Chapter 7 - The Name Buried Under BloodMy mother.
The word felt foreign.
I had no clear memory of her face.
A few fragments.
A perfume.
A hand touching my hair.
A lullaby.
Nothing more.
Dante stared at the captive.
“What did you say?”
The man smiled.
“Your father murdered her.”
The warehouse went silent.
Dante's face became terrifying.
“Say it again.”
“Your father killed Isabella Moretti.”
Dante slammed his fist into the table.
The man flinched.
I stared at Dante.
“You knew?”
“No.”
“You never knew?”
“No.”
He looked at me.
There was something raw in his expression.
Something almost broken.
“I was fourteen.”
His voice was quieter now.
“They told me she died in a robbery.”
“And Luca?”
“Luca was eleven.”
The captive laughed.
“They lied to both of you.”
Dante grabbed his collar.
“Who hired you?”
“I don't know.”
“Who knows?”
He pointed at me.
“She does.”
I felt sick.
“Why do you keep saying that?”
“Because your memory holds the answer.”
“I don't remember!”
The man whispered:
“You will.”
Then he smiled.
“Soon.”
A gunshot echoed.
His body went limp.
One of Dante's men immediately grabbed his weapon.
“Sniper.”
Dante pulled me behind a concrete pillar.
Glass shattered.
Bullets ripped through the warehouse windows.
Dante wrapped one arm around my waist.
“Stay down.”
“I am down.”
“Lower.”
I ducked.
His body covered mine.
For several terrifying seconds, gunfire filled the air.
Then silence.
One of his men shouted.
“Clear!”
Dante lifted his head.
“Find the shooter.”
His men scattered.
I looked at him.
“You're bleeding.”
A thin line of blood ran down his temple.
“Not mine.”
He touched my shoulder.
A tiny red mark was there.
My blood.
His expression changed.
“You're hurt.”
“It's nothing.”
He looked at me.
“Stop saying that.”
“Why?”
“Because every time you say it, someone gets hurt.”
I went silent.
He reached up and gently touched my cheek.
“You don't have to be strong every second.”
The tenderness in his voice nearly broke me.
Then a phone began ringing.
Not his.
Mine.
I hadn't even known I still had it.
I pulled it from my pocket.
Unknown number.
Dante stared.
“Don't answer.”
I did.
A woman's voice whispered:
“Do you remember the red door?”
My blood froze.
“What?”
“The red door.”
I couldn't breathe.
“Who is this?”
“You opened it.”
“Where?”
The woman laughed softly.
“Where your mother died.”
The call ended.
Dante stared at me.
“What did she say?”
I couldn't answer.
Because suddenly I remembered.
A red door.
Rain.
Blood.
A little girl crying.
A man holding a gun.
And my mother screaming one sentence.
“Run, Elena.”
I looked at Dante.
His face changed.
“Elena?”
“That was my name.”
He stared.
“You remember?”
I shook my head.
“I don't know.”
Then another memory surfaced.
A man's face.
Older.
Cold.
Familiar.
Dante saw the fear in my eyes.
“Who was he?”
May you like
I whispered the first name that came to me.
“Your father.”
