Chapter 2 - The Secret the Bianke Family Buried
Khloe stared at the photograph until the room seemed to tilt.
Her mother had never owned photographs like that.
Or at least Khloe had never seen them.
For twenty-six years, her childhood had been built around carefully arranged lies.
Her mother had said they left Italy because her grandmother wanted a quieter life.
She had said the Bianke surname belonged to a distant branch of relatives who had disappeared generations ago.
She had said Khloe's father was an American mechanic who had loved her mother enough to stay away from the family business.
But Khloe's father had never been part of her life.
He had died before she was born.
At least, that was what she had been told.
She pushed the photograph across the table.
“Where did you get this?”
Enzo's jaw tightened.
“My father kept it.”
“Why?”
“He kept everything.”
“Why would he keep a picture of my mother?”
Enzo said nothing.
Khloe stood.
“I think I've had enough.”
She reached for the door.
Enzo's voice stopped her.
“Your mother died eight months ago.”
Khloe froze.
She turned slowly.
“Yes.”
“You told the hospital she had no surviving family besides you.”
Khloe's throat tightened.
“How do you know that?”
“Because the hospital sent the death certificate to my legal office.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“Why would your legal office get my mother's death certificate?”
“Because her maiden name was Bianke.”
Khloe's heartbeat accelerated.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“You're lying.”
“I hoped I was.”
For the first time, Enzo looked less like a feared syndicate leader and more like a man who had just discovered that a piece of his own history had been buried without his permission.
Khloe whispered:
“Who was she?”
Enzo pulled out a second photograph.
“This is your mother in 1999.”
She was younger.
Laughing.
Standing in front of a bakery.
Beside her stood a man Khloe recognized instantly.
Her father.
But her father had supposedly never met her mother until they moved to Ohio.
Khloe sank back into the chair.
“He wasn't American.”
“No.”
“He was Italian.”
“Yes.”
“Who was he?”
Enzo hesitated.
“Marco Bennett.”
Khloe stared.
“That was his name.”
“And he was my father's most trusted courier.”
Khloe's mouth went dry.
“You knew him.”
“I knew of him.”
“What happened?”
Enzo's expression darkened.
“He disappeared after stealing something from my father.”
Khloe's eyes moved to the folders.
“Money?”
“No.”
“What, then?”
“A ledger.”
Khloe laughed bitterly.
“This is insane.”
Enzo did not disagree.
“My father kept records of every alliance, every payment, every betrayal. Marco took one of those ledgers.”
“Why?”
“Because someone inside the family was killing people.”
Khloe looked up.
“Who?”
Enzo's silence answered before he did.
“We never found out.”
Khloe shook her head.
“And my mother?”
“She knew where Marco was.”
“No.”
“She did.”
“And you think they stayed together?”
“They did.”
Khloe stood abruptly.
“My entire life is based on lies.”
Enzo's voice softened.
“So is mine.”
She looked at him.
The admission seemed to cost him something.
“My father was murdered when I was twenty-one.”
“I remember hearing about it.”
“You weren't supposed to.”
Khloe looked down.
“My mother told me to forget the Bianke name.”
“She knew what would happen if you didn't.”
Khloe folded her arms.
“Then why did you show me this?”
“Because someone has been looking for you.”
Her blood ran cold.
“Who?”
“Three weeks ago, an unknown man entered the records office of the hospital where your mother died.”
“Did they take anything?”
“Yes.”
“A copy of her death certificate.”
Khloe frowned.
“Why would anyone need that?”
Enzo's eyes narrowed.
“To prove she was dead.”
Khloe slowly understood.
“If someone wants proof my mother is dead…”
“Then they may know she left something behind.”
“What?”
Enzo looked toward the window.
“That is what I am trying to find out.”
A knock came.
Frankie entered.
“Boss.”
Enzo turned.
“What?”
“We searched Davis's apartment.”
“And?”
“Nothing.”
“Search again.”
Frankie hesitated.
“We found something else.”
He placed a phone on the table.
