CHAPTER 2 — THE NAME MY FATHER BURIED
I didn't sleep.
Not really.
I lay awake until nearly four in the morning, staring at the ceiling while the same sentence repeated inside my head.
I know more about you than you think.
Dominic Moretti had said it quietly.
Almost casually.
But there had been something behind his eyes.
Something that made me believe he wasn't talking about my delivery profile.
He knew my name.
That was normal.
He knew where I worked.
Possible.
He knew my mother was sick.
Uncomfortable, but possible.
But the way he had looked at me made me feel as though he knew something else.
Something important.
Something I didn't know myself.
At 3:17 a.m., my mother's phone rang.
She woke instantly.
I was sitting beside her bed with a book I hadn't been reading.
She reached for the phone.
Then stopped.
“Don't answer.”
I frowned.
“Why?”
“Don't.”
Her voice was different.
Not tired.
Not sick.
Afraid.
The phone continued ringing.
Unknown number.
I watched her stare at it.
“Mom?”
She didn't answer.
The call stopped.
Three seconds later, it started again.
She closed her eyes.
I picked up the phone.
“Who is this?”
Silence.
Then a man's voice.
“Is Linda Carter there?”
My blood went cold.
“Who are you?”
The line went dead.
I looked at my mother.
Her face had gone pale.
“Mom?”
She whispered:
“Don't call him back.”
“Who was that?”
She shook her head.
“Mom.”
“Go to sleep.”
“No.”
I sat beside her.
“Someone just called asking for you.”
“I know.”
“Who was it?”
She looked at me.
For a long moment, she said nothing.
Then:
“Avery, promise me something.”
“What?”
“If anyone asks about your father, you know nothing.”
I stared at her.
“Why?”
“Promise me.”
“Mom—”
“Promise me.”
I had never heard that tone from her before.
So I nodded.
“I promise.”
She turned away.
But I saw tears on her cheek.
And suddenly, the past I thought I understood began to feel like a locked room.
A room my mother had spent eight years keeping me out of.
At 7:40 a.m., I left for work.
The sky was gray.
The sidewalks were wet.
My car refused to start twice before finally coughing itself awake.
I was halfway down the street when I noticed the black SUV.
It was parked across from our building.
I slowed.
The driver looked at me.
Then stepped out.
I recognized him immediately.
Dominic's security man.
The same man who had been standing near the ballroom entrance.
He approached.
“Avery Carter?”
I didn't answer.
“You need to come with me.”
“Why?”
“Mr. Moretti wants to see you.”
“I have work.”
“This is more important.”
“I don't think so.”
He reached inside his coat.
I stepped backward.
He stopped.
Then pulled out an envelope.
He held it toward me.
“This is for you.”
I didn't take it.
“What is it?”
“Something your father left behind.”
My breathing stopped.
“What did you say?”
“Your father.”
Nobody talked about my father.
Not anymore.
Not unless I brought him up.
He had been dead for eight years.
I slowly took the envelope.
There was no name on it.
Only one word.
CARTER.
I opened it.
A photograph fell into my hand.
I knew my father immediately.
He looked younger than I remembered.
Standing straight.
Serious.
Wearing a dark suit.
Beside him stood three men.
One of them was Dominic Moretti's father.
I had seen his photograph in newspapers.
The second man was a stranger.
The third was Dominic.
But Dominic looked much younger.
Maybe twenty.
I stared at the picture.
“Where did you get this?”
The security man didn't answer.
I turned the photograph over.
There was writing on the back.
My father's handwriting.
If Avery ever sees this, tell her the truth.
My fingers started shaking.
“What truth?”
The man looked at me.
“Your father wasn't killed in an industrial accident.”
The street disappeared.
“What?”
“He was murdered.”
I couldn't breathe.
“No.”
“I'm sorry.”
“No.”
I shook my head.
“That isn't true.”
“Your mother knows.”
I stared at him.
“You're lying.”
“Ask her.”
He walked back toward the SUV.
I grabbed his arm.
“Who killed him?”
He looked at me.
“That is what Mr. Moretti is trying to determine.”
“Why?”
“Because the people who killed your father may be looking for you now.”
He got into the SUV.
I stood frozen in the street.
The vehicle drove away.
I looked at the photograph again.
My father's face stared back at me.
For eight years, I had believed his death was an accident.
A machine malfunction.
A tragic mistake.
A life ended too soon.
Now someone was telling me it had been murder.
And my mother knew.
I didn't go to work.
I went home.
Mom was sitting at the kitchen table.
She looked at my face.
Then at the photograph in my hand.
Everything changed.
She closed her eyes.
“Oh God.”
“You knew.”
She didn't answer.
“You knew.”
“Avery—”
“You knew my father was murdered.”
