CHAPTER 9 — THE NIGHT I FINALLY FOUND MY FATHER
My mother was gone.
My father was alive.
And somehow, both facts terrified me equally.
I stared at the photograph on Dominic's phone.
Linda sat in a wheelchair.
Her hands were tied.
Her face was pale.
And behind her stood a man I had spent eight years mourning.
Michael Carter.
My father.
Alive.
Older.
His hair streaked with gray.
A scar ran from his left temple to his jaw.
But there was no mistaking him.
It was him.
My knees almost gave out.
Dominic caught my arm.
“I've got you.”
I pulled away.
“Don't.”
He stopped.
I looked at him.
“You lied to me.”
“I didn't.”
“You knew.”
“I suspected.”
“You knew enough.”
His jaw tightened.
“Avery, listen to me.”
“No.”
I pointed at the photograph.
“My mother is being held hostage by my father.”
“She's being held by whoever wants us to believe that's your father.”
I froze.
“What?”
Dominic zoomed in on the image.
“Look at his left hand.”
I stared.
My father's left hand was partially visible.
There was a ring on his finger.
Black metal.
With a tiny silver line through the center.
I had never seen that ring before.
But Dominic had.
“That isn't Michael's ring,” he said.
“How do you know?”
“Because my father gave Michael a ring.”
He looked at the photograph again.
“And it had the Moretti crest.”
I swallowed.
“So this man…”
“Could be Michael.”
“But not necessarily.”
“No.”
I hated that answer.
After eight years of grief, I had finally been given hope.
And now Dominic was telling me hope could be another weapon.
I looked at Vanessa.
She was still unconscious against the wall.
“Then why would she say my father is alive?”
“Because she knows something.”
“Then we wake her up.”
Dominic shook his head.
“She needs medical attention.”
“Then get her to a hospital.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because if Vanessa is connected to Charles Whitmore, every hospital in Chicago could be compromised.”
I stared at him.
“So what do we do?”
Dominic looked at me.
“We follow the instructions.”
“Come alone.”
“Yes.”
“I'm going.”
“I know.”
“And you're coming with me.”
“No.”
I frowned.
He stepped closer.
“If they specifically told you to come alone, they expect me to follow.”
“So?”
“So I won't.”
He pulled a small device from his pocket.
“I'll stay close enough to protect you without being seen.”
I looked at him.
“You've done this before.”
“Yes.”
“For my father?”
“Yes.”
“Then why didn't you find him?”
His eyes darkened.
“Because someone inside my organization kept erasing every trail.”
I remembered Vanessa's words.
Gabriel.
“Gabriel.”
Dominic's face hardened.
“Don't say his name unless you know what you're accusing him of.”
“You believe he betrayed your father.”
“I believe he disappeared.”
“That's not the same thing.”
“No.”
Dominic looked at me.
“That's why we're going to find out.”
The message gave us coordinates.
An abandoned train depot on the south side of Chicago.
I arrived at 11:47 p.m.
Alone.
At least that's what anyone watching the cameras would have believed.
Rain hammered the broken roof.
Old tracks disappeared into darkness.
My boots echoed against the concrete.
I kept one hand near the black key.
The other held nothing.
No weapon.
No phone.
No protection.
Exactly what they wanted.
A voice came through the darkness.
“You came.”
I stopped.
A man stepped forward.
Black coat.
Gray hair.
Scar across his cheek.
My heart stopped.
“Dad?”
He looked at me.
For a second, neither of us moved.
Then he whispered:
“Avery.”
My entire body went numb.
It was his voice.
Not a recording.
Not a phone.
Not an imitation.
Him.
My father.
I took one step.
Then another.
He lifted his hand.
“Stop.”
I froze.
“Why?”
“Because they are watching.”
I looked around.
Nothing.
Only darkness.
My father looked thinner than I remembered.
Older.
Tired.
But his eyes were the same.
The same eyes that taught me how to stand after falling.
The same eyes that used to watch me practice kicks in our tiny backyard.
I wanted to run to him.
Instead, I whispered:
“You're alive.”
“Yes.”
“Why did you leave me?”
His expression broke.
“I didn't.”
“You disappeared for eight years.”
“I was taken.”
“Then why didn't you come home?”
“Because every time I tried…”
He swallowed.
“…someone came after you.”
My eyes burned.
“You could have called.”
“I did.”
“No.”
“I called your mother.”
My heart stopped.
“She knew?”
“She knew I was alive.”
I shook my head.
“No.”
“She knew.”
“Why didn't she tell me?”
“Because I made her promise.”
My voice cracked.
