Chapter 4 - Alexander Opens His Eyes
My mother had been dead for nearly three years.
For all that time, I believed I knew the important parts of her life.
I knew she hated thunderstorms.
I knew she drank coffee so strong it could probably dissolve metal.
I knew she had once wanted to become a teacher but left college when she became pregnant with me.
I knew she worked two jobs when I was young and never let me realize how little money we had.
What I did not know was that Margaret Bennett had once worked inside Alexander Romano’s estate.
Thomas regained consciousness that evening.
Rebecca refused to let more than two people question him.
Alexander ignored that rule and brought four.
Alexander.
Vincent.
Eleanor.
And me.
Thomas looked twenty years older beneath the hospital blanket.
“Start at the beginning,” Alexander said.
Thomas turned toward me.
“Your mother was twenty-two when she came here.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Why?”
“She never mentioned it.”
“Margaret mentioned very little about this place after she left.”
I sat beside him.
“What did she do?”
“She worked for your father.”
Alexander’s expression hardened.
“In what capacity?”
“Administrative assistant.”
That surprised all of us.
Alexander’s father, Vittorio Romano, had been famous for trusting almost nobody outside his immediate circle.
Thomas continued.
“Your mother was excellent with numbers. Better than some accountants.”
That sounded like her.
She could calculate grocery totals in her head before the cashier finished scanning.
“What happened?”
Thomas looked toward Alexander.
“Vittorio discovered money disappearing from several legitimate companies.”
“How much?” Alexander asked.
“Millions.”
“Who?”
“We never knew.”
“But my mother did?”
“She found irregularities.”
My pulse quickened.
“What kind?”
“Payments routed through shell corporations. Construction invoices for buildings that didn’t exist. Security contracts paid twice. Your mother began collecting copies.”
“Why?”
“Because she was frightened.”
“Of my father?”
Thomas shook his head.
“Of someone working for him.”
Alexander leaned forward despite Rebecca’s warning.
“Who?”
“That is what the papers were supposed to reveal.”
The room became silent.
Thomas explained that Margaret had hidden copies of financial records because she feared the person stealing from Vittorio was also manipulating internal operations.
Before she could prove anything, someone broke into her apartment.
Nothing valuable was stolen.
Only documents.
Two days later, she resigned.
“She told Vittorio she wanted nothing more to do with this family,” Thomas said.
“That sounds like my mother.”
“She was terrified for you.”
“For me?”
“You were six.”
A memory surfaced.
My mother waking me before sunrise.
Suitcases beside the door.
Moving from Queens to a small apartment in Connecticut without explanation.
I had always believed it was because she found cheaper rent.
“What happened to the evidence?”
Thomas shook his head.
“She said she had hidden one final copy where nobody connected to the Romanos would find it.”
Alexander looked at me.
“Did she ever give you anything?”
“No.”
“A box? Papers?”
“No.”
“Storage unit?”
“I don’t know.”
I hated how defensive I sounded.
Then Thomas asked, “Did she leave you her books?”
I blinked.
“What?”
“Margaret loved books.”
“Yes.”
“When she left, she carried out two boxes herself. Wouldn’t let anyone touch them.”
My mother had left me hundreds of books.
Most were still packed inside a storage locker in Connecticut because my room at the estate was too small.
Alexander saw my face.
“You know where they are.”
“I know where the books are.”
Vincent stood.
“We go tonight.”
Rebecca blocked the door.
“Alexander goes nowhere.”
Alexander looked at her.
“I wasn’t asking.”
“I’m also not asking. Your blood pressure is unstable, you were repeatedly drugged and you can barely stand.”
He stared at her.
Rebecca stared back.
I liked her immediately.
Finally Alexander turned toward Vincent.
“You go.”
“I’ll take Claire.”
“No.”
I looked at him.
“Why?”
“Because if this is connected to your mother, you’re already in danger.”
“I’m already in danger because I’m standing in this house.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Claire—”
“My mother hid something for twenty years. I’m the only person who might recognize where.”
He hated that I was right.
I could see it.
Finally he said, “Vincent does not leave your side.”
“Agreed.”
“And you call me every ten minutes.”
“I’m not twelve.”
“Every ten minutes.”
I folded my arms.
“Fifteen.”
His mouth almost moved into a smile.
“Ten.”
“Fine.”
We left after dark.
Vincent drove an ordinary gray SUV rather than one of Alexander’s armored vehicles.
The storage facility sat outside Stamford.
Nothing happened on the way.
That made me more nervous.
Inside unit 318 were the remains of my mother’s life.
Boxes.
Furniture.
Christmas decorations.
Old photographs.
And fourteen cartons of books.
Vincent stared.
“You read all these?”
“My mother did.”
We searched for almost two hours.
Nothing.
Then I remembered something.
My mother never wrote in books.
Never.
She considered folding a page corner an act of vandalism.
But when I picked up her copy of The Count of Monte Cristo, a sentence was underlined.
Trust what cannot be changed.
My breath caught.
“Vincent.”
He came over.
I opened the book.
Several pages contained tiny pencil marks.
Numbers.
3.
4.
5.
6.
7.
They meant nothing.
Then I noticed the first letters of the marked paragraphs.
B.
R.
I.
D.
G.
E.
“Bridge.”
Vincent looked around.
“What bridge?”
My heart started pounding.
When I was little, my mother used to take me to a covered bridge in Connecticut every autumn.
She called it our secret place.
We drove there.
It was nearly midnight by the time we arrived.
Rainwater rushed beneath the old wooden structure.
I walked toward a stone pillar at the eastern side.
There, carved faintly into the mortar, were two initials.
M.B.
My mother’s.
I remembered watching her carve them when I was eight.
Vincent used a flashlight.
One stone sounded hollow.
Behind it was a metal box wrapped in plastic.
My hands shook as I opened it.
Inside were financial records.
Photographs.
Copies of contracts.
And an envelope.
CLAIRE.
My mother’s handwriting.
I nearly dropped it.
I opened the letter.
My dearest Claire,
If you are reading this, then something I hoped would stay buried has returned.
I need you to understand one thing before anything else.
Alexander Romano is not responsible for what happened to our family.
His father wasn’t either.
The danger came from someone close enough to both men that nobody thought to look at him.
I stopped breathing.
Vincent read over my shoulder.
The next sentence changed the entire case.
His name is—
A bullet struck the wooden post beside us.
Vincent pulled me to the ground.
“Down!”
Another shot shattered the bridge railing.
He dragged me behind the stone pillar.
I clutched my mother’s letter.
Headlights appeared at the far end of the bridge.
A black vehicle accelerated toward us.
Vincent grabbed the metal box.
“We move. Now.”
We ran down the embankment.
Behind us, the SUV stopped.
Doors opened.
Men shouted.
Vincent led me through the trees toward the river.
My phone vibrated.
Alexander.
Ten-minute check-in.
I answered.
“Claire?”
His voice sounded stronger.
“Alexander—”
Another shot cracked through the night.
“Claire!”
“We found it.”
“Where are you?”
“Someone found us too.”
His voice changed instantly.
“Put Vincent on.”
Vincent took the phone while moving.
“Covered bridge near Cornwall. At least three men.”
Alexander said something I couldn’t hear.
Vincent looked at me.
Then at the river.
“You can swim?”
“What?”
“Can you swim?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
He shoved the metal box inside a waterproof bag.
“You’re going into the river.”
“You cannot be serious.”
A flashlight appeared behind us.
Vincent looked at me.
“Very serious.”
And somewhere several miles away, a supposedly dying Alexander Romano was already doing something his enemies had never expected.
May you like
He was getting out of bed.
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