Chapter 2 - The Sister Who Was Supposed to Be Dead
The footsteps above us stopped.
Silence followed.
That was worse.
People who knew what they were doing never rushed.
They listened.
They waited.
They let fear do the work.
I motioned for Beatrice to stay behind the concrete wall.
Clara tried to stand.
Her legs buckled.
I caught her.
She felt frighteningly light.
“You're sick.”
“I've been sick for a long time.”
“From what?”
“Stress. Poor food. No treatment. Take your pick.”
Beatrice whispered, “She hasn't seen a proper doctor in years.”
I looked at her.
“You're coming with us too.”
She hesitated.
“Why?”
“Because from tonight onward, anyone connected to Clara is connected to me.”
A window shattered upstairs.
I moved.
Three men came down the staircase.
They wore dark winter jackets and gloves.
Not gang colors.
Not police.
Professionals.
The first raised his gun.
I fired first.
He fell.
The second ducked.
The third rushed toward Clara.
I hit him hard enough to send him against the wall.
Beatrice screamed.
Then everything became noise.
Gunfire.
Concrete dust.
Footsteps.
I shot the second attacker in the leg.
The third tried to grab Clara.
She struck him with a metal lamp.
I almost smiled.
Apparently my little sister was still herself.
“Move!” I shouted.
We ran through the rear tunnel beneath the church.
I had no idea it existed.
Clara did.
She led us through darkness until we reached an alley three blocks away.
A black sedan waited.
My driver, Owen, was inside.
He stared at Clara.
His face changed.
“Boss?”
“Drive.”
He looked at me in disbelief.
“That's—”
“Drive.”
He did.
Within minutes, the church disappeared behind us.
I sat beside Clara in the back seat.
Beatrice sat opposite us.
Nobody spoke.
Finally, Clara whispered, “I knew you would come.”
“You knew I was following Beatrice?”
“No.”
She smiled faintly.
“I knew you would never ignore your curiosity.”
I gave a tired laugh.
“You haven't changed.”
“Neither have you.”
“That isn't true.”
She looked at my hands.
“The boy I knew wouldn't carry a gun like that.”
“The boy you knew didn't have a choice.”
“I know.”
We arrived at a second property outside the city.
Not the mansion.
A hidden estate my father had used.
No one knew I still owned it.
I took Clara inside.
A doctor arrived within twenty minutes.
He examined her.
“She needs rest, proper nutrition, blood tests, and surgery.”
“What kind?”
“She has an untreated heart condition.”
Beatrice looked down.
I glanced at Clara.
“How long?”
The doctor hesitated.
“Without treatment, I can't say.”
Clara smiled.
“That's a polite way of saying I'm in trouble.”
I didn't smile.
I turned to the doctor.
“Do everything.”
He nodded.
While he worked, I went into the study.
Lorenzo called.
I stared at the screen.
Then answered.
“Boss.”
His voice sounded calm.
“Where are you?”
“Why?”
“We found an attack at Saint Agnes.”
My blood chilled.
“How do you know?”
“The church was under surveillance.”
“By whom?”
There was a pause.
“By us.”
I leaned back.
“Who ordered it?”
Another pause.
Then he said, “Nobody.”
That was the wrong answer.
Someone had ordered it.
Someone had known exactly where Clara was.
And only a handful of people knew I visited that neighborhood.
“How many attackers?”
“Three confirmed.”
“Any survivors?”
“One.”
“Bring him to me.”
“We already did.”
My jaw tightened.
“Where?”
“The old warehouse.”
“Good.”
I hung up.
Then I called Marco, one of my most trusted captains.
“How long has Lorenzo known about Saint Agnes?”
Marco was silent.
“Answer me.”
“I don't know.”
“That is not good enough.”
“Boss, there are things about that old fire you never let us investigate.”
“Because I thought Clara was dead.”
He went silent.
“I found her.”
Marco inhaled sharply.
“Alive?”
“Yes.”
“Jesus.”
I lowered my voice.
“Who was responsible for the investigation twelve years ago?”
Marco hesitated.
“Lorenzo handled the internal report.”
My stomach twisted.
He had not merely delivered the report.
He had controlled it.
That evening, I went to the warehouse.
The surviving attacker was tied to a chair.
I stood across from him.
“Who sent you?”
He smiled.
“You know who.”
“I want to hear you say it.”
He looked at me.
“Lorenzo Vale.”
My world went quiet.
“Why?”
“He wanted the girl dead.”
“Clara?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because she saw what happened.”
“What happened?”
The man laughed.
“You really don't know.”
“Tell me.”
“Your father didn't die peacefully.”
I stepped closer.
“He was poisoned.”
I froze.
“When?”
“Two months after the fire.”
“Who told you?”
“Lorenzo.”
“Why?”
“Because Lorenzo's father and your father were partners.”
My stomach turned.
Lorenzo's father had been our family's financial adviser.
He died shortly after my father.
I had always thought it was coincidence.
The attacker continued.
“They stole the money.”
“What money?”
“The money your father hid in offshore accounts.”
I stared.
That wasn't enough to explain Clara.
Then he said the one thing that changed everything.
“Your sister caught them.”
“What?”
“She saw Lorenzo's father meeting the men who caused the explosion.”
I felt my pulse in my throat.
“Why kill her?”
“Because she knew.”
I looked at him.
“Who helped her escape?”
“Nora Bell.”
I nodded.
“Where is Nora?”
He smiled.
“You already know.”
I didn't.
He leaned forward.
“She works for you.”
I stared at him.
He whispered:
“She has been in your house for twelve years.”
I felt a coldness deeper than the Chicago winter.
There was only one woman in my household who had been with me since before Clara's death.
My housekeeper.
Margaret.
She had raised me after my parents died.
She had been the one person I never questioned.
I returned to the estate.
Clara was awake.
“You're shaking.”
“I found one answer.”
She looked at me.
“Who?”
I told her.
She closed her eyes.
“I knew it.”
“You knew Margaret was Nora?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“She found me after the fire.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because she told me if I did, they'd know I was alive.”
I stared.
“You kept this secret for twelve years.”
“I was eight when everything happened.”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“I was terrified.”
I sat beside her.
“I should have found you.”
“You were only a kid too.”
I looked down.
She took my hand.
“Matteo, this wasn't your fault.”
I wanted to believe her.
But then I remembered every person I had killed.
Every enemy.
Every revenge.
Every night I had blamed myself.
If Clara had been alive all those years, then perhaps I had wasted twelve years fighting ghosts.
And someone had benefited from it.
Lorenzo Vale.
My closest friend.
My most trusted lieutenant.
The man who had whispered into my ear for decades.
I stood.
Clara grabbed my sleeve.
“What are you going to do?”
“Ask him a question.”
“And if he lies?”
I looked toward the snowy windows.
“Then I'm going to ask him one more.”
She shook her head.
“No.”
“What?”
“Don't become the man they expected you to become.”
I stared at her.
She smiled weakly.
“You found me.”
“Clara—”
“Now find the truth.”
I kissed her forehead.
Then I walked away.
May you like
Because for the first time in my life, revenge was no longer enough.
I wanted the truth.
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