Chapter 5 - The Mother Behind the Glass
Clara knew Maximilian was keeping something from her before he even lowered the phone.
His face had changed.
Not with anger.
With recognition.
“Who was that?”
He looked at the screen.
“Someone claiming to be your mother.”
Clara stopped moving.
For several seconds, she couldn't speak.
Then she grabbed his wrist.
“Call her back.”
“The number is blocked.”
“Try.”
“Clara—”
“Please!”
Maximilian immediately handed the phone to Marco, who had been waiting near the elevator.
“Trace it.”
Marco disappeared down the hallway.
Clara looked at Maximilian.
“Was it her?”
“I don't know.”
“What did she sound like?”
He hesitated.
“Calm. American. Middle-aged.”
Clara laughed bitterly.
“That describes millions of women.”
“I know.”
“Did she say anything only my mother would know?”
“She mentioned Nicholas.”
Clara went still.
“Your brother?”
“Yes.”
She looked through the glass toward her father's hospital room.
“Then she's connected.”
Maximilian nodded.
“But that doesn't prove she's Evelyn.”
Clara closed her eyes.
Her mother had been dead for five years.
She had buried her.
Mourned her.
Spent every birthday wishing she could hear her voice again.
And now a stranger had called, claiming that everything Clara believed was wrong.
She couldn't decide whether she wanted to scream or hope.
That evening, Maximilian brought Clara to a secure townhouse on Chicago's North Side.
It belonged to an old family attorney named Samuel Whitaker.
The townhouse was smaller than the Russo mansion, with ordinary furniture, warm lighting, and a kitchen that smelled faintly of coffee.
Clara appreciated that nobody wore an earpiece at the dinner table.
She also appreciated that Maximilian had stopped trying to make every decision for her.
When he suggested she rest, she said no.
When he offered to have food brought upstairs, she insisted on eating in the kitchen.
He accepted both decisions.
It was a small thing.
But Clara noticed.
Samuel Whitaker arrived shortly after eight.
He was seventy-one, thin, and carried a leather briefcase that looked older than Clara.
After introductions, he opened a folder.
“I represented Evelyn Jenkins on a medical malpractice matter several years before her reported death.”
Clara leaned forward.
“What happened?”
“Your mother discovered that a private medical facility was falsifying patient records.”
“Why?”
Samuel glanced at Maximilian.
“Because some of those patients were being treated under false identities.”
Clara frowned.
“Criminals?”
“Some.”
“Who owned the clinic?”
“A holding company controlled by the Moretti organization.”
Clara looked at Maximilian.
He said nothing.
Samuel continued.
“Evelyn collected evidence that the clinic was being used to hide wounded men, falsify deaths, and move money through fraudulent insurance claims.”
Clara felt sick.
“My mother was going to report them?”
“Yes.”
“Then why didn't she?”
Samuel opened another document.
“Because someone threatened your father and you.”
Clara's eyes filled.
“She never told us.”
“She was trying to protect you.”
Maximilian leaned forward.
“What does Nicholas have to do with this?”
Samuel's expression darkened.
“Your brother discovered the same operation.”
A long silence followed.
“He was working with Evelyn to expose it.”
Maximilian stared.
“Nicholas was investigating the Morettis?”
“Not just the Morettis.”
Samuel looked directly at him.
“He suspected someone inside the Russo organization was helping them.”
Maximilian's jaw tightened.
“Who?”
“Evelyn never gave me a name.”
Clara looked between the men.
“Then what happened?”
Samuel slowly opened the final folder.
“Evelyn called me three days before the crash. She said she had evidence that could destroy both organizations.”
“Where is it?”
“I don't know.”
Clara stared at him.
“You're telling me my mother risked her life, disappeared, and nobody knows what she found?”
Samuel's expression softened.
“Not nobody.”
He reached into his briefcase and removed a small photograph.
It showed Evelyn standing outside a clinic.
Beside her was a young man with dark hair and a familiar face.
Clara looked at the photograph.
Then at Maximilian.
The resemblance was unmistakable.
“Nicholas.”
Maximilian nodded.
But Clara noticed something else.
Evelyn was holding a little girl's hand.
The child was perhaps four years old.
She had dark curls.
And a small crescent-shaped birthmark near her left eyebrow.
Clara touched the photograph.
“Who's the little girl?”
Samuel went silent.
Maximilian leaned closer.
“I've never seen her.”
Clara turned the photograph over.
There was a handwritten date.
And beneath it, a name.
ISABELLA.
Samuel closed his eyes.
“Your mother told me never to show you that picture.”
Clara looked up.
“Why?”
The old attorney's voice was barely audible.
“Because Isabella was the child Nicholas believed was his daughter.”
Maximilian stood abruptly.
“My brother had a daughter?”
Samuel nodded.
“And if she's alive, she's the only person who can legally inherit the trust Nicholas established before his death.”
Clara stared at the photograph.
“What trust?”
Samuel's expression became grave.
“A private trust containing evidence, property, and financial records that could expose the Moretti-Russo conspiracy.”
Maximilian gripped the back of his chair.
“Where is Isabella?”
Samuel hesitated.
Then said, “She disappeared the same night Evelyn supposedly died.”
Before anyone could respond, the townhouse doorbell rang.
Marco checked the security camera.
His expression changed.
“Boss.”
Maximilian turned.
“What?”
Marco looked toward Clara.
“There's a woman outside.”
“Who?”
Marco swallowed.
“She says she's Evelyn Jenkins.”
Clara rose so quickly her chair fell backward.
“Mom?”
Marco didn't move.
“There's something else.”
Maximilian narrowed his eyes.
The security chief turned the monitor toward them.
On the screen stood a woman in her fifties, wearing a dark coat.
Beside her was a teenage girl.
May you like
The girl had dark curls.
And a crescent-shaped birthmark above her eyebrow.
