Secrets of the Harts

4 Jan 2010
Dylan had spent the day after New Year out of the hotel. I had a suspicion that he was purchasing weapons, in case things with the Cosa Nostra got ugly. I was not sure if I wanted to be part of it, because this was probably illegal.

In any case, Dylan had finally settled down yesterday to carry on the search. First, he had located all the Zetas in the phonebook because going onto the streets could potentially be dangerous. He didn’t trust any of his contacts enough to hand the job over to them. I was secretly glad for this; I didn’t want anyone else to join in.

There was a problem though. There were 100 Zetas, 10 of which were linked to some variation of Alessandra. Besides, we couldn’t be sure if the number would be under her name. So he had to call all of them until he found one who had travelled to America in the last 20 years before saying that he was acting on behalf estate of Mr. Paul Michael Hart. Apparently, Mr. Hart had left her a large sum of money that could only be activated 5 years after his death, wishing to use this money as a form of amends. Dylan made a pretty convincing legal aide, deliberately keeping vague what my father needed to repay Alessandra for.

I sort of admired Dylan because he hadn’t complained about the difficult job ahead of him. Instead, he started dialling numbers after coming up with a good story. But the process took very long. In fact, he was still continuing today, starting with Zeta no. 58.

I watched him quietly, alarmed when his expression turned dark. I hoped whoever it was on other side hadn’t just cursed Dylan in Italian.

When he ended the call, however, I found out that it wasn’t the person’s rudeness that made him look so unhappy. It wasn’t because of that, not at all. “I think I just spoke to your mother.”

I tried to ignore the sudden tightness in my chest. Crossing my legs, I asked, “What was her reaction when she got the news?”

Dylan hesitated, weighing my expression. “She said, ‘I don’t want anything to do with him. You can keep all that money.’ Then she hung up on me.”

“Oh,” I said, faintly.



Dylan was bringing his weapons on our meeting with Alessandra Zeta. I knew he wouldn’t try to persuade me to carry any because he didn’t want to talk to me and also because he was slightly worried about how I would react to my mother.

It was strange thinking about it. I had never seen my mother. Had she been there after I was born? I didn’t know and I wasn’t sure I wanted to know, not that I intended to ask her about that. I had some other more pressing thoughts in mind.

When the time came for us to leave, Dylan had gazed at me expectantly and asked, “What are you going to talk to her about?”

“I don’t know. Any suggestions?” My nerves were tightly coiled and it showed in the harshness of my tone. But Dylan didn’t bother with that, it seemed as though it was harder for me to bait him into anger now.

“You must have some idea. You weren’t so persistent just because you wanted to meet her. There’s something you want to know.”

“And you know this because you know me as well as the back of your hand.”

Dylan smiled, his green eyes remaining hard. “I know you because I’ve read your case file. And also because you were raised by Calloway, which means you’re like her in more ways than I can count.”

“I am not like her!”

“You can say that all you want, princess, but it’s not going to make it true.”

It was princess that stopped me from making a snide remark about his father, allowing me to stop our argument before it got out of hand. “Can we please stop fighting? It's ridiculous how we always end up fighting.”

“Fine by me.” But his eyes apologized for antagonizing me when I was already wound up.

We left the hotel in something akin to companionable silence; if there can be such a thing with him around, while my stomach did its best to reject what I had eaten for breakfast.

Too soon, we had arrived at her house. It was very pretty, a terrace painted buttercup yellow with a navy blue roof and a white picket fence. This house was like the houses I’d drawn when I was a kid, very fairytale like. I probably would’ve liked whoever that lived in a house so beautiful. But this would only apply to anyone else but my mother.

“Are you ready?”

I jumped at his question before forcing a calm smile onto my lips. “Yeah.”

Both of us entered. The fence was surprisingly unlocked.

The door, painted dark brown, opened and out strutted a blonde woman carrying a shotgun. She took my breath away. But she didn’t even look at me. Instead, she said in English, her grey eyes (so like my own) intent on Dylan, “No trespassing, get out of private property.”

This was my mother. Alessandra Zeta.

“We have a reason to be here.” His gaze was steady on hers. Evidently, it was enough to make her relax because she moved the shotgun to her side.

“I’m not interested. Tell that to Adriano or Dante, whichever one you’re working for. Ask them to get it into their heads that I’m never going to be interested.”

“We’re not hired by them,” I said, my voice sounding clearer and more confident than I had hoped for. “I’m Kristen Hart; I’m looking for my mother.”

Her shotgun dropped onto the ground, her eyes widening in shock as she took in the features I shared with her.

“And I believe I’ve just found her.”

We stood in silence for a few moments as she struggled to keep her emotions in check. Surprise, anger, hurt and finally resignation. Finally, she bent down to retrieve her gun. When she looked up, her face was composed. “I suppose you better come in.”

We followed her in and I belatedly realized that I must have gotten my height from my father. It was strange how much I was like her on the outside. I hoped I was nothing like her on the inside.

“I’ll get you two something to drink, take a seat.” She gestured vaguely towards the northern side of the house, her eyes not meeting mine. It didn’t take an Agent to figure out that she didn’t want to face me, at least not yet.

Her living room was decorated less fairytale like than the exterior. It was painted pale blue, with a comfortable brown couch, a few chairs, a round glass coffee table, a plasma television screen and shelves full of books.

Dylan patted the seat on the couch next to him, not bothering to hide that he had caught me taking in my mother’s house with obvious interest. “Sit down and keep cool. Don’t scare her off.”

