Chapter 5 - The Boy in the PhotographWe found Michael's identity before sunrise.
Not because someone confessed.
Because Isabelle had left clues.
The little boy in the photograph had been born in 1998.
His mother was Maria Russo.
A woman my father had employed in one of his clubs.
Michael's birth certificate listed his father as unknown.
But a private DNA report hidden in Isabelle's archive told the truth.
Michael was Angelo Romano's son.
My half-brother.
He was thirty.
Alive.
And he had spent most of his life believing his father abandoned him.
I wanted to meet him.
Daniel warned me not to.
He called from an unknown number.
“You're not ready.”
“You don't get to tell me what I'm ready for.”
“You've spent twenty years building a fortress around yourself.”
“Then why are you hiding outside it?”
Silence.
“Where are you?”
“Safe.”
“With Nora?”
“No.”
“Then where?”
“She is with someone who loves her.”
My grip tightened.
“Daniel.”
“You need to understand something.”
“What?”
“The people hunting you don't want you dead.”
“What do they want?”
“They want you obedient.”
I laughed bitterly.
“Nobody has ever made Dominic Romano obedient.”
“That's why they created Michael.”
My blood ran cold.
“Explain.”
“Your father always believed you were the best heir because you had his discipline.”
“And Michael?”
“He was insurance.”
“Against what?”
“Against you.”
I thought of the photographs.
The shell companies.
The forged signatures.
The archive.
Everything had been designed to make me distrust my own family.
Michael was the missing piece.
A replacement.
An heir who could be used if I refused to cooperate.
“Where is he?”
Daniel gave me an address.
A church in Queens.
I arrived alone.
Michael stood beneath the stained-glass windows.
He looked nothing like me.
Dark curly hair.
Green eyes.
A scar along his jaw.
But when he turned, I saw our father in his face.
He didn't move.
“So you're Dominic.”
“Yes.”
“I've hated you for years.”
I nodded.
“You can join the line.”
He almost smiled.
“Daniel said you'd say that.”
“You know Daniel?”
“He saved me.”
“How?”
“When I was sixteen, Bell's men came after my mother.”
“What happened?”
“She died.”
I felt something shift inside me.
“I'm sorry.”
Michael looked away.
“He told me never to trust the Romano name.”
“And yet you're here.”
“Because he said Isabelle trusted you.”
I stared at him.
“Why?”
“Because she believed you could become someone different.”
The words hurt.
Because they sounded like hope.
Something I had not allowed myself in years.
Michael handed me a flash drive.
“What is this?”
“Everything Daniel found.”
“You have access to Bell's files?”
“I've had access for years.”
“Why didn't you expose him?”
“Because I didn't know who would survive.”
The flash drive contained communications.
Payments.
Orders.
Photographs.
And one document that made my chest tighten.
It was a contract.
Signed by Arthur Bell.
The target:
Isabelle Romano.
Status:
Eliminated.
I stared at it.
There was a note below.
Children to remain alive. Father to be redirected.
Redirected.
Not killed.
Controlled.
Used.
Michael sat down.
“They wanted you.”
“For what?”
“To take control of the organization.”
I looked at him.
“Why?”
“Because after your father died, Bell needed the Romano network.”
“And?”
“You were the only one powerful enough to take it.”
“So he killed my wife to manipulate me?”
Michael nodded.
“He expected grief to make you reckless.”
I remembered the fourteen months.
The wars I started.
The men I crushed.
The deals I destroyed.
The rivals I accused.
How easily anger had become my compass.
Bell had used me.
My wife's death had not weakened me.
It had weaponized me.
Against everyone.
Including the people she wanted to protect.
I sat in silence.
Then Michael said, “There's one more thing.”
“What?”
“Isabelle wasn't supposed to die that morning.”
I looked at him.
“What?”
“She was scheduled to meet Daniel.”
“Then why did the attack happen?”
“Because somebody moved the meeting.”
“Who?”
Michael slid a photograph across the table.
A calendar page.
The appointment had been moved from 10:00 a.m. to 8:30.
The handwriting belonged to someone I recognized.
Mine.
I stared at it.
“I didn't write this.”
“No,” Michael said.
“But someone forged my handwriting.”
He nodded.
“Which means someone had access to your office.”
My blood cooled.
One person had access.
My personal assistant.
Helen.
She had worked for me for nine years.
I had trusted her with everything.
Michael stood.
“She's Bell's person.”
We returned to the mansion.
Helen was waiting in my office.
She had a suitcase.
That was the first thing I noticed.
The second was the gun in her hand.
The third was the tears in her eyes.
“Don't come closer.”
I stopped.
“Helen.”
“I didn't kill Isabelle.”
“Then put the gun down.”
“They said they would kill my son.”
“Who?”
“Bell.”
I said nothing.
She began crying.
“They had him for six months.”
My fists clenched.
“What did you do?”
“Everything they asked.”
“Did you move Isabelle's meeting?”
“Yes.”
“Did you access the girls' rooms?”
“Yes.”
“Did you place the music boxes?”
“Yes.”
My heart cracked.
“Why?”
“Because Isabelle knew.”
She lowered the gun.
“She knew they had me.”
I stepped closer.
“What happened that morning?”
Helen's voice became a whisper.
“Isabelle called me.”
“What did she say?”
“She said Daniel was alive.”
I stared.
“She told me she was taking the girls away.”
“Where?”
“Somewhere safe.”
“Why didn't she?”
Helen looked toward the hallway.
“Because someone followed her.”
“Who?”
She lifted her eyes.
“Mrs. Donnelly.”
I froze.
“She wasn't just your house manager.”
“What was she?”
“Bell's handler.”
Everything snapped into place.
Mrs. Donnelly had been in our house for twelve years.
She had watched my children grow.
She had attended Isabelle's funeral.
She had comforted me.
She had sat in the front row.
And she had helped plan the murder.
I took Helen's gun.
“Where is Bell?”
“He's going to the gala tomorrow.”
“What gala?”
“The Romano Foundation.”
My foundation.
My wife's foundation.
The charity event Isabelle had started.
Bell planned to use it to announce a leadership transition.
My transition.
Before a crowd of judges, bankers, politicians, and press.
He wanted me publicly controlled.
I looked at Michael.
Then Helen.
Then Grace.
“We end this tomorrow.”
Grace stepped forward.
“How?”
I looked at the three photographs spread across my desk.
Isabelle.
Daniel.
May you like
My daughters.
“We tell the truth.”
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