Chapter 6 - The Boy Who Hated the Vescari NameThe school sat behind tall hedges and a locked iron gate forty minutes outside Chicago.
Its official name was St. Bartholomew's Residential Academy. It accepted children from troubled families and operated through private donations.
My family had funded part of the school's renovation three years earlier.
I had signed the donation papers without examining the beneficiary list.
That oversight now seemed unforgivable.
Vincent parked outside the gate while two men checked the surrounding roads.
“I want to speak to the headmaster,” I said.
We were admitted after I showed my identification.
The headmaster, a narrow-faced man named Mr. Collins, greeted us in an office filled with framed photographs.
“Mr. Vescari. We were not expecting you.”
“I'm here about Gabriel.”
His expression tightened.
“I'm afraid the boy left yesterday.”
“Where did he go?”
“He was collected by a legal guardian.”
“Name?”
Mr. Collins glanced at the documents on his desk.
“Mr. Rinaldi.”
I kept my voice calm.
“Matteo?”
“Yes.”
The headmaster seemed relieved to have answered the question.
“Mr. Rinaldi has supported Gabriel for several years. The boy trusts him.”
I stared at the framed photographs.
“How long has Gabriel lived here?”
“Since he was three.”
“Who brought him?”
“Dr. Mercer. He provided guardianship documents indicating that the child's mother was deceased.”
“Was she?”
Mr. Collins hesitated.
“I never personally met her.”
I placed Alessandro's letter on the desk.
“Then you may have been participating in a kidnapping without knowing it.”
The headmaster went pale.
I could see that he was frightened, but not necessarily guilty.
“Mr. Vescari, I assure you that every document appeared legitimate.”
“Then give me everything you have.”
He retrieved a file containing medical records, payment receipts, and letters from the boy's guardian.
The earliest document was signed by a woman named Elena Cross.
She had brought Gabriel to the clinic six years earlier and requested that his identity remain confidential.
The last recorded address belonged to an abandoned apartment building in South Chicago.
We found Gabriel there that afternoon.
He was sitting on the steps with a battered backpack beside him.
When he saw us approach, he immediately stood.
“Who are you?”
“My name is Dominic Vescari.”
His expression changed.
He spat on the ground.
“I hate your family.”
I didn't move.
“Why?”
“Because my father is dead, and everyone says it happened because of you.”
My chest tightened.
“Who told you that?”
“Matteo.”
The boy's eyes filled with anger.
“He said you took everything from us. He said your father killed his father, then you stole the business that belonged to our family.”
I crouched until we were eye level.
“Your father was my brother. His name was Alessandro.”
Gabriel stared at me.
“You're lying.”
“I have a letter he wrote before he died. He knew you existed. He spent months trying to find you.”
I showed him the photograph.
Gabriel took it with trembling fingers.
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then he touched the image of his father.
“He has my eyes.”
“Yes.”
The boy swallowed.
“Did he love me?”
The question nearly broke me.
“He loved you enough to leave instructions to protect you, even after he was gone.”
Gabriel looked away, wiping his face with his sleeve.
I did not reach for him.
He was old enough to understand that adults had failed him, and no speech could repair six years of abandonment.
Finally, he asked, “Where's Lily?”
My attention sharpened.
“How do you know about her?”
“Matteo told me. He said she was the reason you started looking for me.”
I nodded.
“She's safe.”
Gabriel studied me.
“Can I see her?”
“Yes.”
He picked up his backpack.
Then he looked at me with an expression far older than his years.
“But if you hurt her, I'll never forgive you.”
I understood the warning.
For the first time, I wasn't dealing with a child who needed me to protect him.
I was dealing with a child who believed he had to protect everyone else.
As we walked toward the car, my phone rang.
Matteo.
I answered.
“Where is Gabriel?”
“With me,” I said.
A long silence followed.
Then Matteo spoke.
“You shouldn't have done that.”
“Why?”
“Because now you've taken away the only leverage I had.”
“Leverage over whom?”
Matteo's voice grew cold.
“Over the man who killed Alessandro.”
Before I could respond, a gunshot echoed behind us.
The rear window of the car shattered.
Vincent shoved Gabriel onto the floor while I drew my weapon.
Across the street, a motorcycle accelerated through the intersection.
A second shot struck the car door.
Vincent returned fire, but the motorcycle disappeared around the corner.
Gabriel lay curled beneath the dashboard, clutching his father's photograph.
I reached for him.
He looked up at me, his face drained of color.
“Mr. Vescari?”
“Yes?”
“Matteo said this would happen.”
My blood went cold.
“What did he say?”
Gabriel swallowed.
“He said that if I ever met you, someone would try to kill me.”
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And suddenly, I understood that Matteo hadn't merely hidden my brother's son.
He had prepared the boy for the moment when our family war began again.
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