Chapter 7 - The Gala Where Everyone Learned the TruthThe Romano Foundation Gala had been planned for months.
Five hundred guests.
Judges.
Senators.
Bankers.
Police officials.
Celebrities.
Journalists.
Business leaders.
Every person Bell had spent years manipulating.
He expected me to stand onstage and announce that I was stepping down.
Instead, the giant screen behind me displayed Isabelle.
The room fell silent.
She looked directly into the camera.
“My name is Isabelle Romano. If you are watching this, there is a chance my husband has finally learned the truth.”
A murmur moved through the crowd.
Bell stood near the back.
He looked calm.
Too calm.
Isabelle continued.
“Dominic was never supposed to inherit my father's power.”
She corrected herself.
“Not my father's power. My husband's father's power.”
She smiled sadly.
“Angelo Romano built Orpheus because he believed people could be controlled forever.”
Images appeared.
Bank records.
Shell companies.
Payments.
Names.
The room erupted.
Judges began calling assistants.
Journalists rushed toward the stage.
Bell's face changed.
Isabelle continued.
“He believed Dominic would become his perfect heir.”
I looked at the audience.
“My father-in-law was wrong.”
The next image showed me with the girls.
“Dominic became a father.”
Isabelle's voice softened.
“And fathers have a choice.”
Another file appeared.
A list of names.
Bell's.
Kane's.
Several judges.
Two police commissioners.
A senator.
Three CEOs.
My organization.
Everything.
The room exploded.
Security rushed toward Bell.
He pulled a weapon.
Chaos.
I moved toward my daughters.
Daniel blocked the aisle.
Michael secured the exits.
Grace took the girls into the private room.
Then Bell shouted.
“This is a lie!”
I turned.
“Then why are you running?”
He froze.
The crowd had started recording.
Phones were everywhere.
Bell's empire was collapsing in real time.
He ran.
I followed.
Not because I wanted revenge.
Because I wanted the truth.
We chased him into the underground parking garage.
He got into a car.
Daniel fired at the tires.
The car spun.
Bell crashed into a concrete barrier.
I reached the door.
He raised his gun.
I disarmed him.
He stared up at me.
“You think this makes you different?”
“No.”
“You're exactly like your father.”
“Maybe.”
I leaned closer.
“But I'm choosing differently.”
Police surrounded us.
Not Bell's men.
Real police.
The archive had been released simultaneously to federal investigators.
Every record.
Every payment.
Every recording.
Every name.
Bell was arrested.
Kane was arrested three hours later.
The remaining network began collapsing.
But one mystery remained.
Who actually killed Isabelle?
Bell had ordered the operation.
But who pulled the trigger?
The answer came from Mrs. Donnelly.
She had been arrested after the preschool incident.
She finally confessed.
“I didn't shoot Isabelle,” she said.
“Who did?”
She looked at Daniel.
Then me.
“Peter.”
The gardener.
The man everyone thought had disappeared.
He had been Bell's enforcer.
He shot Isabelle after she refused to hand over the archive.
“Where is he?”
“Dead.”
“Who killed him?”
She shook her head.
“Daniel.”
I looked at my brother.
He didn't deny it.
“He came after the girls.”
I nodded.
There was nothing to say.
The truth hurt.
But it was finally clean.
No more shadows.
No more ghosts.
No more lies.
Or so I thought.
Three days later, I received an envelope.
Inside was a photograph.
Isabelle.
Holding Nora as a baby.
On the back was a message.
There is one thing she never told you.
I stared at the words.
The sender had no name.
No return address.
Only one symbol.
A blue music box.
I opened the envelope again.
There was a second photograph.
Isabelle stood beside a woman.
The woman was younger.
Dark hair.
Gray eyes.
She looked familiar.
Too familiar.
I turned the photograph over.
Your mother.
My breath stopped.
My mother had supposedly died when I was ten.
But the photograph had been taken eight months before Isabelle died.
My mother was alive.
And Isabelle knew.
I called Daniel.
He answered immediately.
“Dom?”
“I found something.”
Silence.
“What?”
I sent him the photograph.
It took him twelve seconds to reply.
“Where did you get this?”
“Someone mailed it.”
“Burn it.”
“Why?”
“Because if she is alive, Bell wasn't the last person running Orpheus.”
I stared at the photograph.
“Who is?”
May you like
Daniel answered with one sentence.
“Your mother.”
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