Chapter 3 - The Secret Mia Was Never Supposed to Hear
Vincent locked down the estate in under three minutes.
The gates closed.
Security searched every room.
Nobody entered or left.
I sat in the kitchen with Mia on my lap while Vincent and Renzo questioned the guards.
Mia didn't understand.
To her, the power outage had been an adventure.
To me, the pendant sitting on Vincent’s desk upstairs had changed everything.
My mother had owned it.
I remembered it.
She wore it almost every day.
The night before she disappeared, she had tucked me into bed and kissed my forehead.
I remembered touching that pendant.
Twenty years later, a stranger had carried it into Vincent Castalano’s house.
At eleven, Vincent entered the kitchen.
“We identified him.”
“Who?”
“Martin Vale. Private investigator.”
“Who hired him?”
“We don't know.”
“Where is he?”
“He left the property before the lockdown.”
I stared at him.
“How?”
“He had help.”
That answer frightened me.
“From inside?”
Vincent said nothing.
Which meant yes.
I looked down at Mia.
“I'm taking her home.”
“No.”
My head snapped up.
“Excuse me?”
“Whoever came here knew you were here.”
“You don't know that.”
“He carried your mother's necklace.”
“Maybe he wanted you.”
“Then he would've left it in my study. Instead, he approached Mia.”
A chill moved through me.
“What are you suggesting?”
“Until we understand what's happening, you're safer here.”
“I am not moving into a mafia mansion.”
Renzo, standing behind him, suddenly became fascinated with his phone.
Vincent's eyebrow lifted.
“I didn't use that word.”
“You didn't have to.”
Mia looked between us.
“What's mafia?”
Vincent and I answered simultaneously.
“Nothing.”
Mia frowned.
Vincent sighed.
That night, we stayed.
Not because Vincent ordered it.
At least that's what I told myself.
We stayed because I was terrified.
Mrs. Bell prepared a guest suite overlooking the gardens.
Mia fell asleep immediately.
I couldn't.
At midnight, I walked downstairs.
Light glowed beneath Vincent’s study door.
I knocked.
“Come in.”
Vincent had removed his jacket and tie. His sleeves were rolled to his forearms.
Laura’s pendant lay beside the photograph.
“Can't sleep?” he asked.
“No.”
“Neither can I.”
I sat opposite him.
“Tell me about Isabella.”
For a long time, he said nothing.
Then he leaned back.
“She was seven years older than me.”
“Were you close?”
“She raised me more than my parents did.”
His voice softened.
“Our father believed affection made children weak. Isabella disagreed.”
“What happened to her?”
“A car accident.”
I noticed the hesitation.
“You don't believe that.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because Isabella called me the night before she died.”
“What did she say?”
Vincent looked at the photograph.
“She said she'd discovered something about our father's businesses. Something that could destroy people.”
“And?”
“She told me she was leaving.”
“With Laura?”
“I don't know.”
“Did your father know?”
“Probably.”
There was bitterness in his voice.
“Your father is dead?”
“Twelve years.”
“Did you ever ask him?”
“Many times.”
“And?”
“He told me Isabella was emotional and careless.”
Vincent's jaw tightened.
“I believed him when I was seventeen.”
“And later?”
“I learned my father lied about almost everything.”
I looked at the pendant.
“Maybe my mother knew what Isabella discovered.”
“That was always my suspicion.”
“Then why did Laura wait six years before contacting you?”
“I don't know.”
The grandfather clock ticked behind us.
Finally I asked, “What is Bellini Station?”
His eyes met mine.
“I genuinely don't know.”
“You've never heard it?”
“Not until yesterday.”
I believed him.
I wasn't sure why.
Maybe because Vincent Castalano was frightening, secretive, and accustomed to commanding rooms, but he wasn't careless with words.
When he didn't want to answer, he remained silent.
He didn't invent convenient lies.
“Your daughter isn't afraid of anything,” he said.
I smiled despite myself.
“She is. Broccoli.”
A quiet laugh escaped him.
I stared.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You're looking at me strangely.”
“I'm just surprised.”
“By?”
“You laughing.”
His expression closed slightly.
“Don't make a habit of it.”
I smiled.
“There's the face.”
He looked almost offended.
“Mia is influencing you.”
“She’s three.”
“Exactly.”
The following morning, Renzo brought news.
Martin Vale had been found.
Alive.
Sitting in a diner twenty miles away.
He claimed someone had paid him five thousand dollars to enter the estate and leave the pendant inside Vincent’s study.
“Who?” I asked.
“He never met them,” Renzo said. “Everything was arranged electronically.”
“Why approach Mia?”
“He says he didn't. Mia surprised him.”
Mia nodded seriously while eating cereal.
“I scared him.”
Vincent looked at her.
“You certainly did.”
Renzo placed a printed email on the table.
The instructions contained one sentence:
Put Laura Hayes's pendant where Vincent Castalano will find it. The daughter must see it.
I read it twice.
“The daughter?”
Renzo nodded.
“They meant you,” Vincent said.
“Then why not say Elena?”
“Because whoever wrote this may know you primarily as Laura's daughter.”
My stomach twisted.
“Can you trace it?”
“We're trying.”
The investigation led nowhere for two days.
Then Mia found the first real clue.
Because of course she did.
Sunday afternoon, Vincent was in a meeting while I folded laundry.
Mia had been playing with building blocks near me.
When I looked up, she was gone.
Again.
I found her underneath the staircase holding an old wooden box.
“Where did you get that?”
“Secret place.”
My maternal patience expired.
“Mia.”
She pointed to a narrow panel in the wall.
It had apparently opened when she pushed against it.
Inside was a shallow storage compartment.
The wooden box was covered in dust.
I carried it to the kitchen.
Mrs. Bell saw it and nearly dropped a tray.
“Where did you find that?”
“Under the stairs.”
She stared.
“I haven't seen that box in twenty-five years.”
“Whose is it?”
“Miss Isabella’s.”
I called Vincent.
He arrived in less than two minutes.
The box was locked.
Mia produced a tiny brass key.
All three adults stared at her.
“What?” I asked.
“It was inside.”
Vincent opened the box.
Letters.
Dozens.
Photographs.
A diary.
And a cassette tape.
Renzo lifted one envelope.
The handwriting said:
Laura.
My hands shook.
Vincent gave it to me.
Inside was a letter from Isabella.
Laura,
If anything happens, don't trust Carlo. Take Elena somewhere he cannot find her. Daniel has agreed to help, but I'm afraid he doesn't understand what we're facing.
I stopped.
Vincent read over my shoulder.
“Carlo,” he whispered.
“Who is Carlo?”
“My father's younger brother.”
“Your uncle?”
Vincent nodded.
“Alive?”
“Yes.”
I continued reading.
The last sentence made my knees weak.
Vincent is innocent. Protect him if you can. One day Elena may be the only person who can prove what really happened.
I stared at my name.
“My name.”
Vincent looked equally stunned.
“This was written before I was born.”
“No.”
Renzo had opened Isabella’s diary.
He looked pale.
“Elena wasn't referring to you.”
“What?”
He turned the diary around.
A photograph was tucked between the pages.
Isabella was holding a newborn baby.
On the back:
Elena Isabella Castalano. July 18, 1998.
My birthday.
Nobody spoke.
I looked at Vincent.
He looked at me.
And suddenly I understood why my father had hidden our past.
Why Laura had disappeared.
Why Isabella’s necklace had become mine.
My voice barely worked.
“Who is that baby?”
Vincent’s eyes moved from the photograph to my face.
When he answered, his voice was almost a whisper.
May you like
“I think it's you.”
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