Chapter 2 - The Secret My Dead Mother Took With Her
The car smelled like leather and rain.
I sat beside Damian in silence while Chicago blurred outside the windows.
He didn't touch me.
He didn't speak.
He didn't even look at me.
For a man who had spent two nights provoking me for fun, his silence was more frightening than his arrogance.
Finally, I held up the photographs.
“My mother.”
“Yes.”
“She knew your father.”
“Yes.”
“How?”
Damian stared through the window.
“They worked together.”
“My mother worked with a mafia boss?”
“Not exactly.”
“Then explain.”
He closed his eyes.
“When Victor Falcone met your mother, he wasn't the man you know today.”
“That doesn't answer my question.”
“No.”
“Then answer it.”
He turned toward me.
“My father loved your mother.”
The words struck harder than they should have.
I laughed.
It came out bitter.
“My mother wasn't exactly the type to date mob bosses.”
“She didn't know who he was at first.”
“What happened?”
“She found out.”
“And?”
“She tried to leave.”
I stared at him.
“And your father stopped her?”
“He tried.”
That answer carried more weight than anything else he had said.
“What happened next?”
“Your mother disappeared.”
“She died.”
Damian shook his head.
“No.”
My heart started pounding.
“You're saying she's alive?”
“I don't know.”
“Then why show me these?”
“Because someone found the same photographs.”
“Who?”
“My father.”
The car stopped at a red light.
Damian turned toward me.
“Three weeks ago, someone broke into my mother's old storage facility.”
“Your mother?”
“My mother died when I was eleven.”
I studied his face.
“Your father killed her?”
His expression went cold.
“No.”
“Then what happened?”
“I don't know.”
We reached a massive building near the river.
Damian led me inside.
An elevator carried us to the top floor.
When the doors opened, I found a private office with black walls, floor-to-ceiling windows, and enough security equipment to make my stomach twist.
Damian placed the photographs on a desk.
Then he pulled out a file.
“My mother kept records.”
“About my mother?”
“About everyone.”
He opened it.
Inside were invoices, photographs, letters, bank records, newspaper clippings.
Then I saw my own name.
Lena Hart.
My breathing stopped.
“What is that?”
“Your adoption record.”
“I wasn't adopted.”
“You were.”
I stared at him.
“No.”
He slid the document toward me.
A hospital record.
A baby girl.
Mother listed as Eleanor Hart.
Father listed as unknown.
But the date was wrong.
The hospital where I had supposedly been born didn't exist until three years later.
Someone had fabricated my birth records.
“Why?”
Damian's voice softened.
“To hide you.”
“From who?”
“Victor.”
My hands shook.
“Why would your father care about me?”
“He cared about your mother.”
“And?”
Damian looked away.
“That may not be all.”
I slowly looked back at him.
“What aren't you telling me?”
Before he could answer, the office door opened.
Victor Falcone entered.
I had seen pictures of him.
Pictures didn't do him justice.
He wasn't frightening because he was large.
He wasn't frightening because he was loud.
He was frightening because he looked completely calm.
His silver hair was perfectly combed.
His black suit was immaculate.
He looked like a respected businessman.
The kind of man politicians shook hands with.
He looked at me.
Then at Damian.
Then at the photographs.
His face changed.
“You shouldn't have brought her here.”
Damian stepped in front of me.
“You knew she existed.”
Victor's eyes moved toward me again.
“Yes.”
My voice shook.
“Did you know my mother?”
“Yes.”
“Is she alive?”
Victor said nothing.
That was answer enough.
I grabbed his arm.
“Tell me.”
Damian caught my wrist.
“Lena.”
I pulled free.
“Don't.”
Victor looked at Damian.
“You have no idea what you're doing.”
“For once, I do.”
Victor sighed.
Then he said something that made the room feel suddenly airless.
“Your mother didn't disappear because of me.”
I stared at him.
“She disappeared because she discovered what I had done.”
“What did you do?”
Victor's gaze hardened.
“I created the man you see standing beside you.”
Damian went still.
Victor continued.
“When Damian was sixteen, he found your mother.”
I looked at Damian.
His face had gone pale.
“You knew her?”
Damian swallowed.
“Once.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because I barely remembered.”
Victor shook his head.
“He remembered enough.”
I looked between them.
“What does that mean?”
Victor pulled a photograph from his pocket.
It showed Damian at sixteen.
And beside him stood my mother.
Behind them was a little girl.
Me.
I looked younger than six.
Damian stared at the picture.
Then something inside his expression broke.
“I don't remember that.”
Victor said quietly, “You were there the night she tried to hide Lena.”
“From you?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because Eleanor discovered the truth.”
“What truth?”
Victor looked at his son.
“That Damian was not my only heir.”
Silence.
I felt the room tilt.
Damian whispered, “What?”
Victor didn't answer.
Instead, he looked at me.
“Your mother left something for you.”
“What?”
“A key.”
He placed a small brass key on the desk.
My blood ran cold.
I had seen that key before.
Around my mother's neck.
In every photograph I owned.
She had worn it on a chain until the day she supposedly died.
I reached for it.
Victor stopped me.
“You don't understand what it opens.”
“Then tell me.”
“It opens a box your mother hid eleven years ago.”
“Where?”
Victor looked at Damian.
“In the place where your mother trusted no one.”
Damian's phone rang.
He checked the screen.
His expression changed instantly.
“What's wrong?”
He answered.
A man's voice shouted from the other end.
Damian's face went completely still.
Then he hung up.
“Tell me.”
He looked at Victor.
“Someone just found the ledger.”
May you like
Victor closed his eyes.
“Then we're already too late.”
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