Chapter 4 - The Estate of the DeadThe old Vescari estate stood outside Chicago behind iron gates and a line of dead trees.

My grandfather had built the mansion during Prohibition, when the family fortune was made through liquor, gambling, and whatever else could be transported without attracting federal attention.

I hadn't visited the property in eleven years.

Salvatore had lived there until his arrest. After his death in prison, I ordered the house closed and the grounds abandoned.

Now, as our vehicles passed through the gates, I noticed that the security cameras had been replaced.

Someone had been maintaining the estate.

The main doors stood open.

I entered alone, carrying no visible weapon. Vincent and four men remained outside, watching the perimeter.

Inside, dust covered the marble floors, but fresh footprints crossed the entrance hall.

Matteo waited beside the fireplace.

He wore a charcoal suit and held a glass of whiskey.

“You came.”

“You asked me to.”

“You always were predictable.”

I ignored the insult.

“Start talking.”

Matteo placed his glass on the mantel.

“Your brother discovered that Salvatore had been moving money through a company registered under a false name. The money was being used to fund a private network of informants, corrupt officials, and contract killers.”

“I know what Alessandro discovered.”

“No, Dominic. You know the story he wanted you to believe.”

He opened a drawer and removed a thick envelope.

Inside were bank records, photographs, and copies of letters bearing my father's signature.

I examined the first page.

My father had authorized payments to several shell companies associated with Salvatore.

“What is this?”

“Your father wasn't an innocent victim of your uncle's ambitions. He knew parts of the operation existed. When he discovered what Salvatore intended to do with it, he tried to shut it down.”

“And Alessandro?”

“He found the evidence after your father's death.”

I looked at the documents again.

Several payments had been made on the date my brother died.

One was addressed to a company owned by Matteo's father.

“Your father was involved?”

“Not willingly.”

Matteo's voice darkened.

“Salvatore used him as leverage. When my father threatened to expose the network, Salvatore had him killed and made it look like an accident.”

“I never knew.”

“Because Alessandro spent years keeping the truth from you.”

“Why?”

“Because he thought you would start a war before you were ready.”

For a moment, I had no answer.

My brother had protected me, and I had mistaken his silence for secrecy.

Matteo moved closer.

“I spent twenty years believing Alessandro had chosen the family over my father. Then I discovered he had tried to expose Salvatore. By that time, my father was dead, Salvatore was in prison, and you had taken control.”

“So you decided to destroy everything I built?”

“I wanted the truth.”

“You could have come to me.”

Matteo laughed bitterly.

“Would you have believed me?”

I couldn't answer.

He placed a final document on the table.

It was a medical record from a private clinic dated six years earlier.

The patient's name was Maria Morales.

The father's name was Alessandro Vescari.

Beneath it was another name.

A second child.

A boy.

I stared at the page.

“Where is he?”

Matteo's expression changed.

“That is the question, isn't it?”

Suddenly, the mansion's lights switched off.

A gunshot shattered the silence.

I dropped behind the table as glass exploded beside me.

Someone was firing from the upper balcony.

Matteo grabbed the envelope and ran toward a side corridor.

I followed him through the darkness, hearing footsteps behind us.

We reached an old study and barricaded the door.

Matteo pulled a small key from his pocket.

“Your brother left something in here.”

He opened a hidden compartment behind the fireplace.

Inside lay a silver watch, a sealed letter, and a photograph of a young boy with dark hair.

On the back of the photograph, Alessandro had written:

FOR MY SONS, IF I FAIL TO RETURN.

I stared at the words.

My brother had not one child.

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He had two.

And somewhere in Chicago, someone had spent six years making sure the world believed neither of them existed.