Chapter 2 - I did not turn around.In my world, turning around when a gun was pointed at your back was the kind of mistake that made newspapers.
Usually under the obituary section.
The gun pressed harder against my spine.
Luca stared at me from the bed.
Beatrice stood frozen beside him.
And for the first time in twelve years, I heard my brother breathe.
“Who are you?” I asked.
The man behind me said nothing.
I knew the voice.
Not because I recognized it.
Because I didn't.
Which meant he wasn't one of mine.
Then Beatrice moved.
She threw herself toward a metal cabinet.
The gunman fired.
The bullet hit the wall.
I dropped.
Beatrice opened the cabinet and pulled out a pistol.
She fired twice.
The gunman stumbled.
I rolled behind a pillar.
Three more shots exploded through the room.
Then silence.
I looked up.
The gunman was gone.
Blood marked the doorway.
Luca was staring at me.
“You shouldn't have come.”
I stood slowly.
“Twelve years.”
He looked away.
“You were dead.”
“I was supposed to be.”
“Who killed you?”
“No one.”
I stopped.
“What?”
Luca coughed.
“I wasn't murdered.”
“Then what happened?”
He looked at Beatrice.
She shook her head.
“Not yet.”
I hated that answer.
I hated the way she said it.
As if my brother's survival were some carefully measured secret.
As if I were the dangerous one.
I approached the bed.
“Why did my empire bury an empty coffin?”
Luca swallowed.
“Because they needed you to believe I was dead.”
“Who is they?”
He looked directly into my eyes.
“The people who run your empire.”
I felt something inside me shift.
“My empire?”
Luca nodded.
“You think you're in charge.”
He smiled bitterly.
“You have no idea.”
I turned toward Beatrice.
“How long?”
She hesitated.
“How long has he been here?”
“Twelve years.”
My jaw tightened.
“You've been feeding him for twelve years?”
“Yes.”
“With food stolen from my house?”
She nodded.
“Why?”
Her eyes filled.
“Because someone had to.”
I looked at Luca.
“Why didn't you contact me?”
“Because every person who tried died.”
The room became very quiet.
“How many?”
He looked at the floor.
“Seven.”
I stared at him.
“Seven people died trying to tell me you were alive?”
“Eight.”
My chest tightened.
“Who was the eighth?”
Luca didn't answer.
He looked at Beatrice.
She closed her eyes.
Then whispered,
“Your mother.”
Everything inside me stopped.
“My mother died eight years ago.”
“No,” Luca said.
“She was killed.”
I stepped backward.
“By whom?”
Luca reached beneath his mattress.
He pulled out an envelope.
Inside was a photograph.
Old.
Bent.
A picture of my mother standing outside a warehouse.
Beside her was Dominic Russo.
My right-hand man.
Dominic was twenty-three years younger.
I stared at the photograph.
“No.”
Luca's voice was almost gentle.
“That's why I couldn't tell you.”
I looked closer.
On the back of the photograph was a date.
November 14.
Twelve years ago.
The same night Luca supposedly died.
My fingers tightened around the picture.
“What happened that night?”
Luca looked toward the locked door.
“I discovered the truth.”
“What truth?”
He reached for my wrist.
His fingers were cold.
“Your father wasn't killed by the police.”
I stared at him.
“My father died twenty years ago.”
“Exactly.”
Luca whispered,
“He was murdered by the people who took over after him.”
I said nothing.
Then Beatrice pulled another object from the cabinet.
A small black notebook.
She handed it to me.
“Your father kept this.”
I opened the cover.
The first page contained one sentence.
Written in my father's handwriting.
IF ADRIAN FINDS THIS, DO NOT TRUST LUCA.
I looked up.
Luca's face had gone white.
“That's not all,” he said.
“What?”
He pointed to the final page.
I turned through dozens of handwritten entries.
Names.
Payments.
Dates.
Judges.
Police officers.
Politicians.
Then I reached the last page.
There were only three words.
One name.
And one warning.
DOMINIC KNOWS.
Underneath it, someone had written:
HE KILLED YOUR FATHER.
I stared at the page.
Then my phone vibrated.
One new message.
Unknown number.
I opened it.
A photograph appeared.
It showed my mansion.
My dining room.
The table where Beatrice had packed the leftover food.
And behind the glass doors stood Dominic.
Watching me.
Below the image was a message.
YOU FOLLOWED THE MAID.
WE FOLLOWED YOU.
May you like
Then another message arrived.
THE NEXT PERSON YOU TRUST WILL BE THE ONE WHO KILLS YOU.
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