Chapter 5 - THE CHILD'S DRAWING OF A BLUE DOOR
The silence inside the armored SUV was absolute.
Only the sound of the rain hitting the roof filled the space as Marco, Isabella, and I stared at the tiny piece of parchment in my hand.
The girl in Montana is not Vittorio’s daughter. She is Vanessa’s.
“That’s impossible,” Isabella whispered, her voice trembling. “Vanessa is twenty-eight years old. How could she have a child in an orphanage?”
“Because she’s not twenty-eight,” Marco said quietly, his hands gripping the steering wheel. “When Anthony brought her around three years ago, I ran a background check on her. Her records were sealed, but her birth certificate claimed she was twenty-five at the time. I always suspected it was forged.”
I stared at the note.
My mother had known. My mother had known Vanessa’s darkest secret before she even died six years ago.
“Wait,” I said, my mind racing to connect the pieces. “If the girl in Montana is Vanessa’s child… then why is Anthony going after her? Anthony thinks the girl is Vittorio’s daughter. He thinks she’s a threat to his power.”
Marco turned to look at me, his dark eyes wide.
“Because Vanessa lied to him,” Marco realized. “Vanessa told Anthony the diary proved the girl was the Moretti heir, so Anthony would send his men to retrieve her.”
“She’s using the syndicate’s resources to rescue her own abandoned child,” Isabella said, a rare look of shock crossing her dignified face. “She played Anthony perfectly.”
“But if Anthony gets to that orphanage and realizes the girl isn't a Moretti,” I said, a sickening wave of dread washing over me. “He won't just leave her there. He’ll kill her to punish Vanessa for the betrayal.”
We didn't have time to process the shock. We had to move.
Marco put the SUV in gear and navigated through the backroads, avoiding the main highways where Anthony’s men were still searching.
For two days, we drove in tense silence. We paid for gas in cash. We slept in shifts inside the car.
I spent the hours staring at the briefcase, piecing together the life my mother had hidden from me. She wasn't just a bookkeeper; she was the silent architect who had kept the bloodthirsty men of the Chicago syndicate from destroying innocent lives.
By the dawn of the third day, the flat plains of Montana rose into towering, snow-capped mountains.
We pulled into the small, sleepy town of Whitefish.
“The address in the diary led to a private Catholic girls’ home on the edge of town,” Marco said, checking the map on a burner phone.
We drove up a winding, forested road until we reached a set of wrought-iron gates. Beyond them stood a large, stone building.
Saint Jude’s Home for Girls.
Marco parked the SUV behind a thick cluster of pine trees.
“Stay here,” Marco instructed, pulling his weapon from his holster. “Let me clear the building first.”
“I’m coming with you,” I said, opening my door.
Marco opened his mouth to argue, but Isabella spoke from the backseat.
“Let her go, Marco. She carries her mother’s courage. But take this.”
Isabella reached into her coat pocket and handed me a small, pearl-handled revolver.
“Vittorio gave this to me on our wedding day,” Isabella said softly. “I pray you don't have to use it.”
I took the cold metal, my hands remarkably steady, and slipped it into my coat pocket.
Marco and I moved quickly across the wet grass, approaching the heavy oak front doors of the orphanage.
They were already kicked open.
Wood splintered around the lock.
My heart hammered in my throat. Anthony’s men had beaten us here.
We stepped inside the grand foyer. It was eerily quiet. No children playing. No nuns walking the halls.
“They cleared the building,” Marco whispered, his gun raised.
We moved down the main hallway toward the headmistress’s office.
The door was ajar.
Inside, sitting calmly behind a large mahogany desk, was Vanessa.
She wasn't wearing her designer dresses anymore. She wore a dark tactical jacket, and her blonde hair was pulled back tightly.
Standing behind her were two massive, armed men wearing the crest of the Falcone family—the Moretti syndicate’s deadliest rivals.
Vanessa looked up and smiled.
“I was wondering when you’d arrive, Elena,” she said smoothly.
I stepped into the room, Marco right beside me, his weapon trained on her chest.
“Where is Anthony?” I demanded.
Vanessa laughed softly. “Anthony is currently trapped in a warehouse in Chicago, surrounded by federal agents. I tipped them off about his illegal shipments yesterday.”
“You betrayed him.”
“He was a means to an end,” Vanessa said dismissively. “He gave me access to the Moretti estate. He gave me access to your mother’s secrets. That’s all I ever needed him for.”
“Where is the child, Vanessa?” Marco growled.
Vanessa’s smile faded. A flicker of genuine emotion crossed her cold face.
“She’s safe,” Vanessa said. “She’s waiting in a car out back with my men. We are leaving the country tonight.”
“You used my husband to find your own daughter,” I said, gripping the revolver in my pocket.
“I gave her up when I was sixteen to protect her from my family’s enemies,” Vanessa said, her voice tightening. “When your mother found out, she moved my daughter here, hiding her even from me. Your mother used my child as blackmail to keep me from destroying Anthony.”
Vanessa stood up, resting her hands on the desk.
“But your mother is dead, Elena. I won. I have my daughter back, and Anthony’s empire is crumbling.”
Vanessa reached into her jacket pocket.
Marco tensed, raising his gun higher.
But Vanessa didn't pull out a weapon.
She pulled out a crumpled piece of paper and tossed it onto the desk toward me.
“I didn't just wait here to gloat, Elena,” Vanessa said quietly. “I waited here to give you a warning. Because you aren't the only one whose mother kept secrets.”
I looked down at the paper on the desk.
It was a child’s drawing in crayon.
It depicted a small house with a blue door.
But it wasn't the drawing that made my blood run cold.
May you like
It was the messy, child-like handwriting at the bottom of the page.
To my big sister, Elena. Love, Lily.
