Chapter 63: The One Left Out

The guard at Matteo’s recognized Alexander’s car.

He apparently did not recognize the man driving it.

Elias had barely finished parking when the uniformed guard approached his window and peered inside.

"Where’s Joe?"

Elias lowered the glass.

"Retired."

The guard paused.

"Already?"

"Last week."

"Huh."

He looked Elias over with the frank curiosity of someone who’d apparently known Joe long enough to consider his replacement worth a personal inspection.

"So you’re the new one?"

"For the next five months, at least."

"Five months?"

"Probation."

The guard gave him a solemn nod.

"Good luck."

Elias wasn’t entirely certain which part required luck.

Before he could ask, the guard had already wandered back toward the entrance.

Across the parking lot, Giovanni Mercer was waiting near the cafe doors.

It was the first time Elias had properly met him.

He’d seen Giovanni before, of course. Anyone who followed business news knew who he was, particularly after Mercer Group’s increasingly visible collaboration with Vance Holdings.

Seeing someone on a screen, however, was considerably different from watching the man approach and offer his hand as though Elias wasn’t merely the person who happened to drive Alexander around.

"Mr. Navarro."

"Mr. Mercer."

"Elias is fine."

"Then Giovanni is fine."

Alexander, who’d just stepped out of the rear seat, looked between them.

"Apparently everyone is on a first-name basis tonight except me."

Elias glanced at him.

"You specifically requested Mr. Vance."

Giovanni’s mouth twitched.

Alexander looked mildly betrayed.

"I did."

"You did."

"Fine."

As they headed toward the entrance, Giovanni glanced back.

"Have you eaten?"

"I had something before we left the office."

"Something?"

"Snacks."

Alexander looked over his shoulder.

"That’s not dinner."

"I’m fine, Mr. Vance."

Giovanni didn’t argue.

He simply spoke to one of the servers once they were inside.

"Could you pack Elias a sandwich and a bottle of water?"

"Sir, that’s really not necessary."

"I know."

Alexander stopped.

There it was again.

Giovanni looked at him.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"You’re staring."

"You’ve definitely been spending too much time with my father."

Elias had no idea what that meant.

Apparently, neither man intended to explain.

Matteo’s wasn’t large.

That was part of its charm.

The main dining room had enough tables to remain lively without becoming noisy, while several smaller nooks along one wall offered privacy behind glass partitions.

Alexander and Giovanni took the farthest one.

The waiter placed two menus before them.

"This is the part where you don’t order for me," Alexander said.

"I learned."

"Good."

"Eventually."

Alexander opened the menu.

Several dishes carried a small handwritten-looking M beside their names.

"What’s this?"

"My father’s recipes."

Alexander looked up.

"Matteo?"

"Yes."

"I thought your mother was the cook."

"She was better."

"That’s diplomatic."

"It’s factual. Dad could cook. He just had about six things he believed proved he could cook anything."

Alexander smiled.

"What were the six?"

"Beef stew. Roast chicken. Grilled steak. Garlic potatoes. Bread he insisted came from his grandfather."

"That’s five."

Giovanni glanced at the menu.

"Tomato-braised beef."

"Italian?"

"Inspired."

"Inspired by what?"

"Probably whatever was available."

That decided it.

Alexander ordered the braised beef.

Giovanni chose the herb-roasted chicken.

They shared warm focaccia while they waited.

Dessert required slightly more negotiation.

Alexander chose caramel panna cotta.

Giovanni ordered affogato.

"You don’t even like overly sweet coffee," Alexander observed.

"That’s why there’s espresso."

"That’s not how dessert works."

"It’s how this one works."

The focaccia arrived first.

Alexander tore off a piece, dipped it into olive oil and herbs, and immediately reached for another.

Giovanni noticed.

"Independent verification?"

Alexander looked at him.

"You remembered that?"

"You spent an unreasonable amount of time questioning whether your father should’ve eaten steak at a cafe."

"He apparently ate very well."

"He did."

"So did my mother."

"I heard."

Naturally, that brought them to Rosalie’s bakery.

Possible locations.

The ancestral property.

Whether Rosalie would actually enjoy having guests around if the family eventually expanded the idea into a small bed-and-breakfast.

Conversation moved easily.

Perhaps too easily.

Which was why Alexander found himself wondering whether he was about to ruin dinner.

He set down his bread.

"Have you received anything strange lately?"

Giovanni looked up.

"Define strange."

"Unknown numbers. Photographs. Messages that don’t make sense."

The change in Giovanni was subtle.

His hand stopped.

"No."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing."

Alexander went quiet.

Giovanni studied him.

"Why does that bother you more than if I’d said yes?"

