Chapter 7 - THE BROTHER WHO WAS SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD|
"Gabriel."
Matteo whispered the name as though speaking it too loudly might make the photograph disappear.
Detective Whitmore watched him carefully.
"You recognize the child?"
Matteo nodded.
"My father had another son."
I stared at him.
"Your brother?"
"Half brother."
He touched the edge of the photograph.
"Gabriel was born before my parents married."
"What happened to him?"
Matteo swallowed.
"My mother told me he died from a heart condition."
"How old was he?"
"Two."
Detective Whitmore looked at the date on the photograph.
"Then somebody lied."
Matteo didn't answer.
He kept staring at the little boy.
I noticed something strange.
The boy was wearing a navy sweater.
On the left sleeve was a small embroidered lion.
The same symbol appeared on Matteo's family crest.
I pointed toward it.
"That sweater."
Matteo looked.
His expression changed.
"My mother made those."
"Those?"
"She knitted one for me every winter."
He closed his eyes.
"She always said lions protected their families."
I felt a sudden ache in my chest.
A mother had kept photographs of a child everyone believed was dead.
A child she apparently continued visiting.
And she had never told her own son.
Detective Whitmore leaned forward.
"Mr. DeLuca, do you know Gabriel's full name?"
"Gabriel Anthony DeLuca."
"Date of birth?"
"April 12, 1985."
She wrote it down.
"Do you know his mother's name?"
Matteo hesitated.
"Elena."
"Last name?"
"I don't remember."
He looked ashamed.
"My father never spoke about her."
The detective nodded.
"We'll check the records."
I looked at the photograph again.
"Why would my mother be standing beside him?"
Matteo turned toward me.
"I don't know."
Detective Whitmore examined the back.
"There's writing."
She carefully turned it over.
A date.
December 19, 2004.
And beneath it, a sentence.
THE CHILDREN MUST NEVER PAY FOR THEIR FATHERS' SINS.
Matteo read the words twice.
Then he looked toward the window.
"That sounds like my mother."
I glanced at him.
"She must have been protecting Gabriel."
"From whom?"
Neither of us answered.
We both knew whose name had appeared on nearly every suspicious document.
Victor Bellini.
The detective placed the photograph into an evidence sleeve.
"Mr. DeLuca, I'd like to speak with the two women who brought the estate documents."
"Eleanor and Margaret?"
"Yes."
"They're at my home."
"We'll arrange interviews."
Matteo nodded.
Then he looked at me.
"Claire, you should get some rest."
I almost laughed.
"Rest?"
"It's nearly three in the morning."
"My apartment was destroyed."
"I know."
"Someone threatened my sister."
"I know."
"And now we've discovered that your brother might be alive."
He looked at me.
"Exactly."
I stared at him.
"How am I supposed to sleep?"
His expression softened.
"Probably the same way I am."
"Which is?"
"Badly."
Despite everything, I smiled.
It was the first genuine smile I'd managed all night.
When we returned to the mansion, Lily was waiting in the entrance hall.
She wore jeans, a gray sweatshirt, and the expression of someone prepared to argue with the entire world.
The moment she saw me, she ran forward.
"Claire!"
I caught her in my arms.
She hugged me so tightly that I could barely breathe.
"Don't ever scare me like that again."
I laughed through my tears.
"I'll try."
She pulled back.
"Are you hurt?"
"No."
"Did someone really break into our apartment?"
I nodded.
Her face crumpled.
"Our pictures?"
"We'll find out what can be saved."
"My nursing textbooks?"
I almost smiled.
"You're worried about textbooks?"
"They cost four hundred dollars."
Matteo cleared his throat.
Lily turned.
He offered his hand.
"Matteo DeLuca."
She stared at him.
Then at the tattoos visible above his collar.
Then at his expensive black suit.
Finally, she shook his hand.
"You're taller than Claire said."
I closed my eyes.
"Lily."
Matteo raised an eyebrow.
"She talks about me?"
"Only when she's complaining about your fiancée."
"Lily!"
My sister looked at me.
"What?"
Matteo surprised us both by laughing.
It was brief.
Low.
But real.
Then his expression became serious.
"You're both safe here tonight."
Lily looked around the enormous entrance hall.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
She glanced toward the staircase.
"Because this place looks like somewhere people get murdered in mystery movies."
I covered my face.
Matteo smiled faintly.
"Fair observation."
A housekeeper named Rosa escorted Lily toward the guest rooms.
