CHAPTER 3 — THE PHOTOGRAPH HIDDEN INSIDE MY MOTHER’S CLOSET
The elevator doors opened before I could breathe.
Vincent stepped out first.
Two men moved ahead of him.
I followed.
My legs felt weak.
The hallway outside my mother's apartment was silent.
Too silent.
The door was closed.
But it wasn't locked.
Vincent raised one hand.
Everyone stopped.
He looked at me.
"Stay behind me."
"I can take care of myself."
"I know."
His eyes hardened.
"That's why I'm asking you to stay behind me."
He pushed the door open.
Nothing happened.
No gunshots.
No screaming.
No footsteps.
Just silence.
Then I heard something.
A glass breaking somewhere inside.
"Mom!"
I started forward.
Vincent caught my wrist.
"Wait."
"But—"
He looked toward the dark living room.
One of his men entered first.
Another checked the hallway.
Vincent released me only after they gave him a signal.
"Clear."
I ran.
"Mom!"
Her bedroom door was open.
The lamp was on.
The curtains moved slightly in the night breeze.
My mother was standing beside the bed.
Alive.
I nearly collapsed with relief.
"Mom!"
She turned.
Her face went pale when she saw Vincent behind me.
Not surprise.
Fear.
Real fear.
My mother looked at him as if she had just seen a ghost.
"Vincent."
The way she said his name made my stomach tighten.
I looked between them.
"You know him."
My mother didn't answer.
Vincent did.
"Hello."
She stared at him.
"You promised."
His expression hardened.
"I kept my promise."
"You were supposed to stay away."
"I did."
She looked at me.
"Then why is she here with you?"
I stepped forward.
"Mom, what is happening?"
She didn't answer.
"Someone broke into the apartment."
"I know."
"You know?"
Her eyes moved toward the closet.
That tiny movement was enough.
Vincent noticed it too.
He walked toward the closet.
My mother stepped in front of him.
"No."
I froze.
"Mom?"
She looked at me.
There were tears in her eyes.
"I wanted to protect you."
"From what?"
She closed her eyes.
"From your father."
The room seemed to tilt.
"What?"
Vincent remained silent.
I looked at him.
He didn't look surprised.
That frightened me more than anything.
"My father?"
My mother sat on the edge of the bed.
"He wasn't the man you remember."
I shook my head.
"He was kind."
"He loved you."
"Then what are you saying?"
"I'm saying he was dangerous."
The words landed between us.
I couldn't process them.
My mother wiped her eyes.
"He knew people who should never have known about you."
"Who?"
"He thought he could control them."
She swallowed.
"He was wrong."
I glanced at Vincent.
"What does he have to do with this?"
My mother looked directly at him.
"Everything."
Vincent finally spoke.
"Where is the file?"
My mother flinched.
"What file?"
"The blue file."
She looked away.
I stepped closer.
"You know about it."
Silence.
"Mom."
Nothing.
"Tell me."
She stood.
Her hands were trembling.
Then she walked toward the closet.
I followed.
She opened the door.
Rows of old clothes hung inside.
Winter coats.
Boxes.
Shoes I hadn't seen in years.
She reached behind a stack of blankets.
Her fingers touched something.
Then she stopped.
"I can't."
I whispered, "You have to."
She slowly pulled out a small metal box.
It was old.
Scratched.
Locked.
She placed it on the bed.
Vincent approached.
"Where's the key?"
My mother looked at me.
"You have it."
I frowned.
"What?"
She reached toward my neck.
For years, I'd worn a tiny silver necklace.
A cheap piece of jewelry I'd assumed was a gift from my father.
She touched the pendant.
"Open it."
I stared at her.
"This?"
She nodded.
I pulled the pendant free.
It wasn't a pendant.
It was a key.
My hands went numb.
Vincent watched without speaking.
I inserted the tiny key into the lock.
Click.
The box opened.
Inside were photographs.
Old newspaper clippings.
A hospital bracelet.
A child's birth certificate.
And one photograph that made my entire body freeze.
It showed me at seven years old.
My father beside me.
And behind us stood Vincent.
But this time, I noticed something I hadn't seen before.
My father wasn't smiling.
He was looking directly at Vincent.
And Vincent was holding something.
A blue folder.
I looked up.
"You had it."
Vincent's face changed.
"I had a copy."
"Of what?"
He didn't answer.
I picked up the birth certificate.
My eyes scanned the page.
Then stopped.
My date of birth was correct.
My name was correct.
But the name of my father wasn't.
I stared.
"This isn't right."
My mother started crying.
I looked at her.
"You changed my birth certificate."
She whispered:
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because they were looking for the DeLuca connection."
My eyes moved to Vincent.
"What connection?"
He stepped closer.
"Your father wasn't simply an employee of my family."
"What was he?"
Vincent looked at my mother.
She answered for him.
"He was his father's lawyer."
I frowned.
"Your grandfather?"
Vincent nodded.
My mother's voice broke.
"Your father discovered something."
"What?"
"Money."
"How much?"
She shook her head.
"Enough to get people killed."
I stared at the documents.
"And I was part of it?"
"No."
Her voice became desperate.
"You were the reason he tried to leave."
I picked up another photograph.
This one showed a little girl sitting at a table.
Me.
Seven years old.
Beside me was a man I didn't recognize.
His face had been scratched out with a black pen.
I turned the photograph over.
Three words were written on the back.
HE FOUND HER.
I looked at Vincent.
"Who is he?"
Vincent's expression became cold.
"We don't know."
"That's a lie."
"It isn't."
"You've been looking for me for seven years."
"Yes."
"Then you must know."
"I know what he did."
"Who is he?"
Vincent stepped closer.
"He was the reason your father disappeared."
My breathing stopped.
"Disappeared?"
Vincent looked at my mother.
She nodded slowly.
"He didn't die in that car accident."
The room went completely silent.
I felt something inside me crack.
My whole childhood had been built around one sentence.
Your father is gone.
I had cried at his funeral.
I had believed he was dead.
I had spent twenty years missing a dead man.
But he wasn't dead.
At least not then.
My mother covered her face.
"I'm sorry."
I couldn't speak.
Vincent reached for the photograph.
His fingers stopped just before touching mine.
"There is more."
I looked at him.
"How much more?"
"Enough to change everything you think you know."
I stared at the blue folder inside the box.
"What's inside?"
Vincent's voice was quiet.
"The reason your father trusted me."
I reached for it.
But before I could open the folder—
The lights went out.
My mother gasped.
A window shattered downstairs.
Vincent immediately pulled me against him.
His body became a shield.
His men drew their weapons.
Then my phone vibrated.
One message.
Unknown number.
YOU FOUND THE PHOTOGRAPH.
Another message appeared.
NOW ASK YOUR MOTHER WHY SHE LIED ABOUT THE NIGHT YOUR FATHER DISAPPEARED.
I looked at my mother.
She was crying.
Vincent stared at her.
May you like
And I realized the person who had been protecting my secrets for twenty years...
might also have been the person keeping me from the truth.