There was little point avoiding it now.

"Because other people have."

Giovanni’s expression sharpened.

Alexander told him.

Not every security detail.

Enough.

The photograph of Elias leaving Vance Holdings.

Maribel Ortega.

Her years inside Victoria Sebastian’s household.

Andrei receiving the same kind of anonymous contact.

Elias himself being sent Maribel’s photograph and ordered to keep quiet.

Giovanni’s expression changed at that.

"He reported it?"

"Immediately."

"And you still trust him to drive you?"

"I trust that when someone told him to hide something from me, he did the opposite."

Giovanni considered that.

"Fair."

Their entrées arrived.

For several minutes, the conversation stopped.

Alexander tasted the braised beef.

Then stared at his plate.

Giovanni noticed.

"Bad?"

"Annoyingly good."

"My father would’ve appreciated that description."

The brief humor didn’t last.

Giovanni cut into his chicken.

"What about Dominic?"

"Someone sent him something too."

Giovanni looked up.

"And Victoria?"

"Same message."

"What?"

"A photograph of Elias behind the wheel of my car. Confirmation that he’d gotten the job."

Giovanni slowly set down his fork.

"So Andrei received something."

"Yes."

"Dominic and Victoria."

"Yes."

"Elias."

"Yes."

"And you."

Alexander nodded.

Giovanni leaned back.

"And me?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing."

The word settled differently this time.

Giovanni looked toward the glass partition.

"That’s odd."

"It is."

"Unless I’m irrelevant."

Alexander looked directly at him.

"You aren’t."

The answer came quickly enough that something passed through Giovanni’s expression.

Neither man acknowledged it.

Not now.

Giovanni tapped one finger against the table.

"If whoever is doing this wanted Dominic angry, I’m the obvious person to use."

"They’ve already sent him photographs connected to me."

"But not of me."

Alexander paused.

That was true.

"If they wanted me suspicious of the Sebastians, they could send me something about Victoria."

"They haven’t."

"If they wanted chaos between Mercer Group and Vance Holdings, they could send either of us something."

"They haven’t."

Giovanni’s gaze narrowed.

"Then either I have absolutely nothing to do with whatever this is..."

Alexander waited.

"...or someone is making very sure I stay outside it."

Neither man touched his food.

That possibility was considerably more unsettling.

Because Giovanni wasn’t merely Alexander’s childhood friend anymore.

Mercer Group had replaced Sebastian Group’s role at Westbridge.

Giovanni had appeared beside Alexander in the press.

His name had become increasingly entangled with Alexander’s in public speculation.

Yet whoever had begun sending photographs had somehow managed to circle him every single time.

Everyone received something.

Everyone except Giovanni.

"Maybe they don’t know enough about you," Alexander said.

Giovanni looked unconvinced.

"Then they’re remarkably selective for someone who knows when your driver leaves your office."

Alexander had no answer for that.

Outside, Elias sat inside Alexander’s car with the sandwich Giovanni had sent him.

He unwrapped it.

Roast beef.

Cheese.

Mustard.

Nothing complicated.

He took a bite and looked toward the glowing sign above the cafe.

MATTEO’S.

Something about the name bothered him.

Elias frowned.

He’d heard it before.

Obviously, Matteo wasn’t an unusual name.

He’d encountered plenty of Matteos over the years.

Still...

He looked at the restaurant again.

MATTEO’S.

Giovanni Mercer.

Matteo Mercer.

His father.

Elias stopped chewing.

No.

It couldn’t be.

He reached for his phone.

Not the anonymous messages.

His browser.

He searched Giovanni Mercer’s name, then opened one of the older business profiles he’d seen years ago but never had any reason to read closely.

Son of the late construction executive Matteo Mercer...

Elias stared at the screen.

Construction.

Something shifted loose inside his memory.

A worksite.

Heavy equipment.

A maintenance crew.

Men shouting.

Then the sickening sound of metal giving way.

Elias lowered the sandwich.

He hadn’t thought about that job in years.

Calderon Maintenance Services.

One of the contractors had been called Mercer.

Matteo Mercer.

Elias’s pulse began to climb.

He searched again.

An old article appeared.

The photograph took several seconds to load.

When it did, Elias forgot about the food completely.

He knew that face.

Older than the man he remembered.

More successful.

Wearing a reflector vest and safety hat.

But unmistakably the same man.

Matteo Mercer.

Elias stared through the windshield toward the restaurant his son had built in his name.

Then another memory surfaced.

A man standing near the maintenance basket shortly before the accident.

Someone who wasn’t supposed to be there.

Elias’s grip tightened around the phone.

He had forgotten the man’s name.

But he hadn’t forgotten his face.