Chapter 10: The Father Who Was Never Dead
“Clara, sweetheart. It's time you came home.””
I knew that voice.
I'd heard it in childhood bedtime stories, at birthday dinners, and through the walls of our old house when my father thought Sarah and I were asleep.
It was the voice I'd cried over when a police officer came to our apartment twelve years ago and told us our father had died of a heart attack.
It was the voice I'd spent years trying to remember without realizing how badly I'd wanted to hear it again.
My knees nearly buckled.
“Daddy?””
Ricardo grabbed my arm.
“Clara, don't move.””
But I couldn't stop staring into the darkness.
A man stepped into the emergency lighting.
He wore a navy overcoat, polished black shoes, and the same gold wedding band I'd seen on my father's hand in hundreds of family photographs.
His hair had turned almost entirely gray. There were deeper lines around his eyes, and his face looked thinner than I remembered.
But the small scar above his right eyebrow was unmistakable.
I'd watched him get it when he fell from a ladder while fixing our kitchen light.
I'd cried harder than he had.
He'd laughed and kissed my forehead.
Now he stood in an abandoned hospital, looking at me as if we'd simply been separated by a long business trip.
“Hello, Clara.””
I couldn't breathe.
“You're dead.””
He sighed.
“Yes. That was the idea.””
I slapped him.
The sound cracked through the corridor.
His head turned slightly. He touched his cheek, then looked back at me.
“You always did have your sister's temper.””
“YOU LET US BURY YOU!””
My voice broke on the last word.
“You let Sarah believe she was an orphan. You let me spend twelve years visiting a grave that wasn't even yours!””
His expression hardened.
“I had to disappear.””
“Why?””
“Because I made mistakes.””
I laughed through my tears.
“Mistakes? You abandoned your daughters!””
Ricardo moved between us, his pistol raised.
“Take another step toward her, and I'll put you on the floor.””
My father looked at the weapon without concern.
“Ricardo Moretti. Still playing the gangster your family raised you to be.””
“Who are you?””
The question seemed to amuse him.
“I'm the man who taught your father how to build his first legitimate business.””
Ricardo's eyes narrowed.
“You worked with Vittorio?””
“For years.””
“Then you ordered the explosion that nearly killed Sarah.””
My father looked at me.
“Your sister was never supposed to be in that car.””
“That's your defense?”” I whispered.
“You didn't mean to kill her?””
“I needed her to disappear.””
“Why?””
“Because she found the accounts.””
He glanced toward the screen that had shown Sarah moments earlier.
“She discovered that I'd been using the Moretti organization to move money through companies that didn't exist. She was going to expose me.””
“So you tried to kill your own daughter?””
“I tried to protect myself.””
The honesty was more horrifying than any lie.
Ricardo advanced a step.
“Where is Sarah?””
My father smiled faintly.
“Alive. For now.””
“Tell me where.””
“You'll know when I decide you're ready.””
Ricardo raised his pistol.
My father didn't flinch.
“Shoot me, Ricardo. Go ahead. But before you do, understand this: the instant I fail to check in, a message goes out to everyone involved in this operation. Your wife's location, the children's medical records, and every piece of evidence Sarah collected will disappear.””
Ricardo's finger tightened.
“You expect me to believe you have that much control?””
“No. I expect you to understand how much you've already lost.””
I stepped toward my father.
“Why did you let me think you loved us?””
For the first time, his face changed.
Something flickered behind his eyes.
Perhaps guilt.
Perhaps irritation.
“I did love you.””
“No.””
I shook my head.
“You loved having us. You loved being called Daddy. You loved pretending we were a family while you built a life on lies.””
He stared at me.
Then he reached into his coat.
Ricardo immediately aimed at his chest.
“Slowly.””
My father withdrew a small photograph.
It showed two little girls sitting on a wooden porch beside a smiling man.
Sarah and me.
Our real father stood behind us.
I recognized the photograph. It had disappeared from our family album years ago.
My father held it toward me.
“Your real father was a good man,” he said.
“Too good for the world he entered.””
“Stop.””
“He believed he could help me build something respectable. When he discovered what I was doing, he threatened to go to the authorities.””
“Stop talking.””
“He died because he wouldn't listen.””
I felt the floor shift beneath me.
“You killed him.””
My father lowered the photograph.
“Yes.””
The word was barely audible.
But it destroyed everything.
Ricardo's gun moved closer to his face.
“You killed Clara's father, stole his identity, and then raised his daughters?””
“I gave them a home.””
“You stole their lives!””
My father suddenly looked toward the ceiling.
A faint electronic chime sounded from his pocket.
He checked his watch.
“Time's up.””
He pressed something on his phone.
The lights went out.
A gunshot thundered through the darkness.
Someone screamed.
I dropped to the floor, covering my head.
When the emergency lights flickered back on, Ricardo was standing beside me, unharmed.
My father was gone.
The corridor door hung open, swinging slowly on its hinges.
Daniel rushed toward us.
“Boss! The lower entrance is compromised!””
Ricardo grabbed him.
“Where is he going?””
“There's a service tunnel leading to the river.””
Ricardo looked toward the darkness.
Then he turned to me.
“Clara, we need to move.””
I stood on shaking legs.
“My sister is still down there.””
Before he could answer, my phone vibrated.
A message from an unknown number.
*YOUR FATHER HAS MADE HIS CHOICE. NOW YOU MUST MAKE YOURS.*
Below it were two photographs.
The first showed Sarah, bound to a chair.
The second showed Leo and Amelia sleeping in separate beds.
Underneath was a single sentence.
*BRING ME THE ORIGINAL RECORDING BY 1 A.M., OR ONE OF THEM DIES.*
I looked at Ricardo.
He read the message over my shoulder.
For the first time, I saw something worse than anger in his eyes.
Fear.
May you like
Because the deadline was twenty-three minutes away.
And the man who had raised me had just made it clear that he was willing to kill another child to protect his secrets.
