Chapter 3 - The Man My Mother Trusted More Than the Falcone Family
We left Victor's office through a private elevator.
Neither Damian nor I spoke.
I held the brass key tightly in my hand.
My mother had spent years wearing it around her neck.
I had always assumed it opened a jewelry box.
Maybe a keepsake.
Maybe a drawer.
I never imagined it might open the door to the truth about my entire life.
The elevator doors opened into a private garage.
Three black SUVs were waiting.
Damian gestured toward the middle one.
“Get in.”
“Where are we going?”
“To find the box.”
“Where?”
“My mother's church.”
I stared at him.
“Your family has a church?”
“She did.”
The drive took twenty minutes.
The rain had turned Chicago silver.
When we stopped outside an old brick church, Damian got out first.
I followed.
The building looked abandoned.
Inside, dust covered the pews.
Damian walked toward the altar.
Then he stopped.
“My mother used to sit here.”
“You remember?”
“Some things.”
He crouched beside the third pew.
There was a loose wooden panel underneath.
He removed it.
Inside was a small metal box.
The brass key fit perfectly.
My hands shook as I opened it.
Inside were three things.
A photograph.
A letter.
And a tiny silver bracelet.
I recognized the bracelet immediately.
I had worn it as a child.
My mother's handwriting filled the letter.
Lena,
If you're reading this, I failed to protect you.
Don't trust Victor.
Don't trust the police.
And don't trust the man who says he loves you.
The truth about your father is in the ledger.
My breath caught.
Your father.
I looked at Damian.
He was staring at the page.
He looked almost sick.
“Do you know who my father is?”
He nodded slowly.
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“There was a man named Adrian Cross.”
“Who was he?”
“My father's greatest enemy.”
I stared at the letter.
“And my mother loved him?”
Damian shook his head.
“I don't know.”
A sound came from behind us.
A gunshot.
The church window exploded.
Damian grabbed me and shoved me behind the altar.
Three more shots cracked through the room.
“Stay down.”
Men entered through the side door.
Damian pulled a weapon from beneath his jacket.
He moved with terrifying precision.
Not like the arrogant man from the diner.
Not like the spoiled heir.
Like someone who had been trained from childhood to survive.
Two men fell.
The third ran.
Damian chased him outside.
I followed despite his warning.
Rain poured over the pavement.
The gunman reached a car.
Damian tackled him against the hood.
They fought.
Then the gunman screamed.
“Ask your father what happened at Saint Mercy!”
Damian froze.
The man head-butted him and escaped.
Damian stumbled backward.
“What is Saint Mercy?” I asked.
He looked at me.
His face was haunted.
“It's where your mother gave birth to you.”
My entire body went cold.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I was born at St. Anne's.”
“That's the fake record.”
“Then what happened at Saint Mercy?”
Damian looked toward the road.
“My father burned it down.”
We returned to the church.
The silver bracelet had a tiny engraving.
D.F.
I stared at it.
“Damian Falcone.”
He shook his head.
“Not mine.”
“Then whose?”
“My older brother's.”
“You have a brother?”
“Had.”
“What happened to him?”
“He died.”
“When?”
“Before I was born.”
The words made no sense.
“You were eleven.”
“Yes.”
“And he died before you were born?”
Damian looked directly at me.
“That is the problem.”
Then he showed me another document from the box.
It was a birth record.
Male child.
Mother: Eleanor Falcone.
Father: Adrian Cross.
The baby had been named Daniel.
I looked at Damian.
His voice was barely audible.
“My real name was Daniel.”
I couldn't breathe.
“Then who is Damian?”
May you like
He touched his chest.
“My father's version of me.”
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