Chapter 4 - The Child Nobody Was Supposed to Know Existed
I spent the next hour refusing to believe the second birth certificate.
It wasn't possible.
My father had vanished.
My mother had disappeared.
There had been no sibling.
At least, that's what I had always been told.
But the document was real.
Clara Hayes.
Born August 12.
And beneath it:
Michael Hayes.
Born February 3.
Same parents.
Same hospital.
Different years.
I looked at Grandmother.
“You never told me.”
She cried.
“Because Michael was taken.”
“By whom?”
“Victor.”
Alessandro's face went hard.
“Why?”
“Because Victor wanted leverage.”
“Against whom?”
“Your father.”
I stared at the certificate.
“Where is Michael now?”
Grandmother shook her head.
“We don't know.”
Alessandro turned toward Dominic's deputy.
“Find him.”
“Yes.”
“Before Victor does.”
The deputy left.
I sat down.
For the first time in years, I wished I could become invisible again.
That night, I dreamed of a little boy.
He was standing beside a lake.
He had my mother's eyes.
He held a black raven toy.
And he kept asking me one question.
“Why didn't you come?”
I woke before dawn.
Alessandro was standing outside the bedroom.
“You're awake.”
“How long have you been there?”
“Two minutes.”
“That sounds like something a stalker says.”
He almost smiled.
“Fair.”
I looked at him.
“Why did you help me?”
“Because you're involved.”
“That isn't enough.”
He entered.
“Your mother saved my life once.”
I stared.
“When?”
“Years ago.”
“How?”
“My father ordered my execution.”
I froze.
“What?”
“My father believed I had betrayed him.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
“I was trying to expose Victor.”
I stared.
“You knew?”
“I suspected.”
He sat across from me.
“Your mother found evidence that Victor had manipulated my father against me.”
“So she saved you.”
“She warned me.”
“What happened?”
“I ignored her.”
There was regret in his voice.
Real regret.
Not the kind powerful men perform.
The kind they carry.
“What did you do?”
“I confronted Victor.”
“And?”
“He nearly killed me.”
I stared at the scars along Alessandro's hand.
“You survived.”
“Barely.”
“And your father?”
“Died believing I was the traitor.”
I understood.
The black box had been his father's final confession.
Maybe it wasn't just about Victor.
Maybe it was about Alessandro.
My mother had tried to protect both of them.
And failed.
Or perhaps she hadn't.
Because she had left the box.
For me.
That morning, Alessandro took me into the estate dining room.
A table large enough for twenty people stood empty.
He placed a plate in front of me.
I frowned.
“What is this?”
“Breakfast.”
“I can feed myself.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you staring?”
“Because you haven't eaten properly for three months.”
I blinked.
“How do you know?”
“I told you. I watched you.”
“That isn't reassuring.”
He leaned back.
“Clara.”
“What?”
“I need you alive.”
“Because of the box?”
“Because of you.”
My heart stumbled.
Before I could answer, the dining room doors opened.
A woman entered.
Elegant.
Blonde.
Expensive coat.
Perfect smile.
“Alessandro.”
He stood.
“Isabella.”
She walked toward him.
“I heard there was trouble.”
“There was.”
Her eyes landed on me.
“And who is she?”
“Clara.”
“The maid?”
“Yes.”
Isabella smiled politely.
Then she looked me up and down.
“Interesting.”
I didn't like her.
Alessandro noticed.
“You can go.”
I stood.
As I passed Isabella, she whispered:
“You should leave while you still can.”
I stopped.
“Why?”
Her smile remained.
“Because men like Alessandro don't protect women.”
I looked back.
“They protect secrets.”
I walked away.
But something bothered me.
Her perfume.
I had smelled it before.
In the library.
On the day the box opened.
That evening, someone tried to enter my grandmother's hospital room.
Security stopped him.
He had fake papers.
And one thing in his pocket.
A photograph of Michael Hayes.
Alessandro came to the hospital immediately.
He looked at me.
“They found your brother.”
My breath caught.
“Where?”
“Brooklyn.”
“Is he safe?”
“No.”
We arrived at a small apartment building after midnight.
Police sirens surrounded it.
A teenage boy was being carried from the building.
He was seventeen.
Thin.
Terrified.
And when he saw me, he froze.
I stepped forward.
“Michael?”
He stared.
Then whispered:
“Clara?”
I started crying.
He did too.
I hugged him.
He held on as if he'd been drowning his entire life.
“I thought you were dead,” he whispered.
“I thought you were dead.”
He looked over my shoulder.
His expression suddenly changed.
“Who's that?”
I turned.
Alessandro stood behind us.
Michael went pale.
“He's here.”
“Who?”
Michael pointed at Alessandro.
“No.”
Alessandro frowned.
“Who is he afraid of?”
Michael started shaking.
“Not him.”
“Then who?”
Michael looked behind us.
At the street.
A black sedan had stopped.
The rear door opened.
A man stepped out.
He was older.
Tall.
Silver-haired.
Calm.
He looked almost exactly like my father.
May you like
My brother whispered:
“Uncle Victor.”
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