Chapter 4 - The Underboss Who Recognized My Blood
I expected Victor to kill Rocco.
Instead, he ordered everyone out of the room.
Everyone except me.
That frightened me more.
Because Victor Sabatini was a man whose anger usually arrived before his words.
Now he was quiet.
Terribly quiet.
He stood beside the cutting table, staring at the photograph on Rocco's phone.
His father's face looked older than the framed portrait above the fireplace.
Thinner.
Paler.
But alive.
“Six years,” Victor whispered.
I said nothing.
“For six years, I've visited an empty grave.”
His fingers tightened around the phone.
“Six years, I've believed my father died of a heart attack.”
I watched him.
“Who told you?”
“Rocco.”
The answer hung between us.
Then Victor looked at me.
“Your real name.”
I touched the pendant.
“I don't know.”
“Don't lie.”
“I'm not.”
My voice shook.
“I grew up in foster homes. My paperwork said Tessa Quinn. Nobody ever told me anything about a Falcone family.”
Victor studied my face.
“You look like her.”
“Who?”
“Marcella.”
I swallowed.
“Did you know my mother?”
He nodded slowly.
“She used to bring homemade cookies to my mother's kitchen.”
I blinked.
“What?”
“Before the war, our families were close.”
The words didn't make sense.
“Then why would your father accuse her of murder?”
Victor looked toward the window.
“That's what I'm beginning to wonder.”
Rocco was waiting outside the library when Victor emerged.
He had removed his gun.
That was the first thing I noticed.
It lay on a side table beside his phone.
Victor looked at it.
Then at him.
“Tell me everything.”
Rocco's shoulders stiffened.
“Boss—”
“Everything.”
The enormous man exhaled.
“Your father survived the heart attack.”
Victor didn't move.
“He ordered us to announce his death. Said enemies were getting too close.”
“And you obeyed.”
“Yes.”
“Where is he?”
“A private medical facility outside Lancaster.”
“Who pays for it?”
Rocco hesitated.
Victor stepped closer.
“Who?”
“Salvatore DeLuca.”
The silence became unbearable.
Victor's face hardened.
“You let Salvatore sit at my table.”
“I didn't know he was involved in the shooting.”
“That's not what I asked.”
Rocco looked down.
Victor turned away.
For one moment, I thought he would hit him.
Instead, he said, “You have one chance to explain why my father wanted Tessa brought here.”
Rocco looked at me.
His expression changed.
Guilt.
Recognition.
Something almost like grief.
“Because she wasn't supposed to survive.”
My stomach dropped.
“What?”
Rocco swallowed.
“Twenty years ago, I was assigned to the Falcone estate. After the fire, your father ordered me to find Marcella's daughter.”
Victor went still.
“And?”
“I found her.”
I stared at him.
“You?”
Rocco nodded.
“She was six years old. Hiding beneath a collapsed staircase. She had burns on her hands and a silver necklace around her neck.”
My fingers curled.
I had scars on my palms.
Small, pale marks I'd always assumed came from childhood accidents.
“You carried me out,” I whispered.
His eyes shone.
“Yes.”
“Then what?”
Rocco looked away.
“Your father's orders were clear.”
Victor's voice turned deadly.
“What orders?”
Rocco swallowed.
“To make sure no Falcone child lived.”
For a moment, nobody spoke.
Then Victor grabbed Rocco by the collar and slammed him against the wall.
“You were ordered to kill a child?”
Rocco didn't resist.
“Yes.”
“And you brought her into my house?”
“Because I didn't kill her.”
Victor froze.
Rocco's voice broke.
“I took her to a hospital. Used a false name. Arranged foster placement through someone I trusted.”
I stared at him.
“You saved me?”
He nodded.
“Then why bring me here?”
“Because someone discovered you were alive.”
“Who?”
Rocco looked at Victor.
“Your father.”
I had spent eighteen years imagining what it would feel like to meet someone who knew my childhood.
I had imagined tears.
Hugs.
Answers.
I had not imagined standing inside a mafia mansion while the man who saved me confessed that he had also helped destroy my family.
“You knew where I was all those years?” I asked.
Rocco looked miserable.
“Yes.”
“You watched me grow up?”
“From a distance.”
“Did you know I was hungry?”
His face changed.
“Sometimes.”
“Did you know I slept in three different foster homes before I turned ten?”
He said nothing.
“Did you know I worked two jobs to pay rent?”
“Tessa—”
“Don't.”
My voice cracked.
“You don't get to say my name like you know me.”
Rocco lowered his head.
I turned toward Victor.
“And you.”
He looked at me.
“You said you finished what your father started.”
His face tightened.
“Tessa—”
“How many people did you kill because their last name was Falcone?”
Silence.
“How many?”
Victor looked away.
I felt something inside me break.
I had started to see the man beneath the scars.
The man who laughed at my sarcasm.
The man who looked frightened when bullets shattered the dining room.
But now I remembered what he was.
A mafia boss.
A man whose power had been built on blood.
I stepped backward.
“Let me leave.”
Victor looked at me.
“It's not safe.”
“I don't care.”
“Tessa.”
“Please.”
That word changed him.
His shoulders lowered.
For a moment, he looked older.
Then he turned to Rocco.
“Get her a car.”
Rocco stared.
“Boss—”
“An unmarked car. Two guards at a distance. No weapons near her unless there's a threat.”
I shook my head.
“No guards.”
Victor looked at me.
“You can hate me. You can refuse to speak to me. But someone is hunting you, and I won't pretend otherwise.”
I held his gaze.
“Then protect me without imprisoning me.”
He nodded.
“Agreed.”
I left the mansion at four that afternoon.
For the first time since the kidnapping, nobody stopped me.
The car took me to my apartment in South Philadelphia.
My building looked smaller than I remembered.
The hallway smelled like old cooking oil and damp carpet.
My front door still stuck near the bottom.
Everything was familiar.
Everything was mine.
I stood in the center of my living room and cried.
Not because I missed Victor.
Not because I was afraid.
Because I finally understood that the life I had believed belonged to me had been shaped by strangers making decisions behind closed doors.
And somewhere in Pennsylvania, a man who should have been dead was waiting to use me.
At eight that evening, someone knocked.
I froze.
Three slow taps.
Just like Victor.
I approached the door.
“Who is it?”
“Delivery.”
I looked through the peephole.
A young man in a baseball cap held a cardboard box.
“I didn't order anything.”
“It's already paid for.”
I hesitated.
Then opened the door a few inches.
The man shoved the box toward me.
Something inside ticked.
My blood went cold.
I slammed the door.
The explosion came before I reached the kitchen.
The blast threw me across the floor.
Glass shattered.
The ceiling cracked.
Smoke filled the apartment.
My ears rang.
I crawled toward the back window.
Then someone grabbed my wrist.
A man in a black mask.
“Falcone girl,” he whispered.
He raised a knife.
Before he could bring it down, a gunshot cracked.
The man collapsed.
I looked up.
Victor stood in the ruined doorway.
Blood ran down his forehead.
His gray shirt was torn.
But he was alive.
He crossed the room and dropped beside me.
“Tessa.”
I couldn't answer.
His hands framed my face.
“Look at me.”
I did.
His expression shattered.
“I promised you freedom,” he whispered.
I stared at him through the smoke.
“Then why are you here?”
His jaw tightened.
“Because someone sent me a video of your apartment ten minutes before the bomb went off.”
He reached into his pocket.
Pulled out his phone.
Played the recording.
An elderly man sat in a hospital bed.
Victor's father.
He looked directly into the camera.
“Bring me the Falcone girl, Victor.”
May you like
A pause.
“Or next time, I won't miss.”
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