Chapter 6 - MY MOTHER HAD BEEN ALIVE FOR SEVENTEEN YEARSI had imagined seeing my mother again thousands of times as a child.
In dreams, she came through the front door carrying groceries.
Sometimes she apologized for being late.
Sometimes she acted as though she had only been gone an afternoon.
When I became older, the dreams changed.
She stood at the edge of crowds.
Across train platforms.
Outside restaurants.
Always close enough to recognize.
Never close enough to reach.
None of those dreams prepared me for reality.
My mother stood at the top of a staircase in rural Canada, one hand resting protectively in front of a teenage boy I had learned existed less than twenty-four hours earlier.
She looked at me.
I looked at her.
Then she said my childhood nickname.
“Bastian.”
Something inside me broke.
Only three people had ever called me that.
My father.
My mother.
Sofia when she wanted to annoy me.
“You’re alive.”
My voice barely worked.
My mother descended one step.
“Yes.”
Seventeen years of grief turned instantly into anger.
“You’re alive.”
She stopped.
Gabriel looked between us.
“Mom?”
She touched his shoulder.
“It’s okay.”
“No,” I said. “Actually, it’s not.”
Marcus quietly lowered his weapon and moved toward the kitchen, giving us space without leaving us unprotected.
My mother reached the bottom stair.
“I knew this day might come.”
“That makes one of us.”
Tears filled her eyes.
“Sebastian—”
“I went to your funeral.”
“I know.”
“I was nine.”
“I know.”
“I spent my entire childhood believing you were dead.”
“I know.”
“Stop saying that.”
Gabriel stepped forward.
“Don’t talk to her like that.”
I looked at him.
My brother.
He had my father’s jaw.
My mother’s eyes.
And absolutely no reason to trust me.
“You’re Gabriel.”
He stiffened.
“How do you know my name?”
“Because apparently I’m the last person in our family to learn anything.”
“Elena,” Marcus called quietly from the window.
My mother’s expression changed.
“What?”
“Where’s Charles?”
Her face drained of color.
“He was here.”
“When?”
“Twenty minutes ago.”
“Why?”
“He came to warn us.”
“Warn you about me?”
“No.”
She looked toward the door.
“About the person following him.”
Marcus immediately spoke into his radio.
Teams moved outside.
I turned back.
“Start at the beginning.”
My mother sat at the kitchen table.
Gabriel remained beside her.
I stayed standing.
“If you want answers,” she said, “you need to understand who Charles really is.”
“Our lawyer?”
“He was never just a lawyer. He was your grandfather’s investigator.”
That surprised me.
“Investigator?”
“When Vittorio suspected somebody was stealing from the family, he asked Charles to quietly trace the money.”
“So Charles wasn’t responsible.”
“No. Charles helped me find the ledger.”
“Why did you tell Lucinda you suspected him?”
“I didn’t.”
“Lucinda said—”
“Lucinda lied.”
Of course.
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“Was Lucinda involved?”
My mother hesitated.
“Yes.”
My hands curled.
“In what?”
“She was transferring money.”
“How much?”
“Millions.”
“For herself?”
“No.”
That answer surprised me.
“She was paying someone.”
“Who?”
“Your uncle Preston.”
I laughed once.
“This gets better every minute.”
“Elena,” Marcus said, “we need facts.”
She nodded.
“Preston had gambling debts when he was young. Very serious ones. He borrowed money from dangerous people. Lucinda began covering the debts through the foundation.”
“So they stole.”
“Yes. At first.”
“At first?”
“Then somebody discovered what they were doing and used it to control them.”
“Who?”
“That is the part we never proved.”
“You knew enough to fake your death.”
“I knew someone tried to kill me.”
She touched the scar on her temple.
“After the crash, Preston found me. He wanted to call Anthony. I begged him not to. I believed the attacker was watching the family.”
“Was Preston protecting you?”
“Yes.”
I thought of his desperation at the wedding.
His attack over the letter.
Maybe fear, not guilt.
“My father?”
“Anthony learned I survived three days later.”
My stomach turned.
“So he knowingly buried an empty coffin.”
“He hated himself for it.”
“He let me believe you were inside it.”
