Chapter 4 - The Secret Clara Buried Two Years Ago
Clara stood in Vincent's office at 2:41 in the morning.
She was wearing jeans, a dark sweater, and no coat.
Dominic stood near the door.
Vincent sat behind his desk.
Between them lay the stolen keycard.
“Explain.”
Clara said nothing.
Vincent waited.
Silence had frightened better people.
Clara simply looked exhausted.
“Why are you here?”
“Matteo called me.”
Vincent frowned.
“What?”
“He has my number on his tablet. He woke from a nightmare. He couldn't reach you.”
Guilt flickered through Vincent.
His phone had been silenced during a meeting.
“That explains why you entered the estate.”
“Yes.”
“Not why you entered a restricted archive.”
Clara's eyes shifted toward the keycard.
Vincent leaned forward.
“You have one opportunity.”
Clara closed her eyes.
Then she said, “I saw a name.”
“What name?”
“Anthony Mercer.”
Vincent became still.
Clara continued.
“I saw it on paperwork Dominic left downstairs yesterday.”
Dominic cursed quietly.
“I recognized it.”
“From Elias.”
“Yes.”
Vincent stood.
“So you do know the mechanic.”
“I never met him.”
“But your brother did.”
Clara nodded.
“Why?”
Her eyes filled.
“Because Elias found something he wasn't supposed to find.”
Vincent said nothing.
Clara finally sat.
Two years earlier, Elias had worked as a remote bookkeeper for Bellini Maritime Holdings.
He believed it was ordinary shipping work.
Then numbers stopped making sense.
Payments moved through shell companies.
Vehicles were purchased, modified, and transferred without normal documentation.
Elias became suspicious.
One name appeared repeatedly.
Anthony Mercer.
“He thought they were stealing cars,” Clara said.
Vincent's jaw tightened.
“He started copying records.”
“Why?”
“He was scared. He wanted insurance.”
“Against the Bellinis?”
“He didn't know who they were.”
Clara laughed bitterly.
“We weren't people who knew families like yours existed outside movies.”
Vincent ignored the insult.
“What happened?”
“Elias contacted Mercer.”
“Why?”
“He thought Mercer was another employee being used.”
Vincent understood before she finished.
“But Mercer was part of it.”
Clara nodded.
“Elias realized too late.”
“What did he find?”
Clara looked at Vincent.
“A work order.”
His stomach tightened.
“For my vehicle?”
“Yes.”
The room became silent.
“Before the explosion?”
“Three weeks.”
Vincent walked around the desk.
“You knew?”
“No.”
“When did Elias tell you?”
“After.”
Vincent stopped.
Clara's voice cracked.
“He saw the news. He saw the SUV. He recognized the plate from the documents.”
Vincent felt the past opening beneath his feet.
“Why didn't he come to me?”
“He was terrified of you.”
“His silence got my wife killed.”
Clara stood sharply.
“He was twenty-four years old and already living with a spinal injury. He thought criminals were going to kill him!”
Vincent's expression hardened.
Clara didn't retreat.
“He wasn't responsible for that bomb.”
“He had information.”
“And so did people inside your organization.”
Vincent froze.
“What did you say?”
Clara breathed hard.
“Elias told me Mercer wasn't acting alone.”
Vincent stepped closer.
“Who?”
“I don't know.”
“Don't lie.”
“I don't know!”
Her voice echoed through the office.
“He never gave me the name. He said someone close to you authorized access to the vehicle.”
Vincent looked toward Dominic.
Dominic's face had gone pale.
“Who?” Vincent repeated.
Clara shook her head.
“Elias promised he'd give everything to the police.”
“But he didn't.”
“He got sick.”
Her anger disappeared.
“He developed an infection. Then sepsis.”
Clara's voice weakened.
“I spent weeks in the hospital. By the time he stabilized, his laptop was gone from our apartment.”
“Stolen?”
“Yes.”
“Mercer?”
“I assumed.”
“And Elias?”
“He died seven months later.”
Vincent stared at her.
“Natural causes?”
Clara's eyes lowered.
“I don't know anymore.”
The answer changed everything.
Vincent walked toward the window.
For fourteen months, he had believed the bombing came from outside.
A rival family.
An enemy.
A war.
But if Clara was telling the truth, someone inside his circle had opened the door.
Someone close enough to authorize maintenance on his personal vehicle.
Dominic broke the silence.
“Why apply here?”
Clara looked toward him.
“Money.”
Vincent turned.
“That's not all.”
“No.”
“Then tell me.”
Clara's eyes filled.
“I wanted to see him.”