“You both lied to me.”
Michael looked down.
“I know.”
I stared at him.
“Do you know what it was like?”
His eyes filled with tears.
“I know.”
“No, you don't.”
I stepped closer.
“I waited for you.”
“I know.”
“I thought you were dead.”
“I know.”
“I hated you.”
He closed his eyes.
“I know.”
“And I still loved you.”
His face collapsed.
For one second, he wasn't an investigator.
He wasn't a fugitive.
He was simply my father.
The man who had carried me home when I fell off my bicycle.
The man who stayed awake during my first tournament.
The man who taught me never to quit.
I ran toward him.
He caught me.
And I broke.
Not dramatically.
Not loudly.
I simply buried my face against his shoulder and cried like the eight-year-old girl who had lost him.
His arms tightened around me.
“I'm sorry.”
I whispered:
“Why?”
“Because I couldn't protect you.”
“You tried.”
“No.”
He pulled back.
“I failed.”
Then his expression changed.
He looked over my shoulder.
His eyes widened.
“Where is Dominic?”
My heart stopped.
“How do you know he's here?”
“I know him.”
“You told me not to trust him.”
“I did.”
“Why?”
Michael's voice became cold.
“Because Dominic doesn't know who he really works for.”
I stepped back.
“What does that mean?”
Before he could answer—
gunfire erupted.
Michael grabbed me and threw me behind a concrete pillar.
Bullets tore through the wall.
“Stay down!”
Men appeared at both ends of the depot.
My father pulled a weapon from beneath his coat.
He moved with surprising speed.
I looked at him.
“You can fight?”
He almost smiled.
“I raised you, didn't I?”
I ducked as another bullet struck the pillar.
Then a shadow moved behind the attackers.
Dominic.
He emerged from the darkness like he had been waiting for this moment.
Two shots.
One attacker dropped.
Another disappeared behind a train car.
Dominic reached us.
“Michael.”
My father pointed his gun at him.
Dominic stopped.
“Don't.”
My father stared at him.
“You look just like Anthony.”
Dominic's face tightened.
“And you look exactly like the man I thought was dead.”
Michael lowered the gun.
“Then you know how it feels.”
A long silence passed.
Then Michael said:
“Your father wasn't killed.”
Dominic froze.
“What?”
“He's alive.”
The words hit all of us.
I looked at Dominic.
For the first time, he looked completely lost.
“Where?”
Michael shook his head.
“I don't know.”
Then an explosion shook the depot.
The floor trembled.
Michael grabbed my hand.
“We have to go.”
“Where?”
He looked at the black key around my neck.
“To the place where this all started.”
“Northstar?”
“No.”
He looked at Dominic.
“The Moretti family vault.”
Dominic's eyes narrowed.
“My father never told me about a vault.”
Michael whispered:
“Because he knew you'd be the one they would use to open it.”
We escaped through an underground tunnel.
Twenty minutes later, we reached an old cemetery outside Chicago.
My father stopped beside a weathered stone wall.
He pressed his palm against a section of stone.
Nothing happened.
Then he looked at me.
“The key.”
I removed it.
My hands were shaking.
I inserted the black key into a tiny opening.
Something clicked.
The wall shifted.
A hidden staircase appeared.
I stared into the darkness.
“What is this?”
Michael looked at me.
“Your father's last secret.”
Dominic stepped forward.
“And mine.”
We descended.
At the bottom was a steel door.
Above it was the black circle.
And beneath the symbol were three words:
TRUST NO ONE.
My father looked at me.
“Once we open that door…”
He paused.
“There is no going back.”
I tightened my grip on the key.
“I've already spent eight years living with secrets.”
I turned the key.
The door opened.
And inside—
was a room filled with photographs.
Hundreds of them.
My father.
Anthony Moretti.
Gabriel.
Vanessa.
Dominic.
My mother.
And me.
Photos taken over the last eight years.
Someone had been watching us.
Someone had been documenting every move.
Dominic walked to the center table.
There was one folder waiting for him.
His name was written across it.
He opened it.
His face turned white.
“What?”
He didn't answer.
I took the folder from his hands.
Inside was a birth certificate.
Dominic Moretti.
Mother: Isabella Moretti.
Father:
I looked at the final line.
And my blood turned cold.
Anthony Moretti — DECEASED.
Then underneath, in red ink:
PATERNITY DISPUTED.
Dominic stared at the document.
My father whispered:
“Now you know why they needed your father alive.”
I looked at him.
“Why?”
May you like
Michael's answer shattered everything.
“Because Dominic isn't Anthony Moretti's son.”
