Chapter 5 - THE CHILD WHO NEVER TRULY BELONGED HERE
A gunshot shattered the warehouse windows.
The nurse dropped his weapon, clutching his shoulder as Vincent’s men swarmed the room.
I didn’t wait. I scrambled over the window ledge and ran straight for Danny.
“Tessa!” Danny cried as I frantically untied the rough ropes binding his wrists. His hands were freezing.
Camille was right behind me. She threw herself onto the floor, wrapping her arms around the little boy.
“Leo,” she sobbed, burying her face in his hair. “Mommy’s here. I’ve got you.”
The boy didn't cry. He just clung to her hoodie, his small eyes wide with shock. “They said you didn’t want me anymore.”
“They lied to you, baby,” she wept. “They lied.”
Vincent stood over the bleeding nurse. His face was a mask of cold fury.
He looked at the wooden rosary beads scattered on the concrete floor. He recognized them.
“Who gave you the order?” Vincent demanded, his boot pressing against the man’s wounded shoulder.
The nurse gritted his teeth, laughing through the pain. “You’re the boss, Vincent. But you don’t own the throne. She does.”
Vincent stepped back, his eyes hollow.
He turned to Camille, who was rocking her son on the dirty floor.
“You knew,” Vincent said softly.
Camille looked up, wiping her face. “She found out about Leo three years ago. She said a mafia boss couldn’t marry a woman with a bastard child from a rival family. So she took him. She told your uncle to fake the car crash.”
I felt the room spin. The sweet, frail woman who apologized for using a walker. The woman I made tea for every night.
“Why did you act like you hated her?” I asked Camille, my voice shaking. “Tonight at dinner. You humiliated her.”
“Because I knew she was finalizing the deal to sell Leo to the Chicago outfit tonight,” Camille choked out. “I had to create a distraction. I needed her focus on me, not her phone, so I could track the GPS on the nurse's car.”
Vincent looked at me, then at my brother.
“Why involve Tessa’s brother?” Vincent asked the nurse.
“Because Tessa talks too much,” a voice echoed from the warehouse entrance.
We all turned.
Vincent’s uncle stepped out of the shadows. He wasn't holding a gun. He was holding an old, worn train ticket.
“Your mother didn’t order this hit on the brother, Vincent,” his uncle said quietly. “I did. To stop her.”
The uncle walked forward and handed the ticket to me.
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It was from 1998. The passenger name was Margaret Morgan. My mother.
“Your mother didn’t die of an illness, Tessa,” the uncle said. “Mrs. Russo had her killed. And if you want to know why, you need to ask Vincent who his real father is.”
