The Wooden Horse

The wedding was small, private, and perfect. But as the seasons changed, a quiet shadow began to stretch over our new life.

It started on a Tuesday, six months after we took down the Bellini family.

Dominic was officially transitioning the Moretti family businesses completely into legitimate real estate and shipping. He spent hours in his late father’s old study at the downtown Chicago office, clearing out decades of old files.

I was packing Noah’s lunch for preschool when the phone rang.

"Claire," Dominic said. His voice sounded hollow, like he was speaking from inside a tunnel. "I need you to come to the office. Leave Noah with the nanny."

"Dominic? What's wrong?"

"Just come."

When I arrived at the high-rise office, Marco escorted me in silence. He didn't smile.

I found Dominic sitting behind his father’s massive mahogany desk. The desk had been dismantled. The heavy wood paneling on the side was pried open, revealing a hidden, steel-reinforced compartment.

On the desk sat a stack of letters. They were old, the envelopes yellowing at the edges.

"What is this?" I asked, stepping closer.

Dominic didn't look up. He just pushed one of the envelopes toward me.

"I was looking for the deeds to the South Side ports," he said, his voice terrifyingly calm. "I found a false bottom in the bottom drawer. It required a physical key. A key I found in Uncle Silvio’s coat pocket three months ago, which he claimed belonged to a safety deposit box."

I picked up the envelope.

It was addressed to Dominic. But it had never been opened.

The postmark was from Paris. The date was only two years ago.

"Dominic..." I whispered, looking at the handwriting. It was elegant, flowing, and deeply familiar. I had seen this handwriting on the back of old photographs in the family albums.

"My mother died of ovarian cancer when I was twelve," Dominic said, staring blankly at the wall. "I watched them lower her casket into the ground. I visited her grave every Sunday for twenty years."

He slowly stood up, his massive frame casting a long shadow across the room.

"These letters are from her, Claire. They're postmarked every year since her supposed death. The last one arrived eighteen months ago."

My heart pounded in my chest. "She's... she's alive?"

"My father faked her death," Dominic growled, a terrifying rage beginning to build in his chest. "He told me she died to protect me, but he locked her away in Europe. And Uncle Silvio knew."

Before I could process the shock, the office door clicked shut.

We turned.

Uncle Silvio stood in the doorway, leaning heavily on his cane. His face was pale, his eyes fixed on the letters on the desk.

"You weren't supposed to find those, Dominic," Silvio said quietly.