts.

“Mr. Moretti,” I said, “I may know where some of the papers are.”

Michael’s expression changed.

“Those are private records.”

Luca looked at him.

“Then you won’t mind if I read them.”

He turned toward me.

“Show me.”

We moved into the library.

The house was silent now.

I crossed to the shelves beside Antonio’s old writing desk.

Behind a row of leather-bound books was the brown envelope.

I pulled it free.

Michael stood in the doorway.

Luca opened it.

Inside were several torn green pages.

And a folded payment record.

He read the first entry.

Then the second.

His expression hardened.

“Michael.”

His brother didn’t answer.

Luca held up the statement.

“Dad didn’t just lend you money.”

Michael stared at the floor.

Luca’s voice became almost inaudible.

“You were taking it from the account he created to care for Mom after he died.”

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