Chapter 3 - THE PHOTOGRAPH
Harper’s hands shook so violently the edges of the photograph blurred.
Twelve-year-old Harper. Smiling. Sun-kissed.
And a younger Victor Rossi, looking down at her with a protective, fierce expression.
“I don’t understand,” Harper whispered, her mind spinning wildly. “I’ve never met you before tonight. I don’t remember this.”
“I know you don’t,” Victor said quietly. “You were in a car accident a month after this photo was taken. Severe head trauma. Your father told everyone you lost a year of your memories. But you didn’t just lose a year, Harper. You lost me.”
The Maybach turned a corner, the streetlights passing over Victor’s sharp features in rhythmic flashes of gold and black.
“My father said I was in the hospital because of a drunk driver,” Harper said, her voice rising in panic.
“Your father lied,” Victor replied flatly.
He leaned back against the leather seat, his eyes dark with an old, buried grief.
“My younger brother, Julian, was dating your mother. After your parents divorced, Julian became a father to you. I was the uncle who bought you ice cream and taught you how to play poker. We were a family.”
Harper touched her temple. A dull, throbbing ache began to build behind her eyes. Flashes of sunlight. A deep laugh. A man showing her how to shuffle a deck of cards.
“My mother died of cancer when I was twelve,” Harper said, reciting the truth she had known her entire life.
“No, she didn’t.”
Victor’s voice was as hard as a diamond.
“Julian and your mother were run off the road by a rival crew trying to send me a message. You were in the backseat. Julian and your mother died on impact. You survived.”
Harper couldn’t breathe. The air in the luxury car suddenly felt too thin.
Her whole life—her mother’s prolonged hospital stay, the quiet funeral, her father’s sudden influx of wealth—was a fabricated lie built over a foundation of blood.
“My father... he covered it up?”
“He made a deal,” Victor said, his jaw tightening. “The men who killed them paid your father to stay quiet and hand you over to him. He took the payoff, used it to start Callaway Real Estate, and erased Julian from your life. Then, five years ago, he broke into my vault and stole the only proof I had left.”
The car slowed, turning into a private, heavily guarded underground parking garage.
“Why now?” Harper asked, clutching the photograph to her chest. “Why come for me tonight?”
“Because your father is out of money,” Victor said as the car parked. “And when men like him run out of money, they sell whatever they have left.”
The driver opened the door. Victor stepped out and offered his hand. Harper took it, stepping onto the polished concrete barefoot, still wearing Victor’s massive coat.
He led her to a private elevator. The doors slid open to reveal a sprawling penthouse overlooking the Chicago skyline.
It wasn’t the dark, mobster lair she expected. It was warm, lit by soft lamps, with a massive bookshelf and a grand piano.
And sitting on a plush rug in the center of the living room, building a complex tower out of wooden blocks, was a little boy.
He looked about six years old, with messy dark hair and big, serious eyes.
He looked exactly like Victor.
The boy looked up. “Uncle Vic!”
Victor’s hardened expression instantly melted. He knelt as the boy ran over and threw his arms around Victor’s neck.
“Hey, Leo,” Victor murmured, kissing the top of the boy’s head.
Leo pulled back and looked at Harper. He pointed a small finger. “You’re the lady from the picture.”
Harper froze. “Picture?”
Leo nodded confidently. “Uncle Vic keeps a picture of you on his desk. He said you were lost, but he was going to find you.”
Harper looked at Victor. The ruthless mob boss looked almost vulnerable for a fraction of a second.
“Leo, go wash your hands. It’s almost bedtime,” Victor said gently.
The boy nodded and ran down the hallway.
Victor stood up and walked to a heavy oak desk near the window. He unlocked the top drawer and pulled out a small, faded velvet box.
He walked back to Harper and held it out.
“Your father didn’t just steal documents from my vault,” Victor said, his voice laced with venom. “He stole this. And yesterday, he tried to pawn it to one of my associates to pay off his new debts.”
Harper slowly opened the velvet box.
Inside rested a heavy, intricate silver bracelet. It was shaped like a vine of ivy.
“My mother’s bracelet,” Harper gasped. “She never took it off.”
“Look at the clasp,” Victor instructed.
Harper turned the silver jewelry over. The clasp was slightly bent, and stained with deep, rusted brown.
May you like
Dried blood.
“Your father didn’t pawn this for real estate money,” Victor said softly. “He used it to pay for a hit. He put out a contract on your life, Harper. Tonight.”
