Chapter 8 - The Torn Sleeve
“That’s my blanket.”
Roman stared at the faded, hand-stitched fabric in his hands, then looked back at me. The low hum of the signal jammer made the air in the subterranean vault feel thick and heavy.
“What do you mean it’s yours?” Roman asked, stepping closer, holding the beam of the flashlight over the intricate yellow stitching. “This was locked inside my family’s most secure vault. It was wedged inside my father’s private ledger.”
I reached out with trembling fingers and touched the edge of the blanket. I recognized the uneven loops of thread.
“My father made this,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “He told me he stitched it while he was sitting in the hospital waiting room... waiting for me to be born.”
Roman’s dark eyes narrowed. He looked down at the leather ledger on the table. He flipped it open to the page where the blanket had been hidden.
His flashlight illuminated a single line of handwritten text, penned in his late father’s unmistakable handwriting.
October 15, 2002. The debt is paid. The child is hidden. God forgive me.
October 15, 2002. The exact night Roman’s mother was murdered.
Roman slowly looked up from the ledger, his gaze locking onto mine. A horrifying realization was beginning to dawn in his eyes.
“Claire,” Roman said, his voice terrifyingly calm. “How old are you?”
“I’m twenty-seven,” I answered, confused. “You know that. I was born three years before the attack on this house.”
“Are you sure?” Roman asked, taking a step toward me.
“Of course I’m sure!” I said, my heart hammering against my ribs. “I have a birth certificate. I have memories of my childhood.”
“You have memories from when you were three years old?” Roman pressed, his voice rising in intensity. “Clear memories?”
I opened my mouth to answer, but stopped. I tried to think back to my earliest memory. A blurry image of my father’s face. The smell of sawdust. But before the age of four? Nothing. Just a blank void.
“Claire,” Roman said, holding up the ledger. “My father wrote this on the night my mother died. He says a child was hidden. Dante didn’t just want to kill my mother that night. He wanted to wipe out our entire bloodline so he could inherit the empire.”
Roman dropped the ledger and grabbed my shoulders, his eyes burning into mine.
“My mother was pregnant when she died, Claire,” Roman whispered.
The air vanished from the vault.
“No,” I gasped, stepping backward, shaking my head violently. “No, that’s impossible. You’re saying... you’re saying I’m the baby? That’s insane, Roman! I’m twenty-seven! Your mother’s baby would be twenty-four!”
“Birth certificates can be forged,” Roman said, pacing rapidly now, the pieces of a twenty-four-year-old puzzle finally locking into place. “Thomas Dawson was the lead detective on the case. He was the first one on the scene that night. What if he found the baby? What if my father paid him to take you, to change your age on paper, to hide you in plain sight so Dante would never come looking for you?”
“He’s my father!” I yelled, tears spilling hot and fast down my cheeks. “He raised me! He loved me!”
“And he protected you!” Roman said, grabbing my hands, pulling me back to him. “Don’t you see? Dante blinded him with acid to stop him from investigating. But Thomas never gave you up. He sacrificed his eyes to keep my sister safe.”
My sister.
The words echoed in the cold concrete room.
I looked at Roman. The ruthless mafia boss, the man I had served for ten months, the man I had slowly, secretly fallen in love with.
He was my brother.
I ripped my hands out of his grip, feeling violently sick to my stomach. “No. I need to talk to my dad. I need to hear him say it.”
I turned and ran for the elevator. Roman was right behind me.
We rode up in agonizing silence. When the doors opened to the grand foyer, the mansion was swarming with police officers. The red and blue lights flashed through the shattered windows.
I pushed past two officers and ran into the dining room.
My father was sitting on a chair, surrounded by paramedics treating a cut on his forehead. Sofia DeLuca was sitting next to him, her blind eyes staring straight ahead.
“Dad!” I cried, falling to my knees beside his chair.
Thomas reached out, his scarred hands finding my face. “Claire. Thank God. Are you hurt?”
“Dad,” I sobbed, holding his hands tightly. “Tell me the truth. Please, just tell me the truth.”
I pulled the yellow baby blanket from my pocket and pressed it into his hands.
My father’s fingers traced the uneven stitching. He froze. His entire body went rigid.
“Where did you find this?” my father whispered, tears immediately welling in his sightless eyes.
“In the vault,” Roman said, stepping up behind me. “Next to my father’s ledger.”
Thomas let out a broken, devastating sob. He pulled the blanket against his chest, burying his face in the fabric.
“I’m sorry,” my father cried. “I’m so sorry, Claire.”
I covered my mouth, the world spinning out of control. It was true. My entire life was a lie. I was a DeLuca. I was the heir to a mafia empire.
“You took her from the crime scene?” Roman asked, his voice thick with emotion.
“She was so small,” my father wept. “Your mother had given birth prematurely the week before. She hid the baby in the floorboards when Dante’s men broke in. I found her crying in the dark. Your father begged me to take her. He said Dante would kill her if he knew she survived.”
My father reached out and touched my cheek. “I forged the papers. I made you three years older so no one would connect you to the missing DeLuca infant. You were my whole world, Claire.”
I leaned into his hand, crying uncontrollably. “You’re still my dad. You’ll always be my dad.”
Roman knelt beside us. He reached out and gently placed his hand on my shoulder. It wasn’t the touch of a lover anymore. It was the fierce, protective touch of an older brother.
Before Roman could speak, his security chief sprinted into the room, holding a satellite phone.
“Boss!” the chief yelled, out of breath. “The signal jammer worked! The bomb on the shipping container didn’t detonate!”
Serena, who was sitting handcuffed in the corner, let out a scream of pure joy.
“But that’s not all,” the chief said, his face pale. “Our men reached the container. They cut the locks. They got the boy out.”
Roman stood up quickly. “Is Leo okay?”
“He’s fine, sir. He’s unharmed,” the chief said, swallowing hard. “But there was someone else inside the container with him.”
Roman frowned. “Who?”
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The chief looked at Roman, then at Sofia.
“Sir... it’s Marcus Vale. And he’s demanding to speak to you.”
