Chapter 2 - Marisol's Son
Marisol knew something was wrong the moment Simon Castellano returned that evening.
He didn't shout.
That would have been easier.
He didn't threaten anyone.
That would have been familiar.
He simply walked into the kitchen and stood there until everyone stopped moving.
Cordelia looked at him.
Marisol kept folding towels.
She had been doing that for five months and knew one thing about powerful men.
Never volunteer information.
Never explain before you're asked.
Never assume kindness means safety.
Maddie was coloring at the table.
Eli was in the living room, headphones around his neck.
Simon looked through the doorway.
For one second his eyes landed on the boy.
Eli glanced back.
And Simon nearly forgot how to breathe.
Eleven years old.
Brown-gold hair.
Gray-green eyes.
A faint scar near the temple.
He was taller than the boy in the portrait.
But not much else had changed.
Simon took one step forward.
Eli frowned.
"Do I know you?"
Marisol stood up immediately.
"Eli."
The boy turned.
"Yeah?"
"Go upstairs with Maddie."
"But—"
"Now."
Eli looked between his mother and the strange man.
Then he obeyed.
Maddie gathered her crayons.
On the stairs, she looked back.
"That's the picture man."
Simon closed his eyes.
When the children disappeared, he turned toward Marisol.
"Who is he?"
"My son."
"His name?"
"Eli."
"His full name."
She hesitated.
"Elias Vega."
"Did you name him?"
"No."
That answer changed everything.
"Who did?"
Marisol looked down.
"I don't know."
Simon stepped closer.
"Where did you get him?"
Her eyes flashed.
"You don't get to ask like that."
"He's my brother."
She froze.
"You think I don't know what I heard?" Simon said. "Maddie recognized his photograph. He knows the name Eli. He has a scar on his temple. He wears a silver bracelet."
Marisol said nothing.
"Where did you get him?"
She sat down.
"You should talk to Cordelia."
"I already did."
"Then you know why I can't tell you."
"You can tell me."
"Not without putting him in danger."
Simon stared.
"He has been in danger for seven years."
"I know."
"You knew who he was?"
"No."
"You knew he wasn't your biological son."
"No."
"Then what did you know?"
Marisol rubbed her hands together.
"Seven years ago, I was working nights at a roadside diner in St. Bernard."
Simon listened.
"It was raining."
"Of course it was."
"I saw the fire on the news."
She swallowed.
"Later that night, around midnight, I heard something outside behind the diner."
"You found him."
She nodded.
"A little boy. Barely conscious. Mud on his clothes. Blood on his forehead."
Simon's jaw tightened.
"What did you do?"
"I called an ambulance."
"And?"
"They came."
"What happened?"
"The paramedic said there was a missing child from the crash, but nobody had found him. I told them I had."
Simon stared.
"Why wasn't he identified?"
Marisol shook her head.
"Because he couldn't speak."
"He didn't remember?"
"No."
"Where was the bracelet?"
"He had it."
Simon's chest hurt.
"Did you give it to the paramedics?"
Marisol looked at him.
"No."
"Why?"
"Because one of them saw it and said something strange."
"What?"
"He asked where I got it."
Simon's eyes narrowed.
"He didn't ask where the child was found?"
"No."
"He asked about the bracelet."
"Yes."
"What happened next?"
"He told me the boy wasn't part of the crash."
Simon went still.
"What?"
"He said someone must have left him there."
"And you believed him?"
"I was twenty-four, alone, pregnant, and scared."
She looked toward the stairs.
"I had lost everyone I thought could protect me."
"You were pregnant with Maddie?"
"Not yet. Six weeks."
Simon said nothing.
Marisol continued.
"The paramedic told me they would take the boy."
"But they didn't."
"No."
"What happened?"
"The boy grabbed my sleeve."
She looked down.
"He wouldn't let go."
Simon's throat tightened.
"Then what?"
"I told them I wanted to stay with him."
"They said I couldn't."
"But you did."
"I hid him."
Simon's voice became a whisper.
"Where?"
"The old storage room behind the diner."
She looked at him.
"For three days."
Simon stared.
"Why?"
"Because I saw one of the men from the crash looking for him."
His face changed.
"What man?"
"Black coat."
"Face?"
"Beard. Scar."
"Where?"
"Left cheek."
Simon immediately thought of the man Maddie had described.
"Did you ever see him again?"
"Once."
"Where?"
"Outside the diner."
Marisol looked toward the stairs.
"He was asking about the boy."
Simon walked to the window.
For seven years, he had believed his brother died.
For seven years, someone had known the truth.
And Marisol had been hiding a child she didn't understand because she was trying to keep him alive.
"What happened to the paramedic?"
Marisol shook her head.
"I don't know."
Simon turned.
"How did you get Eli into your life officially?"
"I didn't."
His eyes narrowed.
