Chapter 3 - The Box Beneath the Floor
The next morning, Victor took me to a private medical clinic.
The doctor diagnosed a severe bruise and recommended rest.
“I can't rest,” I said.
Victor, sitting near the window, looked at me.
“You're going to.”
“I have rent.”
“I'll cover it.”
“No.”
His eyebrow lifted.
“No?”
“I don't want your money.”
“I wasn't offering charity.”
“I don't care.”
For the first time, I saw something almost resembling amusement in his eyes.
“You're difficult.”
“I've been called worse.”
“You're also stubborn.”
“I've had practice.”
He smiled faintly.
That was the first time I saw him smile.
And somehow, it frightened me more than his anger.
Because it made him human.
We returned to my mother's old storage unit.
It had been paid for six months after her death by a person I didn't know.
Inside were old photographs, boxes of clothes, tax records, and a wooden desk she'd refused to throw away.
Victor's attorney, Daniel Reed, examined the documents.
“There are inconsistencies.”
“What kind?”
“Your mother's employment records.”
He held up a folder.
“She officially worked for Caldwell Properties from 1997 to 1999.”
I stared.
“My mother died in 2000.”
Daniel nodded.
“She stopped receiving a paycheck in 1999.”
“Why?”
“Because she disappeared from the payroll.”
Victor looked at him.
“Find out who signed the termination.”
Daniel nodded.
While they searched through paperwork, I found something strange.
A photograph of my mother standing beside a man I'd never seen before.
Victor noticed.
“That's James DeLuca.”
His father.
“You knew him?”
“I was five when this was taken.”
My mother was smiling.
James was smiling too.
Behind them stood Richard Caldwell.
Then I noticed a handwritten note on the back.
Three names.
James.
Sofia.
Richard.
Below them was one sentence.
When the truth comes out, only one of them will survive.
My blood ran cold.
Victor read it over my shoulder.
His face became emotionless.
“What does it mean?”
“I don't know.”
He studied the handwriting.
“This is Richard's.”
“How can you be sure?”
“I grew up seeing his handwriting.”
Daniel interrupted.
“I found something.”
He held an old property deed.
The original owner was Maria Alvarez.
My grandmother.
I looked at the name.
“My grandmother?”
Victor took the document.
“She owned land in Manhattan.”
“Impossible.”
The deed showed a building currently worth more than thirty million dollars.
Richard Caldwell's company now owned it.
“How did he get it?”
Daniel turned the page.
“It was transferred after Maria Alvarez died.”
My grandmother had supposedly died without leaving property.
That was what we'd been told.
But this document said otherwise.
There was a signature.
Sofia Martinez.
My mother's name.
And beneath it, another signature.
Richard Caldwell.
I felt dizzy.
“My mother sold it?”
Victor frowned.
“No.”
He pointed to the date.
“Your mother was already dead when this document was supposedly signed.”
Silence.
Daniel looked up.
“Then the signature was forged.”
Everything suddenly became bigger than I had imagined.
“My grandmother's property was stolen.”
“My mother's name was forged.”
“Your father was involved.”
Victor said nothing.
Then he asked Daniel:
“What was the property sold for?”
Daniel checked.
“Two hundred thousand dollars.”
Victor's expression hardened.
“It's worth thirty million now.”
My knees almost gave out.
“Why would they steal it?”
Daniel looked at Victor.
“Because the property sits on the same parcel that Caldwell later used to build the DeLuca-Caldwell development.”
Victor's eyes narrowed.
“My father's biggest project.”
I stared at him.
“Then your father was cheated too.”
Victor nodded slowly.
Suddenly, the entire history of the rivalry between the Caldwell and DeLuca families looked different.
Maybe it had never been a rivalry.
Maybe it had been theft.
A knock came from the hallway.
Victor's security team entered.
“There was a break-in attempt at the storage unit downstairs.”
Victor looked at me.
“They know we're here.”
We left immediately.
That afternoon, Daniel found another document.
A safe-deposit agreement.
Bank of Manhattan.
Box 417.
The key with M-17 wasn't for the storage unit.
It was for the bank.
We went there that evening.
Inside the box was a single cassette tape.
A photograph.
And a letter.
The letter was addressed to me.
My mother's handwriting covered the page.
My hands trembled as I read.
Anna,
If you're reading this, then someone has finally discovered what I spent years trying to bury.
I need you to trust one person.
His name is Victor DeLuca.
My breath stopped.
I looked up.
Victor was standing across the room.
My mother had known him.
But she had written this before I had ever met him.
I continued.
Do not trust Richard Caldwell.
Do not trust Ethan.
And whatever happens, never let them convince you that your father abandoned you willingly.
I stopped reading.
Victor's expression changed.
“What did she say?”
I handed him the letter.
He read it.
Then looked at me.
“Anna.”
“What?”
“Your father didn't abandon your family.”
My heart pounded.
“Then where is he?”
Victor stared at the final line.
May you like
The line that had been folded over for years.
Your father is alive.
