Chapter 5 - 5
My father had been dead for eleven years.
Until that moment, I'd believed his death had nothing to do with the Pascale family.
Now I wasn't sure of anything.
Massimo examined the photographs under the desk lamp.
“Who was your father?”
“Daniel Fitzgerald.”
His expression changed.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
“You know that name,” I whispered.
Massimo didn't answer.
“Massimo.”
He looked at me.
“Your father worked for my family.”
The room seemed to tilt.
“No.”
“He was an accountant.”
“My father was a hospital administrator.”
“He became one after leaving Pascale Holdings.”
I stared at him.
“He never told me.”
Massimo looked at the photograph.
“He handled private accounts for my father.”
“What kind of accounts?”
“Accounts my father didn't want anyone else to see.”
I felt sick.
“My father wasn't involved in organized crime.”
“I didn't say he was.”
“But you're implying it.”
Massimo's expression softened.
“Emily, people sometimes get trapped working for men like my father. That doesn't mean they become like them.”
I wanted to believe him.
I wanted to believe my father had been the honest, gentle man who taught me to ride a bicycle and made pancakes every Sunday.
But the photograph in my hand suddenly felt like evidence of a life I hadn't known.
“What happened to him?” Massimo asked.
I swallowed.
“Car accident.”
His face went still.
“When?”
“Eleven years ago.”
“Where?”
“Outside Milwaukee.”
He closed his eyes.
“God.”
My heart began pounding.
“What?”
Massimo looked at me.
“Emily, I think your father was trying to expose something.”
I stared at him.
“Expose what?”
“I don't know.”
“Then why would you say that?”
“Because shortly before he died, he contacted my mother.”
The silence was deafening.
I could hear the clock ticking on the mantel.
“My father knew your mother?”
Massimo nodded.
“He asked her for help.”
“With what?”
“I never found out. She refused to discuss it.”
I looked at the photographs again.
My father's handwriting.
Isabella Pascale's photograph.
The same date.
And two deaths separated by years.
I suddenly felt like I was standing at the edge of something enormous.
Something that had been waiting for me long before I entered this house.
“I need to call my mother,” I said.
Massimo looked surprised.
“She's alive?”
“Yes.”
“Does she know you took this job?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because she would've tried to stop me.”
I pulled out my phone and dialed.
It rang six times.
Then my mother answered.
“Emily?”
Her voice sounded frightened.
“Mom, are you okay?”
“Where are you?”
“I'm at work.”
“Emily, tell me exactly where you are.”
I hesitated.
“At the Pascale estate.”
There was a sharp intake of breath.
Then silence.
“Mom?”
“You need to leave.”
My stomach dropped.
“Why?”
“Right now.”
“Mom, did Dad work for the Pascales?”
She began crying.
I'd heard my mother cry only twice in my life.
Once at my father's funeral.
And once when she thought I was asleep after we lost our house.
“Mom, please.”
“Your father made me promise never to tell you.”
“Tell me what?”
She struggled to breathe.
“Emily, your father didn't die in an accident.”
My knees weakened.
I sat down.
Massimo watched me carefully.
“What are you saying?”
“He was murdered.”
The words seemed to tear something open inside my chest.
For eleven years, I'd visited a grave believing a patch of icy road had taken my father away.
Now my mother was telling me someone had killed him.
“Who?” I whispered.
“I don't know.”
“Mom.”
“I swear, sweetheart. I don't know who ordered it.”
“Why didn't you tell the police?”
“I did. I told them everything your father had warned me about. They investigated, but they couldn't prove anyone had caused the crash.”
I pressed a hand against my mouth.
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because you were sixteen. Because someone had already threatened you. Because I was terrified they'd finish what they started.”
My blood ran cold.
“Someone threatened me?”
My mother sobbed.
“A man came to our house two days after the funeral. He said if you ever went looking for your father's records, I'd lose my daughter too.”
I closed my eyes.
“Who was he?”
“I never learned his name.”
“Did you recognize him?”
“No. But he had a scar above his left eyebrow.”
I looked toward Massimo.
He was watching me with growing concern.
“Mom, I'm coming home.”
“Please hurry.”
The call ended.
I sat motionless.
Then I told Massimo everything.
When I finished, he didn't speak.
He reached for his phone.
“Luca.”
The guard answered immediately.
“Sir?”
“Prepare the car. Miss Fitzgerald is leaving.”
I looked up.
“What?”
“You're going home.”
“But your treatment—”
“Can wait.”
I shook my head.
“Massimo, I need answers.”
“And you'll get them. From somewhere safe.”
He looked toward the window.
“Whatever happened to your father, someone may have brought you here because of it.”
I stood.
“I won't abandon you.”
His expression changed.
“Emily.”
“You hired me to help you. And I intend to do that.”
He looked at me for a long moment.
Then he said something that broke my heart.
“Everyone says that before they leave.”
I knelt beside his wheelchair.
“I'm not everyone.”
His eyes searched mine.
For one dangerous second, I forgot who he was.
Forgot the guards.
Forgot the money.
Forgot the rumors.
All I saw was a wounded man who had spent eight months being treated like a burden.
Then his hand moved toward mine.
He stopped just short of touching me.
“You shouldn't make promises to men like me,” he whispered.
“Then stop deciding what kind of man you are.”
His eyes darkened.
Before either of us could speak again, my phone rang.
My mother.
I answered immediately.
“Mom?”
A man's voice replied.
“Hello, Emily.”
I froze.
“Who is this?”
“You should have listened when your mother told you to leave.”
My heart stopped.
“Where is she?”
The man chuckled.
“Safe. For now.”
I gripped the phone.
“If you hurt her—”
“You'll do exactly what I say.”
Massimo saw my expression and reached for his own phone.
The stranger continued.
“Tomorrow night, you'll bring me the original medical records from Massimo's accident.”
“Why?”
“Because those records contain something that belongs to me.”
I swallowed.
“And my mother?”
“You'll get her back when I get what I want.”
“Who are you?”
There was a pause.
Then the man said, “Ask Massimo who signed the order to have your father killed.”
The call ended.
I slowly lowered the phone.
Massimo stared at me.
“What did he say?”
I could barely form the words.
“He said you know who killed my father.”
Massimo's face went white.
May you like
And in that instant, I knew the worst part wasn't that someone had kidnapped my mother.
It was that Massimo knew more than he'd told me.
