Chapter 3 - The Man My Mother Told Me to Fear
The next morning began with three armed men in my kitchen and ended with the discovery that my dead father might have been alive.
I hadn't slept.
Neither had Matteo.
He sat across from me at the small kitchen table while Leo spread documents across the surface.
My coffee had gone cold.
I didn't care.
“Start at the beginning,” I said.
Leo looked at Matteo.
Matteo nodded.
“Eleven years ago, my father was the head of the Conti organization.”
“Organization?”
“You can call it a criminal empire.”
“At least you're honest.”
“My father had a financial broker named Daniel Voss.”
Leo placed an old photograph on the table.
Daniel Voss was younger than I remembered.
Older than me by perhaps twenty years.
And standing beside him was my father.
I knew that face.
Even though I had only a handful of photographs.
My father smiled in the picture.
I had not seen that smile since I was five.
“What happened?”
“Money disappeared.”
“How much?”
“Enough to start a war.”
“Your father blamed Daniel?”
“Yes.”
“And my mother?”
“She worked records administration at St. Vincent's. Daniel used the hospital for private transactions.”
I frowned.
“A hospital?”
“Doctors, executives, wealthy patients. People moved large amounts of money through medical trusts and foundations.”
Leo showed me another page.
There was my mother's name.
My stomach turned.
“She knew.”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“She discovered that a nonprofit account was being used to move money.”
“And she reported it?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Matteo answered.
“Because someone threatened your father.”
I stared at him.
“That doesn't make sense.”
“It will.”
He leaned forward.
“Your father discovered the scheme. He planned to expose Daniel. Before he could, a rival faction attacked his convoy.”
“What happened?”
“The public story says he died.”
“You said he didn't.”
“We never found a body.”
“That's not proof of life.”
“No.”
Matteo's eyes darkened.
“But two days after the attack, your mother withdrew a large amount of cash and disappeared for six months.”
I felt dizzy.
“She said she was working nights.”
“She was protecting you.”
I didn't answer.
Because I wanted to believe it.
And because part of me was furious.
“What happened after six months?”
“She came back.”
“With me?”
“Yes.”
“Why did I never know any of this?”
“Because your mother wanted you to have a normal life.”
I laughed bitterly.
“My normal life included three jobs and overdue bills.”
Matteo looked at me.
“You survived.”
“That's not the same as living.”
Silence.
Leo placed another photograph on the table.
My mother's face looked younger.
She stood beside a man.
My breath caught.
The man was my father.
Alive.
My hands began shaking.
“Where was this taken?”
“New Hampshire.”
“When?”
Leo said, “Three years ago.”
I looked at Matteo.
“That is impossible.”
“No.”
“You found him three years ago?”
“We believe so.”
“Then why didn't you tell my mother?”
“We tried.”
A horrible thought hit me.
“Did he know I existed?”
Matteo's silence answered before his words did.
“Yes.”
My eyes filled.
“Why didn't he come back?”
“We don't know.”
“You're lying.”
“No.”
“You all keep saying that.”
I stood so fast the chair scraped backward.
“My whole life has been built on lies.”
Matteo rose.
I pointed at him.
“Don't come closer.”
He stopped.
“I just found out my father might have been alive while I was growing up. My mother vanished secrets into boxes. Someone kidnapped her. A gunman tried to kill you in the club where I work. And you're telling me this is all connected?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“We don't know.”
I stared at him.
Then I laughed.
A broken, exhausted laugh.
“This is insane.”
Matteo's expression softened.
“I agree.”
“You're agreeing?”
“Yes.”
For the first time since the shooting, I saw the man behind the reputation.
He looked tired.
Not weak.
Just tired.
“What happened to your father?” I asked.
“He disappeared.”
“Like mine?”
“My father is dead.”
“You're sure?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“I held his hand.”
The words were so quiet they almost disappeared.
I didn't know what to say.
He looked away.
For a moment, the feared crime boss disappeared.
There was just a son who had lost his father.
Then Leo's phone rang.
He answered.
His face changed.
“Boss.”
“What?”
“We found the facility van.”
“Where?”
“Pier 17.”
Matteo grabbed his coat.
I followed.
“You're staying here.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“My mother is out there.”
“I know.”
“Then I'm coming.”
“No.”
I planted myself in front of the door.
“You can either take me or spend ten minutes arguing with me.”
He stared.
“Five.”
“Three.”
He almost smiled.
“Two.”
“Deal.”
The drive to Pier 17 was violent and fast.
At the warehouse, everything smelled like salt, fuel, and rust.
A van sat abandoned near the loading docks.
The rear doors were open.
Inside was a blanket.
A medical bag.
And blood.
My knees almost gave out.
Matteo caught my elbow.
“Don't look.”
“I need to.”
“You don't.”
I stepped inside.
There was no body.
Only blood.
And a bracelet.
My mother's bracelet.
I picked it up.
My breathing broke.
“She was here.”
“Yes.”
Leo crouched near a broken crate.
“Boss.”
He held up another black ring.
Matteo took it.
Then his expression changed.
“This isn't ours.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means someone wants us to think they are.”
A loudspeaker crackled overhead.
A man's voice filled the warehouse.
“Matteo Conti.”
Matteo looked up.
“Your father made one mistake.”
The voice continued.
“He trusted a woman named Clara Carter.”
My blood ran cold.
My mother's name.
“Now you are making the same mistake.”
Matteo stepped in front of me.
“Show yourself.”
The man laughed.
“Soon.”
Then the warehouse doors slammed shut.
Smoke began filling the room.
Leo shouted.
“Gas!”
Matteo grabbed me.
“Stay low.”
We ran.
My eyes burned.
Someone fired through the smoke.
Matteo shoved me behind a steel container.
“Stay here.”
“No.”
“Stay.”
He disappeared into the haze.
I heard gunshots.
Then a scream.
Not Matteo.
Someone else.
Seconds later, he reappeared.
Blood covered his shirt.
I nearly screamed.
“Are you shot?”
“Not mine.”
He grabbed my hand.
“We're leaving.”
We made it outside.
I bent over, coughing.
Matteo crouched beside me.
Then I realized he was holding something.
A photograph.
He handed it to me.
It was old.
My mother.
My father.
And another man.
A younger Matteo.
Maybe sixteen.
I stared at the photograph.
“Why are you in this?”
Matteo looked at me.
“That is what I've been trying to remember.”
“You don't remember?”
“I remember your mother.”
“How?”
He looked troubled.
“She saved my life.”
I stared.
“My mother saved you?”
“Yes.”
May you like
“When?”
“The night my father was supposed to kill me.”