Before leaving, my sister turned toward me.
"Claire?"
"Yes?"
"You're coming upstairs soon?"
"I promise."
She nodded.
Then disappeared.
Matteo watched her go.
"She's protective."
I smiled sadly.
"She always has been."
"She reminds me of someone."
"Who?"
He looked at me.
"You."
I didn't know how to answer.
He turned toward the staircase.
"Come on."
"Where?"
"There's something I want to show you."
We climbed to the second floor.
Matteo led me down a hallway I had never entered.
At the end stood a locked wooden door.
He removed a key from his pocket.
"This was my mother's room."
I stopped.
"Her bedroom?"
"Her private sitting room."
He unlocked the door.
Inside, everything looked untouched.
A pale green sofa stood beneath the window.
Books lined the shelves.
Fresh flowers sat beside a photograph of Isabella DeLuca.
She had dark hair, warm eyes, and a smile that reminded me of Eleanor.
Matteo walked toward a cabinet.
"My mother kept family albums here."
He opened it.
Inside were dozens of leather-bound books.
He selected one labeled 1990–2000.
We sat beside the window.
He turned the pages slowly.
Birthday parties.
Christmas mornings.
Family vacations.
A little boy with dark curls standing beside a woman in a blue dress.
Matteo.
Then we reached a photograph of Isabella holding two knitted sweaters.
One navy.
One green.
Both decorated with small lions.
Matteo stopped.
"She told me the second sweater was for my cousin."
I looked at him.
"Maybe it was for Gabriel."
He nodded.
Then he turned another page.
A photograph slipped out.
I caught it before it fell.
It showed Isabella standing outside St. Agnes Children's Home.
Beside her was a boy with dark hair.
Older than the child in the other photograph.
Perhaps twelve.
I turned it over.
There was a name.
GABRIEL — CHRISTMAS 1997.
Matteo stared at it.
"He was alive."
His voice broke.
"All those years."
I looked at him.
"I'm sorry."
He shook his head.
"She told me he was dead."
His eyes filled.
"Why would she do that?"
I didn't know.
But I thought about my own mother.
The secrets she had carried.
The fear that had shaped our childhood.
"Maybe she thought telling you would put him in danger."
Matteo looked at me.
"She could have trusted me."
"You were a child."
He lowered his head.
For several minutes, neither of us spoke.
Then he turned another page.
There was a newspaper clipping.
A photograph of St. Agnes Children's Home.
The headline read:
LOCAL CHARITY DIRECTOR HONORED FOR COMMUNITY SERVICE.
Beneath the headline stood a man in his early thirties.
He had dark hair.
A serious expression.
And a small scar above his eyebrow.
I leaned closer.
"Matteo."
He stared at the photograph.
The man's name was printed beneath it.
Daniel Mercer.
Director of St. Agnes Children's Home.
Matteo's breathing changed.
"Gabriel."
I looked at the date.
The article had been published eight years earlier.
The boy in the photographs had grown into a man.
A man who apparently worked at the very children's home where our mothers had hidden their secrets.
Matteo reached for his phone.
He called Daniel.
"Find everything you can about Daniel Mercer."
A pause.
"St. Agnes Children's Home."
Another pause.
"Yes, tonight."
He ended the call.
I looked at him.
"What are you going to do?"
"Find my brother."
"And then?"
He stared at the photograph.
"Ask him why everyone thought he was dead."
I looked toward the window.
The first pale light of morning was beginning to appear over Chicago.
Somewhere in the city, a man named Daniel Mercer might be living an ordinary life.
He might have a family.
A job.
A home.
He might have no idea that his younger brother had spent thirty years mourning him.
Or perhaps he knew everything.
A sudden knock interrupted my thoughts.
Rosa stood in the doorway.
"Mr. DeLuca?"
Matteo looked up.
"Yes?"
"There's someone downstairs."
"Who?"
She hesitated.
"A man."
"Does he have a name?"
"He says his name is Daniel Mercer."
Matteo stood so quickly that the photo album fell from his lap.
I caught it.
Rosa continued.
"He said he received a message from someone named Margaret Collins."
Matteo moved toward the door.
But Rosa wasn't finished.
"Sir, he asked me to give you something first."
She held out a small envelope.
Matteo opened it.
Inside was a photograph of two little boys standing beneath a Christmas tree.
One was Matteo.
The other was Gabriel.
May you like
On the back were five handwritten words.
I KNOW WHAT HAPPENED TO FATHER.