She started crying.
I had never seen my mother cry like that.
Not even when doctors told us her kidneys were failing.
Not even when we lost our house.
Not even when my father died.
She had always been the strong one.
Until now.
“I was trying to protect you.”
“From what?”
She looked at the photograph.
“From the truth.”
I sat down.
“Tell me.”
She shook her head.
“I can't.”
“You promised Dad you'd tell me?”
Her eyes widened.
“How do you know that?”
“I don't.”
Silence.
Then she whispered:
“Your father wasn't who you thought he was.”
I felt something inside me crack.
“What was he?”
She looked at me.
“He was security.”
“For who?”
She hesitated.
“The Moretti family.”
I stared at her.
“No.”
“He worked for them.”
“Doing what?”
“Protecting them.”
I stood.
“You mean bodyguard?”
She nodded.
“For eleven years.”
The number hit me.
Eleven.
The exact number of years I had trained.
The exact number of years my father had insisted I learn how to defend myself.
The exact number of years I had thought he was simply being overprotective.
I sat again.
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because the day he died, he made me promise.”
“What did he say?”
My mother looked toward the window.
“He said if they ever came for you, I was to tell you nothing.”
“Who are they?”
She didn't answer.
“Mom.”
“I don't know.”
“You know something.”
“I know enough to be afraid.”
My chest tightened.
“Did Dad know he was going to die?”
She closed her eyes.
“Yes.”
I couldn't speak.
“He knew?”
“He came home three nights before.”
“What did he say?”
“He told me to pack a bag.”
“Why?”
“He thought we had to leave.”
“Why didn't we?”
“Because he never came back.”
I sat motionless.
Eight years.
Eight years of believing my father had died at work.
Eight years of believing his final day was ordinary.
It hadn't been.
He had known.
He had been afraid.
And he had left me nothing but a lie.
Or so I thought.
Because my mother suddenly reached beneath the table.
She pulled out a small metal box.
I had never seen it before.
She placed it in front of me.
“Your father told me never to open this.”
My hands trembled.
“What's inside?”
“I don't know.”
“Then why give it to me?”
“Because they found us.”
I looked up.
“What?”
She pointed toward the window.
A black sedan was parked across the street.
My heart stopped.
“Who are they?”
“I don't know.”
“Mom.”
“I don't know.”
The sedan started moving.
It disappeared around the corner.
My mother grabbed my hand.
“Avery.”
“What?”
“If Dominic Moretti offers to help you…”
She stopped.
“What?”
“Don't trust him.”
I stared at her.
“Why?”
“Because your father trusted his father.”
“And?”
“He died.”
Two hours later, I was sitting in Dominic Moretti's private office.
I had agreed to meet him.
Not because I trusted him.
Because I needed answers.
The office was on the thirty-eighth floor of one of his downtown buildings.
The elevator opened directly into a private lobby.
A man searched me before allowing me inside.
Dominic stood beside the windows.
He was wearing a dark suit.
No tie.
His back was toward me.
“You came.”
“You said you had information about my father.”
He turned.
“I do.”
“Then talk.”
He studied my face.
“You know.”
“My mother told me some things.”
“How much?”
“That he worked for your family.”
Dominic nodded.
“For eleven years.”
“I know.”
“You also know he didn't die in an accident.”
My jaw tightened.
“Did you know?”
“Yes.”
The honesty surprised me.
“How long?”
“Years.”
“Then why didn't you tell me?”
“Because your father specifically asked my father never to reveal his identity unless your life was in danger.”
I laughed bitterly.
“My life is in danger now?”
“Yes.”
“Because of your family?”
“Because of someone connected to my family.”
I stared at him.
“Who?”
“We don't know.”
“That's convenient.”
“It isn't.”
He walked toward his desk.
Then pushed a thick folder toward me.
“Read.”
I opened it.
The first document was a police report.
My father's name.
Date of death.
Industrial accident.
I turned the page.
Another report.
Private.
Marked confidential.
Cause of death:
Two gunshot wounds.
I stopped breathing.
The next page showed photographs.
My father's body.
I pushed the folder away.
“No.”
Dominic watched me.
“You don't have to look at those.”
“Why did you show me?”
“Because you need to understand the danger.”
I stood.
“You've known for eight years.”
“Yes.”
“And you did nothing?”
His expression hardened.
“I wasn't in control eight years ago.”
“You're a billionaire.”
“Money isn't the same as control.”
“Then what is?”
“Information.”
He opened another file.
“Your father discovered someone inside the organization was selling information.”
“To whom?”
“We don't know.”
“What information?”
“Names. Routes. Accounts. Safe houses.”
I stared at him.
“People were killed?”
“Yes.”
“How many?”
“Twenty-three.”
