Chapter 7 - January 17
The date haunted me.
January 17, 2006.
My father had photographed Maria Carter.
Antonio Carter had disappeared.
And somewhere inside that same day, a secret had been buried deep enough to survive twenty years.
I went to the Castellano archives.
My father kept everything.
Receipts.
Letters.
Contracts.
Even cigarette boxes from negotiations.
If the truth existed, I would find it.
Lucia helped me search.
Three hours passed.
Then she found a folder marked PERSONAL.
Inside was a single handwritten note.
I recognized my father’s handwriting.
ANTONIO DID NOT BETRAY US.
Lucia looked at me.
“What?”
I handed her the note.
Underneath the sentence was another line.
HE WAS BETRAYED BY SOMEONE CLOSER.
I felt the room turn cold.
“Who?”
There was no name.
Only a symbol.
A small black crown.
Lucia frowned.
“What is that?”
I knew.
The crown belonged to my father’s inner circle.
Three men had worn it as a private sign.
My uncle Carlo.
Peter Vale.
And me.
Peter was dead.
My uncle Carlo had died eight years ago.
That left one person.
Me.
Impossible.
Unless my father meant something else.
A second note fell from the folder.
This one contained a list.
MARIA CARTER.
ANTONIO CARTER.
EMMA CARTER.
Then:
DOMINIC CASTELLANO.
And beneath all four names:
KEEP THEM APART.
Lucia whispered, “Dad knew.”
“Yes.”
“Then why didn’t he tell you?”
“Because someone stopped him.”
“Who?”
I turned the page.
There was a bloodstain.
And beneath it, a final sentence.
THE TRAITOR SITS AT OUR TABLE.
My phone rang.
Marco.
“We have the surviving attacker.”
“Where?”
“Old freight station.”
“Has he talked?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because he says he has something you want.”
“What?”
“A name.”
“Whose?”
He paused.
“Lucia’s.”
I looked at my sister.
She had heard every word.
“No,” she whispered.
I drove to the station.
The attacker was strapped to a chair.
His face was swollen.
One eye closed.
Snake tattoo visible.
“Name.”
He smiled.
“Dominic Castellano.”
“Who sent you?”
“Kolov.”
“Why Emma?”
“Because Kolov wanted you to remember.”
“Remember what?”
He laughed.
“You were a child.”
My hand tightened.
“What?”
“Your father took you to the river that night.”
January 17.
I remembered fragments.
Rain.
A car.
My father shouting.
Someone screaming.
A woman crying.
I had buried the memory for years.
The attacker leaned forward.
“You saw everything.”
My breath stopped.
“What did I see?”
He smiled.
“Your father kill Antonio Carter.”
Silence.
“That’s a lie.”
“Maybe.”
He leaned back.
“But ask yourself why you remember blood on your father’s coat.”
I stared at him.
I had never told anyone that memory.
Not even Lucia.
The attacker continued.
“You weren’t supposed to remember.”
“Who was supposed to forget?”
He smiled.
“Your mother.”
I stepped closer.
“What does that mean?”
He whispered:
“Because your mother is still alive.”
My heart stopped.
“My mother died when I was twelve.”
The man shook his head.
“No.”
He looked toward the dark window.
“Your father made sure everyone believed that.”
Then every light in the freight station went out.
A gunshot cracked through the darkness.
When the emergency lights came on…
The attacker was dead.
May you like
And on the floor beside him was a photograph of my mother.
Alive.