I felt like snapping back at him that Alessandra Zeta didn’t seem like the kind that scared easily. After all, she came at us with a shotgun. But I knew that this wasn’t what Dylan meant and there wasn’t any point being dense. So, I did as he said and sat down, keeping my sweaty palms flat on my lap.

I stared at the floral patterns of my dress. For some reason, I had wanted to make a good impression on my mother, so I had chosen a girly outfit. A white dress that skimmed my knees, a pink cardigan over it and brown ankle boots. I had even pinned a white ribbon in my hair. I knew why I was doing this—I wanted to show her that my father had done a good job raising me without her help. Now, I was regretting it though because I certainly didn’t feel like myself.

I didn’t feel confident enough to fling everything that I was at her and show what she had missed by leaving me. And if I didn’t have that confidence, there was no point coming here. I certainly didn’t come here expecting to become my mother’s daughter.

“I hope you’re going to chew her out too horribly.” Dylan smiled lazily at me when I looked up. I had missed that smile. “No matter what she should’ve done, she’ll always be your mother.”

I felt like flinching at his words. But as usual, he behaved in his usual contradictory way because he slid his hand into mine. And it helped, in a way.

Alessandra appeared, holding a tray with teacups. I didn’t miss her pointed gaze at my hand. Seeing that, I clutched his hand tighter.

“So what do you want to know? I ran out of coffee by the way, I know how much Americans love coffee, so you’ll have to make do with tea.” She handed me a cup, forcing me to let go of Dylan’s hand. I noticed she didn’t offer him one, merely shooting him an indecipherable gaze that made him smile.

“You speak English very well. Why?”

She looked surprised at my question, which made me think that she knew why I was here as well. “I ran away from home when I was 25 years old. My parents were making me-how do you say this?-take up, I think. Yes, take up a job with the Cosa Nostra. I didn’t want to. I don’t like senseless killing or drug dealing. But it was a family business. My brothers, Adriano and Dante, had already joined earlier. I ran to America, with the help of a cousin. I worked as an au pair for rich families in New York. That’s where I met Paul.’

“He was taking care of the will of one of those families, the Hendersons I think.” Alessandra smiled fondly at the memory. But her gaze locked onto mine and her face turned carefully blank. “We met, fell in love and got married within a year. He was the best thing that ever happened to me. Sometimes though, I wonder if it was a mistake. Logically, I should have concentrated on running from my parents, but what I felt drowned out all my sense.”

I felt a sudden sense of relief. She hadn’t been a maid that my father had had an affair with.

“If you’re wondering why I spoke English to you two just now, it’s because you two look American.”

I ignored her attempt at a joke and instead, asked, sharply, “So why did you leave him?”

“He had terrible secrets for one. But this wasn’t why I left, I loved him and if I wanted to, I could have dealt with them. You have to understand that I was young and pregnant two years into the marriage. Paul was overjoyed but I wasn’t so sure. I was barely done growing up myself and I didn’t know if I could raise a child.’

“When you were born though, those doubts faded to background noise. I loved you.” Her blank mask transformed and she did look like a mother, one that was concerned about what her child thought of her. I could see in her face that she wanted me to believe what she was saying. “And so, I believed that I could be a good mother. Paul convinced me. Call it bad timing or fate but I found out about your father’s secrets and my parents found me at the same time. It was too much for me to handle. I needed to get away from Paul, to think about what I really wanted but now I was sure that I needed you to be a part of my life. I never wanted to leave you.”

I wanted to interrupt with a snide comment but instead, I forced tea down my throat.

“But Paul was insistent that we could work things out, he didn’t want to let me leave. So I lied. I told him that I didn’t love him anymore and that his secrets ruined our life together. I was angry with myself for being so cowardly but it did the trick. He let me go but he refused to let you go, I knew he would sue if I insisted. So I left you behind and I fled to Singapore. The Hendersons had moved there, I secured another job with them.”

“Why didn’t you find me after he died?” My fingers were trembling so I put the tea cup down but I was proud of myself. The tremble didn’t show in my voice.

“I…I was ashamed. I had been out of your life for 12 years and you would be angry at the loss of your father. Perhaps even furious, needing someone to blame. By the time that I had decided that I could throw caution to the wind, you were already adopted. I didn’t know who, I didn’t dare to reveal who I was. I was upset, my heart aching for another lost opportunity. It was then I realized that I was done growing up and I didn’t need to run from my parents anymore. I came back to Sicily, back to make amends with them but I made it clear that I would have nothing to do with the Cosa Nostra.”

We were quiet for a while, my fingers tracing the pattern on my dress. Then I plucked up courage. “What…what secrets did my father have?”

“You don’t need to worry about them, Kris. I’m sure your father wouldn’t have left you that legacy.”

“Legacy?” Dylan had spoken up.

“Yes.” She continued speaking to me, ignoring Dylan. “It was a family tradition. The Harts had all taken part in it, much like how my parents had forced me. But Paul had always been more responsible than I was. He had chosen to carry the burden. It was me who couldn’t accept it.”

My heart rate sped; palms sweating buckets. “Please tell me. What was he doing?”

“Paul didn’t want to do it. He was a prosecutor, he worked for justice. But he was threatened and that was how I found out. A man came to our house, asking to see him and I overheard loud voices. Finally, the man yelled that if Paul didn’t carry on according to plan, he would kill me and then you. So Paul complied.”

“What. Did. He. Do?”

Alessandra looked hesitant. “He worked for the American Mafia, under Sean Fuller.”