Chapter 8 - The Betrayal Inside My Own House
We escaped through a service tunnel beneath the lighthouse, emerging onto the rocky shoreline as federal vehicles surrounded the property above.
Rain soaked our clothes. Clara clung to Michael while Marco guided Elena across the slippery ground.
I led them toward an old fishing boat hidden beneath a tarp.
We had barely reached it when my phone began vibrating.
The caller was Vincent Hale, my operations chief.
He'd worked beside me for twelve years. He had managed my security, handled sensitive negotiations, and stood beside me through two attempted assassinations.
I answered.
"Where are you?" he demanded.
"Somewhere you aren't."
"Dominic, listen to me. The federal agents have raided your residence. They're saying you kidnapped a child and attacked government officers."
"They can say whatever they want."
"You need to surrender before this gets worse."
I watched Michael help Clara into the boat.
"Vincent, how did you know I was at the lighthouse?"
Silence.
Only for a second.
But a second was enough.
"You accessed my travel schedule," I said.
"Dominic, don't do anything stupid."
"You're working with Sloane."
His voice hardened.
"You don't understand what you're doing."
"I understand that you've been feeding him information for years."
"I kept this family alive."
"You helped him kill my brother."
"I helped your brother disappear!"
The shout echoed through the phone.
Then Vincent went silent.
I felt something cold settle in my chest.
"Explain."
"Michael came to me nine years ago. He said Father was planning to eliminate Elena and the people connected to Project Lantern. He asked me to create a false trail."
"You knew he was alive."
"Yes."
"And you let me bury an empty coffin."
"I saved him."
"You let me grieve for nine years."
"Would you rather have buried a real one?"
I said nothing.
Vincent's breathing grew heavier.
"I did what I had to do."
"No. You did what you decided was convenient."
I ended the call.
Marco watched me.
"Is he compromised?"
"He's something worse."
"What?"
I looked toward the boat.
"A man who believes betrayal becomes loyalty if he tells himself the lie is necessary."
We cast off just as searchlights swept across the shore.
The boat carried us to a private dock several miles down the coast. From there, we moved to a safehouse beneath a closed furniture warehouse.
I wanted answers.
I wanted them immediately.
But Michael could barely stand, Elena was exhausted, and Clara had not eaten since morning.
For the first time in years, I ordered my men to do something that made them visibly uncomfortable.
We stopped.
No calls. No interrogations. No retaliation.
We fed a seven-year-old girl.
Clara sat at the kitchen table, eating soup while Michael watched her with an expression of endless regret.
"Why didn't you tell me about Uncle Dominic?" she asked him.
Michael lowered his spoon.
"Because I was trying to keep you safe."
"You could have written letters."
"I did."
Clara stopped eating.
"What?"
Michael looked at Elena.
She reached into a bag and removed a bundle of envelopes tied with blue string.
"I kept every letter," she said. "Your father wrote one for each birthday."
Clara stared at the pile.
"Then why didn't I get them?"
Elena's eyes filled with tears.
"Because the people watching us intercepted the first three. After that, Michael stopped sending them."
Michael looked down.
"I should have found another way."
Clara examined the envelopes.
There were seven of them.
One for each birthday of her life.
She touched them gently, as though they might disappear.
"Can I read them?"
"Of course," he whispered.
She chose the envelope marked with her sixth birthday.
Inside was a photograph of Michael holding a tiny pink blanket.
On the back, he had written:
My little Clara, if you ever find this letter, remember that none of this is your fault. Adults sometimes build cages because they are afraid of what the world might take from them. You deserve a life where you never have to ask permission to feel safe.
Clara pressed the photograph to her chest.
I walked outside before anyone could see my face.
Marco followed a minute later.
"Boss, Vincent isn't answering."
"Find him."
"We already tried. His apartment is empty."
"His family?"
"His wife and son left this morning. Their phones are switched off."
I stared into the darkness.
Vincent hadn't merely betrayed me.
He had run.
My phone rang again.
This time, it was a video call from an unknown number.
Victor Sloane appeared on the screen, sitting at a desk in a luxurious office.
Behind him stood a wall of framed photographs.
One showed my father shaking hands with a federal director.
Another showed Sloane beside Vincent.
The third showed a young woman I recognized immediately.
My mother.
Sloane smiled.
"Dominic, I thought you might appreciate a piece of history."
He tilted the camera toward the photograph.
"Your mother didn't die of an illness, you know."
My blood ran cold.
"What did you say?"
"Anthony Moretti had her silenced because she wanted to take Michael and you away from him."
I gripped the phone.
"You're lying."
"Am I?"
He leaned toward the camera.
"Ask your brother what happened the night your mother disappeared."
The call ended.
I stood motionless, staring at the blank screen.
Michael emerged from the warehouse doorway.
He took one look at my face.
"What did Sloane say?"
I turned toward him.
"What happened to our mother?"
Michael closed his eyes.
For the first time since his return, he looked terrified of me.
"Dom," he whispered, "there's something Father made me promise never to tell you."
May you like
He swallowed.
"Our mother didn't die."