“Who?”
“Matteo.”
Vincent's face changed.
“I saw him in the news after the explosion. Eight years old. Wheelchair.”
She swallowed.
“He reminded me of Eli.”
“So this was guilt?”
“At first.”
Vincent stared at her.
“And now?”
Clara answered without hesitation.
“Now he's Matteo.”
The simplicity of the sentence destroyed his anger.
Not the victim.
Not the crippled child.
Not Vincent Rossi's son.
Matteo.
Just Matteo.
Vincent turned away.
“Go home.”
Clara blinked.
“What?”
“Go home.”
“Am I fired?”
Vincent looked at her.
“No.”
Dominic appeared surprised.
Clara did too.
“Matteo expects you at seven.”
She picked up her bag.
At the door, Vincent spoke again.
“Clara.”
She turned.
“If you're lying to me…”
“I know.”
“No.”
His voice softened.
“You don't.”
She left.
Dominic waited.
Then asked, “You believe her?”
Vincent looked toward the dark window.
“I believe she's hiding less than we are.”
For the next forty-eight hours, Vincent reopened the investigation.
Every maintenance record.
Every security assignment.
Every schedule.
Every payment.
The list of people who could have authorized access to his SUV was short.
Vincent.
Dominic.
His late wife, Sofia.
Head of security Marcus DeLuca.
And Vincent's cousin, Gabriel Rossi.
Gabriel had been in the family since birth.
He had held Matteo the day he was born.
He had stood beside Vincent at Sofia's funeral.
He had hunted the Bellinis after the bombing.
Vincent stared at his name.
“No.”
Dominic understood.
“You want me to investigate him?”
“Everyone.”
“Even me?”
Vincent looked at his oldest friend.
“Especially you.”
Dominic nodded.
No offense.
That was why Vincent trusted him.
Upstairs, Matteo's progress continued.
He spoke more.
He began eating downstairs.
He asked to visit the garden.
Then one morning, Clara found Vincent standing beside Matteo's wheelchair near the front doors.
Matteo looked nervous.
Clara looked between them.
“What is happening?”
Vincent held up a jacket.
“We're going outside.”
Clara smiled.
Matteo frowned.
“Cold.”
“You're Italian,” Vincent said. “Complain while moving.”
Clara laughed.
Matteo did too.
They went outside together.
For twenty minutes, they followed a paved path overlooking the ocean.
Matteo watched birds.
Clara pushed the wheelchair until Vincent quietly said, “I'll do it.”
She released the handles.
Vincent took over.
It was such a small thing.
But Clara understood.
For months, Vincent had treated the wheelchair as proof of his failure.
Now he pushed it without shame.
Matteo looked back.
“Dad?”
Vincent stopped walking.
It was the first time Matteo had called him that since the explosion.
“Yes?”
“Faster.”
Vincent stared.
Clara laughed.
“You heard the boss.”
Vincent pushed faster.
Matteo laughed into the cold wind.
For several glorious seconds, they were simply father and son again.
That evening, Vincent returned to the security room.
Dominic was waiting.
His expression was wrong.
“What did you find?”
“A payment.”
“To whom?”
“Mercer.”
“From?”
Dominic placed the financial record on the desk.
Vincent read the originating account.
He stopped breathing.
The account belonged to a Rossi-controlled company.
Only three people had authorization.
Vincent.
Dominic.
And Gabriel.
Vincent looked up.
“Which login authorized it?”
Dominic's voice became quiet.
“Gabriel's.”
Vincent stared at the screen.
His cousin.
His blood.
The man who had kissed Sofia's coffin and promised revenge.
Then Dominic added, “There's more.”
He opened another file.
“A message was recovered from an old backup.”
Vincent read it.
The message had been sent hours before the bombing.
Vehicle ready. Route confirmed. Child will not be with him.
Vincent's blood turned cold.
Child will not be with him.
But Matteo had been.
Someone had expected Vincent to travel alone.
Someone had planned to kill Vincent.
And whoever betrayed him had known his family's schedule.
Vincent looked toward the camera feed.
Matteo was asleep.
Clara sat beside him reading.
Vincent whispered:
“Gabriel knew.”
Then Dominic shook his head.
“That's the problem.”
Vincent looked at him.
“Gabriel wasn't the person who sent the message.”
“Who was?”
Dominic turned the screen.
The account belonged to someone else.
Someone Vincent had trusted with his home, his security, and his son's life every day since the explosion.
Vincent stared at the name.
Marcus DeLuca.
His head of security.
May you like
The man currently controlling every gate of the Rossi estate.
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