Chapter 12 - The Lie Beneath the Blood
I spent the next six hours tearing apart everything my family had built.
Records.
Bank accounts.
Private laboratories.
Old vehicles.
Death certificates.
Every document connected to Maria Carter.
The DNA report was fake.
The signature belonged to a doctor who had been dead for fourteen years.
The photograph of Antonio’s body had been altered.
And Carlo had disappeared.
Again.
Marco stood over the files.
“Boss.”
“What?”
“Maria never killed Antonio.”
“How do you know?”
“We found a hospital record.”
“Where?”
“Philadelphia.”
I looked up.
“Date?”
January 18, 2006.
The day after Antonio disappeared.
He had been admitted under a false name.
Alive.
Then discharged three days later.
Someone had taken him.
Who?
I looked at the photograph of my father.
Then I noticed something.
On his right hand.
A ring.
A black crown.
The same symbol in the ledger.
I searched the old records.
The crown was not a Castellano symbol.
It belonged to a private security network.
Former intelligence contractors.
Men who cleaned up problems for wealthy families.
Carlo had used them.
My father had been fighting them.
And Kolov had been paying them.
The true war had never been between Castellano and Kolov.
They had both been pieces.
Someone else had been moving the board.
My phone rang.
Lucia.
I answered.
“Where are you?”
“I escaped.”
“How?”
“Carlo left me locked inside an old house.”
“Where?”
She gave me an address.
I sent Marco.
Then I asked:
“Who is controlling Maria?”
She went silent.
“Lucia.”
“I don't know.”
“Tell me.”
“I saw someone.”
“Who?”
She whispered:
“Dad.”
I stopped.
“What?”
“Our father.”
“That’s impossible.”
“I saw him.”
“Lucia…”
“He’s alive.”
The phone went silent.
Then I heard a man speak behind her.
“Your sister should have remained quiet.”
The call ended.
My blood turned cold.
I called back.
Nothing.
Marco called thirty seconds later.
“Boss.”
“What?”
“We found Lucia.”
“Alive?”
“Yes.”
I exhaled.
“Where?”
“At the old house.”
“Any sign of Maria?”
“No.”
“Emma?”
“No.”
“Then what did you find?”
Marco was quiet.
“Someone else.”
“Who?”
“We found a hidden room beneath the floor.”
He paused.
“There’s a bed.”
My chest tightened.
“And?”
“There are medical supplies.”
“Whose?”
Marco lowered his voice.
“Post-surgical.”
I knew what he was going to say next.
“But that’s not the worst part.”
“What?”
“We found photographs.”
“Of whom?”
“Your father.”
I froze.
“Recent photographs?”
“Yes.”
“How recent?”
Marco hesitated.
“Taken yesterday.”
I stared at the wall.
My father had been dead eleven years.
Unless…
He wasn't.
Marco sent the photograph.
I opened it.
A man stood beneath fluorescent lights.
Older.
Scarred.
Gray-haired.
Looking directly into the camera.
It was my father.
May you like
And beneath the image was a handwritten message.
DOMINIC, YOU HAVE BEEN PROTECTING THE WRONG WOMAN.
