Chapter 2 - The Brother Who Was Supposed to Be Dead
I hadn't slept in thirty-six hours.
Grace had.
She was asleep in the guest room upstairs, surrounded by three guards who didn't know whether they were protecting a baby or the most important piece of evidence in a murder investigation.
Hannah sat beside her.
I stood outside the door.
“Tell me everything.”
Hannah looked exhausted.
“You won't believe me.”
“Try.”
She took a breath.
“Julian contacted me about a year before Grace was born.”
My jaw tightened.
“Where?”
“At a laundromat in Elizabeth.”
“Why you?”
“He said he'd seen me working at the mansion.”
I frowned.
Hannah had been cleaning my house for nearly two years.
She was quiet.
Reliable.
Invisible.
Exactly the kind of person my family ignored.
“What did he want?”
“To know if I could help him.”
“With what?”
“Protecting his child.”
I looked through the glass at Grace.
“From whom?”
“He never told me the name.”
“Did he tell you he was alive?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“He said if I did, someone would kill me.”
I stared at her.
“Did you believe him?”
“I saw what happened when he trusted people.”
She lowered her voice.
“He had been shot.”
I turned.
“What?”
“Not badly. His shoulder.”
“When?”
“Two weeks before Grace was born.”
“Who shot him?”
“I don't know.”
I walked away.
My mind was moving through possibilities.
Julian had been alive.
Someone had been hunting him.
He had fathered a child.
And Vincent knew something.
But there was one detail I couldn't explain.
The burned car.
I had personally identified the vehicle.
I had seen the body.
Or what remained of it.
I called the medical examiner who handled the case.
“Anthony, it's Marco.”
There was a pause.
“Mr. Caruso.”
“I need Julian's autopsy file.”
“That's closed.”
“Open it.”
Silence.
“I'll send it.”
Five minutes later, a secure file appeared.
I opened it.
The report contained one line that made my stomach turn.
Identity determined by dental records.
Dental records.
Not DNA.
I called Anthony.
“Why wasn't DNA used?”
“We had insufficient remains.”
“Who ordered the identification?”
Another pause.
“Vincent Rizzo.”
I hung up.
I knew.
I finally knew.
Vincent had identified the body.
Vincent had handled the funeral.
Vincent had controlled the investigation.
Vincent had told me my brother was dead.
I had never questioned him.
Because grief makes even intelligent men stupid.
At noon, Vincent arrived.
He walked into my office carrying his usual leather folder.
“Marco.”
I watched him.
He noticed Grace's toys scattered across the room.
His eyes stopped.
“Where is the baby?”
“Why?”
“I heard something happened.”
“Something did.”
He looked at me.
“What?”
“My brother has a daughter.”
His face didn't change.
But his left hand tightened around the folder.
I noticed.
“Congratulations,” he said carefully.
“Don't.”
He frowned.
“Don't what?”
“Lie to me.”
Silence.
Then Vincent smiled sadly.
“Marco, Julian is dead.”
“That's what you told me.”
“Because it's true.”
I pushed the autopsy report across the desk.
His eyes dropped.
Then returned to mine.
“You know what I did after Julian died?”
He didn't answer.
“I burned half the city looking for his killers.”
“I know.”
“I trusted you.”
“I know.”
“And you stood beside me while I buried a man who might not have been my brother.”
Vincent's face hardened.
“You need to calm down.”
I laughed.
“You're giving me advice?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you're thinking emotionally.”
I stepped closer.
“Then answer one question.”
“What?”
“Where is Julian?”
Vincent stared at me.
For the first time in thirty years, I saw fear in his eyes.
Then a gunshot exploded downstairs.
Everyone froze.
A guard shouted through the radio.
“INTRUDER!”
I drew my weapon.
Vincent did too.
“Stay here,” I told him.
He moved toward the door.
I blocked him.
“You're not going anywhere.”
“Marco—”
“Not until I know whether you're protecting my family or hunting it.”
Another shot.
Then screaming.
I ran upstairs.
Grace was crying.
Hannah was on the floor.
The nursery window was open.
A man in black stood beside the crib.
I fired.
He ducked and escaped through the window.
I reached Grace.
She was unharmed.
Hannah grabbed my arm.
“He knew where she was.”
“Who?”
“I don't know.”
I looked at the window.
Then at the baby.
A tiny red mark was visible on Grace's wrist.
I recognized it.
A tattoo.
A small black crescent.
Julian had the same mark.
I called Vincent.
No answer.
Then my phone buzzed.
A photograph appeared.
Julian.
Alive.
Bruised.
Bound to a chair.
May you like
And beneath it, one message:
You found the daughter. Now find the father.
