Chapter 8 - The Night Everything Burned Again|
The warehouse stood at the edge of the Brooklyn waterfront like a monument to everything nobody wanted remembered.
Its windows were boarded.
Its brick walls were scarred black from the fire.
Weeds pushed through the cracked pavement.
The river moved silently beyond the fence.
I stood beside Gabriel's car, staring at the building.
"You're sure about this?" he asked.
"No."
He nodded.
"At least you're being sensible."
I almost smiled.
Then I looked at the small flashlight in my hand.
"I need answers."
Gabriel checked his phone.
"The police know we're here. Nobody goes inside until they clear the structure."
I nodded.
For once, I wasn't going to mistake recklessness for courage.
Twenty minutes later, two investigators entered the building.
They returned with news that the ground floor was stable enough for a supervised inspection.
We followed them inside.
The air smelled of rust and damp concrete.
The old fire had left deep marks across the walls.
I tried to imagine Vincent trapped here.
Dominic outside, believing his brother was dying.
Anthony Russo somewhere nearby.
And Michael Harrison helping a young man escape.
What kind of family secret could be worth all that suffering?
Near the back of the warehouse, an investigator pointed to a metal door.
"There's a basement."
Gabriel frowned.
"That wasn't in the original building plans."
The officer opened it.
A narrow staircase descended into darkness.
My heart raced.
We followed carefully.
At the bottom was a small room.
Concrete walls.
A steel table.
Several rusted cabinets.
And a framed painting hanging beneath a sheet of dusty plastic.
I stopped.
"No."
Gabriel turned.
"What?"
I approached slowly.
The painting showed a lake.
A wooden dock.
A woman beneath a tree.
My childhood painting.
Except this one was much larger.
And unfinished.
I stared at it.
The brushwork.
The colors.
The composition.
My father had painted a copy.
But why?
I stepped closer.
In the lower corner was a signature.
C. Vale.
Catherine Vale.
My biological mother.
I felt tears sting my eyes.
Gabriel stood beside me.
"That's the original."
I nodded.
Then I noticed something strange.
A small section of the canvas had been cut and repaired.
As an appraiser, I recognized the work immediately.
Someone had opened the back of the painting.
And resealed it.
I turned to the investigator.
"There's something behind the lining."
He examined the frame.
With proper documentation, the officers carefully removed the backing.
Inside was a thin metal container.
Gabriel leaned closer.
"What is it?"
The investigator opened it.
Inside were photographs.
A flash drive.
And a birth certificate.
I stared at the document.
Mia Catherine Vale.
My name.
My birth date.
My mother's name.
But the father's name made my heart stop.
Anthony Russo.
I stumbled backward.
"No."
Gabriel caught my arm.
"Mia?"
I couldn't breathe.
Anthony Russo.
Dominic's father.
The man whose name had haunted every conversation.
The man who had supposedly died.
My biological father.
I looked at Gabriel.
"That would make Dominic..."
He swallowed.
"Your half brother."
The room went silent.
I shook my head.
"No. There has to be a mistake."
The investigator spoke carefully.
"Birth certificates can contain incorrect information. We need independent verification."
I nodded desperately.
"Yes. Testing. Records. Something."
My voice broke.
Because for eight months, I had loved Dominic Russo.
And now a piece of paper was threatening to turn that love into something unbearable.
Gabriel guided me toward a chair.
"Mia, breathe."
I stared at the certificate.
"Did Dominic know?"
"I don't know."
"Did Anthony?"
Gabriel didn't answer.
My phone rang.
Dominic.
I stared at the screen.
He was supposed to be in federal custody.
I answered with trembling hands.
"Dominic?"
His voice came through quietly.
"Mia."
My eyes filled with tears.
"How are you calling me?"
"My attorney arranged an approved call."
I swallowed.
"There's something you need to know."
He was silent.
Then he said:
"You're at the warehouse."
I froze.
"How do you know?"
"Because someone told me you'd be there."
My heart raced.
"Dominic, we found a birth certificate."
A long pause.
Then he whispered:
"I know."
The room seemed to spin.
"What?"
"Mia, please listen to me."
"You knew?"
"I found the original record three days ago."
I stared at the wall.
"Three days?"
"I didn't believe it."
"Then why didn't you tell me?"
"Because I was trying to confirm whether it was real."
My tears fell.
"Do you understand what this means?"
His voice broke.
"Yes."
I covered my mouth.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then Dominic whispered:
"Mia, I loved you before I knew any of this."
I shut my eyes.
"I know."
"I never would have—"
"Don't."
He stopped.
I took a trembling breath.
"We need the truth. Not more promises."
"I've already requested independent testing."
I looked at the document again.
"Good."
Then Dominic said something unexpected.
"Mia, there's another reason I called."
"What?"
"My father is alive."
My heart stopped.
"We know."
"No. You don't understand."
Dominic's voice became urgent.
"He contacted my attorney this morning."
I stared.
"Why?"
"He said the birth certificate is a lie."
I gripped the phone.
"What?"
Dominic continued.
"He said someone wants us to believe we're related."
My mind raced.
"Who?"
A pause.
Then Dominic whispered:
"Vincent."
I turned toward Gabriel.
He was watching me carefully.
Dominic's voice hardened.
"Mia, get away from Gabriel Bianchi."
I froze.
"Why?"
"Because the man who helped Vincent disappear eleven years ago wasn't Michael Harrison."
My breath caught.
"Then who?"
Dominic answered:
"Gabriel."
I slowly lowered the phone.
Gabriel stood across the room.
May you like
His expression had changed.
And for the first time, I noticed the gun beneath his jacket.