It contained a photograph of Khloe entering the restaurant six months earlier.
Another showed her leaving.
Another showed her at her mother's funeral.
Another showed her father's grave.
She stared.
“How long have I been followed?”
Frankie answered.
“Approximately nine months.”
Khloe's chest tightened.
“But my mother was alive then.”
Enzo looked at her.
“That means whoever was watching you knew about her.”
Khloe suddenly remembered something.
A week before her mother died, an envelope had appeared inside their mailbox.
No return address.
Her mother had snatched it away before Khloe could read it.
“Wait.”
Khloe reached into her handbag.
She pulled out a photograph.
She had kept it because she thought it was the only picture left of her mother.
Enzo looked at it.
His expression changed.
“Where did you get that?”
“Her bedroom.”
“What did she tell you?”
“Nothing.”
Enzo turned the photograph over.
There was writing on the back.
Khloe had never noticed it.
Three words.
Quando ritorni a casa.
When you come home.
Enzo's face went pale.
Khloe stared.
“What?”
He stood.
“My mother used to say that.”
“What does it mean?”
“When you come home.”
“Home where?”
Enzo looked at the photograph again.
Then at Khloe.
“Palermo.”
Khloe laughed in disbelief.
“I've never been there.”
“You were born there.”
“I was told Ohio.”
“You were told wrong.”
He took out his phone.
“Get a car ready.”
Frankie left.
Khloe shook her head.
“No.”
Enzo looked at her.
“No what?”
“I'm not going anywhere with you.”
“You are.”
“You cannot kidnap me.”
“I don't need to.”
He stepped closer.
“Someone else already knows you're connected to the Bianke family.”
Khloe stared at him.
“If you stay alone, they will find you first.”
She hated that the words sounded reasonable.
“What exactly do you want from me?”
“I want to know why your mother hid you.”
“And if I don't?”
Enzo stared at her for a long moment.
“Then I will still keep you alive.”
“Why?”
He answered without hesitation.
“Because no one else is going to tell me the truth.”
That night, Khloe went home to pack.
Her apartment felt different.
The walls.
The old sofa.
The chipped coffee mug her mother had bought her.
Everything seemed to belong to another woman.
She opened the small wooden box where her mother had kept letters.
Most were empty cards.
Bills.
Receipts.
Then, beneath them, Khloe found a key.
It was heavy.
Old.
Engraved with the number 17.
She turned it over.
On the back was a single word.
Bianke.
Khloe's hands began shaking.
Her mother had hidden a key from her.
And suddenly, she knew exactly where it might fit.
The basement.
Her mother had always forbidden her from entering one locked storage room beneath the apartment building.
Khloe had believed there was nothing inside.
She was wrong.
Very wrong.
When she returned to the restaurant the next evening, Enzo was waiting.
He noticed the key immediately.
“Where did you get that?”
“My mother's things.”
He took it.
His expression became grim.
“This key hasn't been seen in twenty-seven years.”
“To what?”
He handed it back.
“Room 17 beneath the Bianke family estate.”
Khloe stared.
“I thought you said we were going to Palermo.”
“We are.”
He looked at her.
“But first, we need to survive getting there.”
Before she could respond, the restaurant lights went out.
A gunshot cracked through the kitchen.
Frankie shouted.
“Down!”
Enzo grabbed Khloe and pulled her to the floor.
Another shot.
Glass shattered.
Men rushed through the side entrance.
Enzo drew his weapon.
Khloe heard someone speaking in Italian.
The voice was cold.
“Take the girl alive.”
She recognized the dialect.
Palermo.
Her mother had spoken it when she dreamed.
Enzo fired twice.
Then looked at Khloe.
“You understand them.”
“Yes.”
“What are they saying?”
Khloe's face went pale.
“They said…”
She swallowed.
“…the girl knows where her father hid the ledger.”
Enzo froze.
“My father never told us where Marco went.”
Khloe stared at the attackers.
“Maybe they aren't looking for my mother's secrets.”
May you like
She looked at Enzo.
“Maybe they're looking for my father's.”
