Chapter 6 - The Mother Who Vanished
Isabella did not speak for the entire drive back to the mansion.
Her mother.
Alive.
The word would not fit inside any part of her life.
Lucia Santos had supposedly died when Isabella was eight.
Cancer.
At least that was what Thomas had told her.
There had been a funeral.
A closed casket.
There were photographs of flowers.
Condolence cards.
Years of grief.
When they entered Alejandro’s study, Isabella turned on Thomas.
“You buried her.”
Thomas looked exhausted.
“We buried an empty coffin.”
She slapped him.
The sound echoed.
He accepted it.
“You let me think my mother was dead for sixteen years.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because Petrov tried to kill her.”
“Then tell me she went into hiding!”
“You were eight.”
“So?”
“So you would have tried to find her.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I knew you.”
Her eyes filled.
“You stole sixteen years from me.”
Thomas’s face broke.
“I know.”
Alejandro quietly dismissed everyone else.
Isabella did not notice.
“Where is she?”
Thomas looked at the floor.
“Connecticut.”
“Address.”
“Bella—”
“Address.”
He gave it to Alejandro.
Isabella turned immediately.
“I’m going.”
Thomas stood.
“She may not be there.”
“You said she was.”
“She moves.”
“Why?”
“Because Petrov still thinks she has evidence.”
“The recording.”
“Yes.”
Isabella laughed bitterly.
“So everyone lied to me because everyone had evidence.”
Thomas stepped toward her.
“Your mother chose this.”
“She chose to let her daughter believe she was dead?”
“She chose to keep you alive.”
Isabella’s face crumpled.
She hated that the sentence hurt because part of her understood it.
Three hours later, an SUV stopped outside a modest house near the Connecticut coast.
No walls.
No guards.
White siding.
Small garden.
Isabella sat frozen.
Alejandro did not touch her.
“You can stay in the car.”
“No.”
She opened the door.
The woman who answered the house looked older than Isabella’s memories.
Of course she did.
Sixteen years had happened.
Her hair was streaked with gray.
Her face thinner.
But her eyes were the same.
Dark brown.
Like Isabella’s.
Lucia Santos gripped the doorframe.
“Bella.”
Isabella could not breathe.
Her mother covered her mouth.
Then Isabella hit her.
Not hard.
Not really.
Just once against the shoulder.
Then she collapsed into her arms.
Lucia held her.
They both cried.
For several minutes, no one spoke.
Alejandro turned away.
Inside, the house smelled like cinnamon and coffee.
Ordinary.
It made the lies feel even stranger.
Lucia sat across from Isabella at a small kitchen table.
“I wrote you letters every year.”
“Where are they?”
“With Thomas.”
Isabella looked at him.
He closed his eyes.
“You are unbelievable.”
“I know.”
Lucia reached across the table.
“Do not blame only him.”
“Oh, I have enough blame for everyone.”
A tiny laugh escaped Lucia through tears.
“That sounds like you.”
“You don’t know what I sound like.”
The words hurt both of them.
Lucia nodded.
“You’re right.”
Silence.
Then Alejandro placed the Verona file on the table.
“Mrs. Santos, Petrov claims you have a recording.”
Lucia’s face changed when she saw him.
“You look like Gabriel.”
Alejandro went still.
“You knew my father.”
“He saved my life.”
Isabella stared.
Lucia continued.
“After the warehouse fire, Mateo survived long enough to tell me Petrov would come for us. Gabriel Romano arranged safe houses.”
Alejandro sat slowly.
“My father never told me.”
“He was trying to protect you too.”
Isabella almost laughed at the absurdity.
Apparently everyone in their lives had been protecting everyone else by destroying each other with secrets.
Lucia stood.
She went to the pantry.
From behind a shelf, she removed a metal tin.
Inside was an old digital recorder.
“Petrov gave a speech after the fire,” she said. “He was drunk. Arrogant. He admitted ordering it.”
Alejandro stared at the recorder.
“This can destroy him.”
“It can destroy more than Petrov.”
Lucia pressed play.
Static.
Then Victor Petrov’s younger voice.
He spoke about paying inspectors.
Police captains.
Customs officers.
A federal prosecutor.
And one name no one expected.
Senator Robert Vale.
Isabella recognized him instantly.
The senator who had stepped aside for Alejandro at the gala.
Lucia stopped the recording.
“He built his career on Petrov’s money.”
Alejandro’s expression darkened.
“That explains the political cover.”
Thomas nodded.
“And the gala guest list.”
Isabella looked between them.
“Vale was there to meet the buyer.”
“Likely,” Alejandro said.
Lucia turned to Isabella.
“There’s more.”
She opened the recorder’s battery compartment.
A folded strip of paper was hidden inside.
Coordinates.
Thomas read them.
“Warehouse Seventeen.”
“No,” Lucia said. “Under it.”
Alejandro frowned.
“There’s a lower level?”
“Old Cold War storage. Mateo discovered it before the fire.”
Isabella understood.
“The real shipment.”
“Yes.”
Marco had been wrong.
Or only partly right.
The isotopes under the hotel were staging.
The buyer’s transfer would happen below Warehouse Seventeen.
Alejandro stood.
“Tomorrow night.”
Thomas nodded.
Lucia grabbed Isabella’s hand.
“You’re not going.”
Isabella looked at her mother.
For sixteen years, she had dreamed of hearing that voice again.
She had imagined comfort.
Safety.
But she was no longer eight.
“I am.”
Lucia shook her head.
“I already lost your father.”
“And I already lost you.”
The words silenced the room.
Isabella continued.
“I’m done living inside other people’s decisions.”
Alejandro looked at her.
Something in his expression changed.
Respect.
Fear.
And something warmer.
They returned to Manhattan after midnight.
In the mansion hallway, Isabella stopped him.
“Why did you really agree to protect me?”
“Thomas asked.”
“That’s not enough.”
He was quiet.
Then he opened the study drawer and removed an old photograph.
A teenage Alejandro stood beside Gabriel Romano.
Next to them was Mateo Santos.
And a little girl holding a red balloon.
Isabella.
She stared.
“That’s me.”
“Yes.”
“How old?”
“Six.”
“You were there?”
“I was sixteen.”
“I don’t remember you.”
“You shouldn’t.”
He looked at the photograph.
“After the warehouse fire, your father carried me out.”
Isabella’s breath caught.
“I was inside.”
“What?”
“My father had taken me to inspect a loading issue. Petrov’s men started the fire while we were there.”
He pointed to a faint scar near his neck.
“Mateo found me unconscious.”
Isabella looked at him.
“He saved you.”
“Yes.”
“And your father?”
“Trapped farther inside.”
Now she understood.
Alejandro had not been protecting a stranger.
He had been paying a debt.
At least at first.
“And now?” she asked.
He looked at her.
“What?”
“Are you still doing this because of my father?”
Alejandro’s gaze dropped briefly to her mouth, then returned to her eyes.
“No.”
The answer was quiet.
Dangerous in a different way.
Isabella’s heart beat harder.
Before either of them could move, alarms erupted through the mansion.
A guard’s voice shouted from the hall.
“Perimeter breach!”
Alejandro drew his weapon.
May you like
The lights went out.
And from somewhere downstairs came the sound of breaking glass.
