Chapter 14 - The Night Chicago Thought Mateo Valente Was Dead
The recording explained everything and nothing.
Elena had adopted Mateo privately.
His biological mother had been Elena’s younger sister, who died shortly after giving birth.
The adoption was hidden to protect family reputation at the time.
So Mateo and I shared no blood.
I sat on the floor laughing hysterically.
“This is the worst family tree in America.”
Mateo sat beside me.
“You’re laughing.”
“If I stop, I’ll scream.”
He nodded.
“Reasonable.”
Then his expression became serious.
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For kissing you before checking genealogy?”
A laugh escaped me.
He almost smiled.
Dominic’s recording continued.
Years earlier, he and my mother Caroline had an affair during a separation between Caroline and Robert.
I was conceived.
Robert knew.
And chose to raise me.
That information hurt and healed me simultaneously.
Robert had known I wasn’t biologically his.
He stayed anyway.
He loved me anyway.
Dominic explained that he had watched from a distance because Robert insisted I deserved a normal childhood.
Then the recording changed.
“Robert discovered I restarted the cargo network.”
My heart stopped.
So Novak had been right.
Dominic confessed.
After Anthony Caruso’s death, Dominic continued using hidden routes.
Not human trafficking.
Not weapons.
But stolen goods and illegal gambling money.
Robert threatened to expose him.
They argued.
Dominic swore he didn’t kill Robert.
“The accident was meant for me.”
I stared.
Someone had switched vehicles.
Robert borrowed Dominic’s car after their meeting.
The bomb—or mechanical sabotage—had been intended for Dominic.
My father died because he drove the wrong car.
Wrong car.
Wrong room.
Wrong bed.
My entire life seemed built from accidents.
Dominic ended:
“Harper, every terrible thing I did afterward was partly because I couldn’t forgive myself.”
I whispered, “That doesn’t excuse him.”
Mateo nodded.
“No.”
We copied everything.
Then the garage exploded.
The blast threw us down.
Fire spread across the entrance.
Luca shouted.
We escaped through a maintenance tunnel.
But Mateo went back.
“There’s another guard!”
“Mateo!”
He disappeared into smoke.
Seconds passed.
Then a second explosion collapsed part of the structure.
I screamed his name.
Luca held me back.
“No!”
Firefighters arrived.
Hours passed.
No Mateo.
News cameras gathered.
By midnight, every channel reported the same thing:
BILLIONAIRE MATEO VALENTE PRESUMED DEAD IN WAREHOUSE FIRE.
I sat in the back of an SUV unable to cry anymore.
Rosa called.
She didn’t speak.
Neither did I.
Then my phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
One text:
BODY PILLOW STILL BREATHING.
I stared.
Then laughed and cried simultaneously.
Another message.
DO NOT REACT. YOU ARE BEING WATCHED.
I forced my face blank.
A third:
LET THEM BELIEVE I’M DEAD.
My hands shook.
Then:
TRUST LUCA. GO HOME.
I wanted to scream at him.
Instead I deleted the messages.
At Mateo’s funeral three days later, there was no body.
Only a closed casket.
Chicago’s politicians attended.
Business leaders.
Police.
People who had publicly condemned him.
People who privately feared him.
Dominic appeared.
I nearly attacked him.
Luca stopped me.
“Not yet.”
At the cemetery, Dominic stood beside me.
“I’m sorry.”
I stared forward.
“You ruined everything you touched.”
“I know.”
“Robert loved me.”
“I know.”
“You don’t get to call yourself my father.”
His face broke.
“I know.”
For the first time, I believed his regret.
Not forgiveness.
Never that easily.
But regret.
Then Dominic whispered:
“Mateo isn’t dead.”
I slowly turned.
He almost smiled.
“You hide your emotions exactly like Caroline.”
My blood chilled.
“How do you know?”
“Because if Mateo were dead, Luca wouldn’t be watching the eastern rooftop instead of the coffin.”
I followed his gaze.
A figure stood far away.
Dark coat.
Then disappeared.
Dominic leaned closer.
“Whatever Mateo is planning, tell him he has seventy-two hours.”
“For what?”
“Before the real leader of the Caruso organization leaves Chicago.”
“Vincent?”
Dominic shook his head.
“No.”
“Who?”
He looked toward the funeral crowd.
A woman stood beneath a black umbrella.
Red coat underneath.
Isabella Valente.
Dominic whispered:
“My daughter.”
Then:
May you like
“She’s the one who ordered the hotel attack.”
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