Chapter 9 - A Letter Written for the Sister She Never Met
We did not drive directly to the coast.
Dominic sent two security teams in different directions while we traveled in an ordinary rental car.
It was the least glamorous vehicle I had ever seen associated with him.
A beige sedan.
Dominic looked personally insulted.
“I like it,” I said.
“It has cloth seats.”
“So?”
“My grandmother had seats like these.”
“Your grandmother sounds practical.”
“My grandmother owned six hotels.”
I laughed.
He looked at me.
“What?”
“Nothing. You're ridiculous.”
For three hours, we drove like ordinary people.
Leo stayed with Sofia under heavy security.
I hated leaving him.
That realization frightened me.
He wasn't my child.
I had known him only days.
Yet the empty seat behind me felt wrong.
Dominic noticed.
“He'll be fine.”
“I know.”
“He likes Sofia.”
“He tolerates Sofia.”
“That's practically love for Leo.”
We reached the coastal town near dusk.
Marisol's address belonged to a small cottage near the water.
My hands shook as we approached.
A woman sat on the porch.
Gray hair.
Thin shoulders.
A blue sweater.
My mother.
Alive.
I stopped.
Dominic remained several steps behind.
She looked up.
Our eyes met.
Her cup fell.
“Elina.”
I couldn't move.
She stood.
Older than I remembered.
But unmistakably her.
“You're alive.”
She began crying.
I crossed the distance between us.
I wanted to hug her.
I wanted to scream.
I did neither.
“How could you?”
“Elina—”
“Four years.”
“I know.”
“I buried you.”
“I know.”
“I mourned you.”
“I know.”
Her face crumpled.
“I am sorry.”
“That isn't enough.”
“No.”
I cried then.
So did she.
Eventually I let her touch my face.
“You look so much like her.”
The sentence hurt.
“You knew Elena found you.”
Marisol nodded.
“She came here.”
I froze.
“When?”
“Two months before she died.”
My throat closed.
“She met you?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn't you tell her where I was?”
“I did.”
“What?”
“She already knew.”
I stepped backward.
“She chose not to contact me?”
“Not immediately.”
“Why?”
“She wanted to remove the danger first.”
Of course.
Always protection.
Always silence.
Always someone deciding what I was allowed to know.
Dominic spoke from behind me.
“What did Elena learn here?”
Marisol looked at him.
For a moment, grief transformed her face.
“Dominic.”
“You've met?”
“No.”
She touched her chest.
“But Elena showed me photographs.”
Dominic looked away.
Marisol invited us inside.
The cottage was simple.
Clean.
Family photographs covered one wall.
Photographs of me.
From newspapers.
Social media printouts.
Restaurant advertisements.
She had watched my life from a distance.
I didn't know whether to feel loved or violated.
Marisol opened a wooden box.
Inside were letters.
“Elena wrote these after visiting me.”
“For who?”
“You.”
There were twelve.
She never sent them.
I opened the first.
Dear Elina,
Today I learned you hate olives. I don't know why this matters to me, but I laughed for ten minutes because I hate them too.
I smiled through tears.
Another.
I watched a video from Orelio's charity dinner just to hear your voice. We sound almost the same, but you talk with your hands more than I do.
Dominic smiled faintly.
“I told you.”
I ignored him.
The final letter had been written three days before Elena died.
Elina, I think I'm finally close enough to contact you. I wanted to come into your restaurant and order something ordinary. Coffee, maybe. Then I imagined you asking my name, and I realized there is no ordinary way to tell someone her dead sister is alive.
I couldn't continue.
Dominic read silently beside me.
Then one paragraph made him stop.
“What?”
He handed it back.
Dominic doesn't know yet. I am afraid he'll blame himself for not seeing what his father and uncle did. He carries guilt like other people carry wallets—everywhere, even when he doesn't need it.
Dominic looked toward the window.
“She knew you,” I whispered.
“Yes.”
The letter continued.
If anything happens before I reach you, don't let him become what grief wants him to become. He is better than the world he inherited.
I looked at Dominic.
He couldn't meet my eyes.
Marisol sat across from us.
“Elena was afraid Marco had discovered she found Gabriel's evidence.”
“Did he?” Dominic asked.
“Yes.”
“How?”
“I don't know.”
“Did Elena tell you where it was?”
“No.”
“She hid it at Orelio.”
Marisol laughed softly.
“Gabriel loved that restaurant.”
“What?”
“Orelio belonged to his closest friend.”
The original owner.
The portrait suddenly made sense.
Gabriel had trusted someone there.
Marisol continued.
“After Gabriel disappeared, his friend preserved anything he could.”
“Why the portrait of Elena?”
“He recognized her years later.”
“How?”
“She looked like me.”
Marisol smiled sadly.
“He knew.”
The mystery was becoming a chain of people who had known pieces but never trusted anyone with the whole truth.
I was tired of it.
“Tell me everything now.”
Marisol looked at me.
“No more protection.”
She nodded.
So she told us.
Gabriel discovered Marco was moving money through shell companies.
He gathered records.
He planned to testify.
Marco found out.
Gabriel disappeared.
Carlo suspected his brother.
But instead of exposing him, Carlo protected the Moretti name.
He threatened Marisol into silence and separated the twins.
Years later, Carlo regretted it.
He secretly funded Elena's adoptive family's medical expenses.
He watched both daughters from afar.
He never admitted the truth.
“Coward,” Dominic said.
Marisol didn't disagree.
Then headlights appeared outside.
Several vehicles.
Dominic stood instantly.
“Stay inside.”
Marisol's face went white.
“No.”
“What?”
“There's a back road.”
Dominic looked at her.
“Who knows?”
“Only one person.”
“Who?”
She whispered:
“Marco.”
A car door slammed outside.
Dominic reached for his phone.
No signal.
Another engine stopped.
We had been careful.
But not careful enough.
Marco hadn't followed us.
He had been waiting.
May you like
And after almost thirty years, the man who had destroyed our family had finally come to finish what he started.
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