My stomach turned.
“And my father?”
“Found out.”
“Then they killed him.”
“Yes.”
I looked at Dominic.
“Why am I still alive?”
He didn't answer immediately.
That scared me.
“Dominic.”
He finally spoke.
“Because until four days ago, nobody knew you existed.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
“Your father erased your records.”
“Why?”
“To keep you invisible.”
“My mother—”
“Your mother changed addresses repeatedly. She kept your life small. No social media. No public records beyond what was necessary. No connections to the Moretti family.”
I thought about my life.
Small apartment.
Old car.
Delivery job.
Community college records.
Nothing impressive.
Nothing dangerous.
I had always thought my life was ordinary.
Maybe it had been designed to look that way.
“Why did they find me now?”
Dominic's expression changed.
“Because someone accessed your medical records.”
My heart stopped.
“My mother's?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“They were looking at her dialysis schedule.”
“Who?”
“We're trying to find out.”
I stepped closer.
“If someone hurts my mother—”
“They won't.”
“You can't promise that.”
“I can.”
“How?”
His eyes darkened.
“Because anyone who comes near your mother will have to come through me.”
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
I hated that those words made me feel safer.
I hated even more that I believed him.
Then Dominic opened another folder.
“This belonged to your father.”
Inside was a photograph.
My father stood beside a woman.
She was young.
Beautiful.
Dark-haired.
I looked at Dominic.
“Who is she?”
“My mother.”
I looked back at the photograph.
“They knew each other.”
“They worked together.”
“Your mother?”
“My mother was the head of internal intelligence.”
I slowly lowered the photograph.
“What exactly was my father involved in?”
Dominic's expression became unreadable.
“Something much bigger than the Moretti family.”
“What does that mean?”
“He was protecting a ledger.”
“A ledger?”
“A record of every transaction involving the organization.”
“Why is that important?”
“Because it contains names.”
“Whose names?”
“Politicians. Judges. Police officers. Businessmen.”
I stared at him.
“And?”
Dominic looked directly into my eyes.
“People who believed the ledger was destroyed when your father died.”
My throat tightened.
“But it wasn't.”
“No.”
“Where is it?”
His gaze remained fixed on me.
“We don't know.”
I suddenly remembered the metal box at home.
My heart started racing.
Dominic noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You remembered something.”
“No.”
“Avery.”
I looked away.
He stepped closer.
“Your father left you something, didn't he?”
I said nothing.
Dominic's voice softened.
“You're not protecting yourself by hiding things from me.”
“I don't know if I can trust you.”
He stopped.
“Good.”
I looked at him.
“What?”
“Don't trust me blindly.”
That wasn't the answer I expected.
“Then why should I trust you at all?”
He stared at me.
“You shouldn't.”
He walked to the window.
“You should verify everything I tell you.”
I watched him.
“And if I find out you're lying?”
“Walk away.”
“You'd let me?”
“Yes.”
Something in his voice told me he meant it.
Then he turned.
“But if you want to survive long enough to uncover the truth about your father, you need protection.”
“I don't need a bodyguard.”
“I didn't offer you one.”
“Then what?”
“Training.”
I froze.
“You know I trained?”
“I know you trained for eleven years.”
“How?”
“Your father kept records.”
I stared at him.
“He kept records of everything.”
“Why?”
“Because he believed one day you'd need the skills.”
I remembered my father's hands.
The way he had corrected my stance.
The way he had taught me how to fall without breaking my wrist.
The way he had always said:
Never fight angry. Fight clear.
I had forgotten most of it.
Or convinced myself I had.
Dominic walked toward the door.
“Come with me.”
“Where?”
“To the place your father trained you.”
I didn't move.
“You've been there before.”
I looked at him.
“No, I haven't.”
Dominic opened the door.
“Yes, Avery.”
His eyes held mine.
“You have.”
And for the first time, I understood something terrifying.
Dominic Moretti didn't merely know my name.
He knew my past.
He knew my father.
He knew the parts of my life I had spent years trying to forget.
And somewhere beneath all those secrets was the reason my father had died.
I followed Dominic out of the office.
Neither of us noticed the small camera hidden inside the ceiling vent.
Someone was watching.
Someone who had been watching me for weeks.
And when the camera transmitted the image to a private phone across the city, one message appeared beneath it:
THE GIRL KNOWS.
A second message followed.
ACTIVATE THE CARTER PROTOCOL.
And beneath that:
KEEP HER ALIVE.
Because Avery Carter wasn't merely the daughter of a murdered security chief.
She was the last person alive who could unlock everything her father had spent eleven years hiding.
May you like
And the people hunting her were about to discover that the frightened delivery woman they thought they could control had never really disappeared.
She had only been waiting for a reason to fight again.
