Chapter 9 - The Ghost of Antonio
I sat on the dusty attic floor, the diamond tennis bracelet heavy in my palm.
Maria, my love... Give this to Katherine on her wedding day, so she knows the truth about her real father. Forever yours, Antonio.
Antonio.
Antonio Santoro. Luca and Sofia’s father. The legendary, ruthless boss of the Chicago syndicate who was supposedly murdered twenty years ago by a rival family.
My mother hadn't just been his accountant. She had been his lover.
And if the timeline made sense... if this note meant what I thought it meant...
I wasn't just a waitress from the suburbs. I was a Santoro. I was Luca’s half-sister.
The air in the attic suddenly felt too thin to breathe. My entire identity, the story of my hardworking, single mother, was built on a monumental lie. She had run away to protect me from the mafia. She had hidden the bearer bonds not out of loyalty to a boss, but out of loyalty to the father of her child.
But what did the note mean about Antonio’s brother? If my brother finds out what you saw that night, he will kill you.
My mother died in a car crash on a rainy highway. The police said her brakes failed. They said it was a tragic accident.
I clutched the note to my chest, a new, terrifying rage blooming inside me.
It wasn't an accident. She was murdered.
I pulled my phone from my pocket and dialed a number I had sworn I would never call again.
He answered on the second ring.
“Katherine,” Luca’s deep voice was a mixture of surprise and caution. “Is everything alright? Are you and Benjamin safe?”
“Benjamin is fine,” I said, my voice shaking with adrenaline. “Luca, where is your uncle? Dr. Aris?”
There was a long pause on the line. “He is in protective custody with the family. After he signed the fraudulent psychiatric papers for Nathan, I had him removed from his practice. Why?”
“I need to see him,” I demanded.
“Katherine, no. You are out of this life. You have your money, your home. Do not pull yourself back into this darkness.”
“It’s my darkness too, Luca!” I shouted, tears stinging my eyes. “I found a hidden compartment in my mother’s sewing box. She had a diamond bracelet. And a letter from your father.”
The silence on the line was deafening.
“What did the letter say?” Luca finally whispered.
“It said he was my father,” I choked out. “And it said she saw something the night he was killed. It said your uncle wanted her dead.”
I heard the sound of breaking glass through the phone, as if Luca had just crushed a tumbler in his hand.
“Stay exactly where you are,” Luca said, his voice cold and terrifyingly calm. “Lock your doors. Do not let anyone in. I am coming to you.”
He hung up.
I sat alone in the attic, staring at the diamond bracelet.
An hour later, a sleek black town car pulled into my driveway. Luca stepped out, wearing a dark trench coat, the rain slicking his dark hair back. He looked every inch the mafia boss he tried so hard not to be.
I unlocked the front door and let him in. We stood in the foyer of my beautiful new house, a house bought with blood money.
I handed him the note.
Luca read it. He read it three times. His jaw tightened so hard I thought his teeth would shatter.
He looked up at me, his eyes filled with a grief so profound it took my breath away.
“My father wasn't killed by a rival family,” Luca whispered, the realization dawning on him. “My uncle Vincent killed him to take control of the medical businesses. And your mother witnessed it.”
“And then he killed her,” I said, the tears finally falling. “He cut her brakes ten years ago. He murdered my mother, Luca.”
Luca stepped forward and pulled me into a fierce, protective embrace. It wasn't romantic. It was the desperate embrace of family. We were blood.
“He will pay, Katherine,” Luca swore softly into my hair. “I promise you on my life, he will pay for what he did to our parents.”
Suddenly, the heavy oak front door groaned.
I gasped, pulling away from Luca.
We had locked it. I knew I had locked it.
But standing in the doorway, dripping wet from the rain, was an old man with silver hair and a walking cane. He looked fragile, but the gun in his hand was perfectly steady.
May you like
Dr. Vincent Aris.
“I should have killed you when you were a little girl, Katherine,” the old man wheezed, raising the gun. But his hand was shaking, and I noticed he was clutching a faded photograph in his other hand.