“We argued about you constantly.”
“Apparently you both lost.”
Tears slid down her face.
“I wanted to take you with me.”
“But?”
“Anthony said moving you would expose you. You were watched constantly after the funeral.”
“Lucinda told me.”
“He promised it would only be temporary.”
“Seventeen years.”
Her voice broke.
“It went wrong.”
“What went wrong?”
“Anthony died.”
The room went quiet.
“Poison?”
“Yes.”
“You knew.”
“Charles told me.”
“And you still stayed away?”
“After Anthony died, I knew the person we feared was still inside the family. If I came back, Gabriel would become another target.”
I looked at my brother.
He had been raised in hiding because adults in my family had destroyed each other with secrets.
“Who is Gabriel’s father?”
My mother stared at me.
“Anthony.”
I closed my eyes.
Of course.
My full brother.
Born months after our father believed our mother dead.
“Did Dad ever meet him?”
“No.”
That answer hurt unexpectedly.
“He knew about him?”
“I sent the photograph.”
“To Lucinda.”
“She was supposed to give it to Anthony.”
“She says he never knew.”
My mother went still.
“What?”
“She told me you hadn’t told him.”
Anger transformed Elena’s face.
“That’s a lie.”
So Lucinda had kept the photograph.
Why?
Marcus’s phone vibrated.
He looked at the message.
“Charles’s vehicle was found.”
“Where?”
“Three miles away.”
“And Charles?”
“Missing.”
My mother whispered, “They found him.”
“Who is they?”
She looked at me.
“There’s one person you haven’t questioned because everyone thinks he’s irrelevant.”
“Who?”
“Carlo.”
“My cousin? The groom?”
“No. His father.”
My uncle Michael.
A mild, quiet accountant who had supposedly left family business decades earlier.
Michael had always been the harmless Moretti.
The man who collected watches.
Told bad jokes.
Never raised his voice.
I almost dismissed the idea.
Then I remembered something.
Michael was Bianca’s younger brother.
He had chaired the Moretti Children’s Foundation before Bianca.
“He had access to the accounts.”
“Yes.”
“Why would he kill you?”
“Because I discovered something worse than theft.”
“What?”
“The money wasn’t being stolen from the foundation.”
She leaned closer.
“The foundation was being used to pay informants, judges, police officers, and contract killers.”
“By Michael?”
“Not exactly.”
“What does that mean?”
“He was working for Vittorio’s rival.”
“Who?”
“Daniel Vescari.”
I knew the name.
Everyone did.
Vescari had died fifteen years ago after a long war with my grandfather.
“If Vescari is dead—”
“His organization isn’t.”
“Who runs it?”
My mother looked toward the window.
“Someone inside our family.”
A shot cracked outside.
Marcus shoved us down.
Another bullet struck the kitchen window.
Glass exploded.
Gabriel covered our mother.
I grabbed him and pulled both behind the island.
Men shouted outside.
Gunfire answered.
Then silence.
Marcus’s radio came alive.
“One attacker down. Second vehicle fleeing north.”
“License?”
“Partial.”
My mother grabbed my arm.
“They know you found us.”
“No.”
“What?”
“They already knew.”
I looked toward the shattered window.
“You said Charles came here twenty minutes before us.”
“Yes.”
“How did Charles know where you lived?”
She hesitated.
“He always knew.”
“And Bianca?”
“She knew.”
“Lucinda?”
“No.”
“Preston?”
“No.”
I slowly understood.
Only Charles and Bianca knew my mother’s location.
Bianca had been shot.
Charles disappeared.
Someone reached this house almost immediately after Charles.
The leak had to be close.
Then Gabriel spoke.
“There’s something you should see.”
He ran upstairs.
Returned with a laptop.
“My mom made me keep copies in case anything happened.”
He opened a folder containing scanned documents.
One photograph showed several men at a private dinner two years earlier.
Michael Moretti.
Charles Renner.
And a third person.
I leaned closer.
My blood went cold.
The third man was Marcus Hale.
I looked across the room at the man who had protected me for twelve years.
Marcus stared at the photograph.
May you like
Then slowly placed his gun on the table.
“Sebastian,” he said, “I can explain.”
Related Stories