"What?"
"He had no birth records I could verify."
"You adopted him illegally?"
"No."
"I took him to a clinic. He had amnesia. The clinic said they'd need paperwork. I didn't have it."
"Then how did you keep him?"
"I didn't tell everyone everything."
A sad smile touched her mouth.
"I told people he was my nephew."
Simon stared.
"That's why you have no records."
"Not exactly."
She reached into a drawer.
Pulled out a folded paper.
Simon took it.
A seven-year-old medical report.
Patient: Male child, approximately four years old.
No identified next of kin.
Distinctive scar at left temporal hairline.
Silver bracelet with engraved initials E.C.
Simon sat down.
He couldn't stand anymore.
His hands trembled.
The letters.
E.C.
His father's initials.
"Why didn't you contact the Castellanos?"
Marisol laughed bitterly.
"I didn't know who the Castellanos were."
"You heard the news."
"I heard a family lost a child."
She met his eyes.
"I did not hear that family had a thousand enemies."
Simon looked away.
"Did Eli ever remember anything?"
"Pieces."
"Such as?"
"Your house."
His head snapped toward her.
"What?"
"He used to draw it."
"Show me."
Marisol pulled a notebook from the cabinet.
Inside were dozens of drawings.
A large house.
Two tall windows.
A black car.
A fountain.
A boy.
And a taller boy beside him.
Simon stared at the larger figure.
That was him.
Not as he looked now.
As he had looked at twenty-seven.
His brother had remembered him.
He just hadn't remembered his name.
Simon whispered:
"He was looking for me."
Marisol nodded.
"He used to say, 'My brother comes when it's dark.'"
Simon's eyes closed.
He had spent seven years thinking he had failed Eli.
The truth was worse.
Eli had spent seven years waiting for him.
A sound came from the doorway.
"Mama?"
Marisol turned.
Eli stood there.
He looked between them.
"What happened?"
Simon rose slowly.
He didn't approach the boy.
Not yet.
He couldn't.
Because there was an eleven-year-old standing in front of him wearing the face of the little brother he had buried.
"I want to ask you something," Simon said.
Eli frowned.
"Okay."
"Do you know the name Castellano?"
The boy thought.
"Maybe."
"Do you remember a house with two tall windows?"
Eli's eyes widened.
"Yes."
Simon swallowed.
"Do you remember a man who used to carry you?"
Eli stared at him.
Then slowly lifted his hand.
"Like this?"
He mimicked a gesture.
One arm under the knees.
One around the back.
Simon's chest cracked open.
"Yes."
Eli frowned.
"Why do you know?"
Simon couldn't answer.
Marisol stepped between them.
"Simon."
He looked at her.
"Please."
She nodded toward the boy.
"Don't tell him everything at once."
Simon took a breath.
Then something happened neither of them expected.
Eli looked directly at Simon's face.
He tilted his head.
And whispered:
"You used to call me Roo."
Simon stopped.
Only one person had ever known that.
He had invented the nickname when Eli was two.
Roo.
Because Eli loved jumping like a kangaroo.
Nobody outside the family knew.
Simon covered his mouth.
Eli took one step forward.
"You are him."
Simon knelt.
The way he had knelt for Maddie that morning.
But this time he did not touch the child.
He couldn't trust his hands.
"I'm Simon."
Eli's eyes filled.
"Simon?"
"My name is Simon."
"The brother."
Simon nodded.
Eli looked confused.
"But Mom said you didn't exist."
Marisol's face went white.
"What did you say?"
Eli pointed toward a memory that had lived seven years in the dark.
"She said if anybody asked, my family was gone."
Marisol stared at him.
"I never said that."
Eli frowned.
"Yes, you did."
Then Simon realized.
Marisol hadn't been the one who taught Eli to be afraid.
Someone else had.
Someone had planted the fear long ago.
Someone who wanted Eli hidden.
Someone who knew exactly how much a child could remember.
That night, Simon didn't sleep.
He sat in his study with Eli's old drawings spread across the desk.
At midnight, Cordelia came in.
"I found something."
Simon looked up.
"What?"
She placed a photograph beside the drawings.
A young John Barone.
Standing beside the burned vehicle.
And holding a child.
Eli.
Alive.
Simon stared at it.
"Where did you get this?"
"It was hidden in your mother's old files."
"Why didn't you show me?"
"Because I didn't know how."
"How long have you had it?"
Cordelia hesitated.
"Seven years."
Simon stood.
"You knew."
"I suspected."
"Seven years."
"I was afraid."
Simon looked at the photograph.
His hands curled into fists.
"Not anymore."
He picked up his phone.
"Call every captain."
Cordelia frowned.
"Simon—"
"Tell them to find John Barone."
"And if he runs?"
May you like
Simon looked at the image of his brother.
"Then we run faster."
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