Chapter 6 - THE LIES WE BELIEVE
Norah backed away from the door, clutching the gold bracelet in one hand and Leo's trembling fingers in the other. "Open it, or I shoot the lock," Vincenzo’s voice drifted through the heavy wood. Norah looked wildly around the study. There was nowhere left to run. The windows were barred on this side of the house. Suddenly, a deafening blast echoed from the hallway. Not from Vincenzo. A heavy thud followed, then the sound of dragging footsteps. "Norah!" Dominic’s voice shouted through the wood. Norah practically threw herself at the door, unlocking the deadbolt. Dominic stumbled inside. His white shirt was soaked in blood at the shoulder. He quickly turned and locked the heavy door again, shoving a heavy wooden chair under the handle. He leaned against the wall, breathing heavily, his gun still gripped tight. "Frank?" Norah asked, her voice cracking. "Alive. Barely," Dominic grunted, wincing as he pressed his hand to his shoulder. "He bought us time. Vincenzo’s men are falling back, but they cut the phone lines. We're trapped until my secondary crew arrives." Norah didn't move to help him. She stood frozen in the center of the room, holding up the DNA test and the bluebird bracelet. Dominic looked at her hands. The adrenaline in his eyes shifted into a heavy, agonizing guilt. "You knew," Norah whispered, tears finally spilling over. "You knew who I was. You brought me here. Everything—the job, the agency, the salary—it was a trap." "It wasn't a trap," Dominic breathed, sliding down the wall to sit on the floor. "It was a test." "A test? You sick son of a bitch, I was taking care of your dying father! I wiped his mouth while you treated him like garbage!" "Because I thought he killed her!" Dominic suddenly shouted, his voice cracking with decades of repressed agony. The room went silent. Leo covered his ears. Dominic looked at the floor, his chest heaving. "I thought my father murdered my mother," Dominic confessed, the words tasting like poison. "Growing up, the whispers in the family were that Rosa was a rat, and Salvatore took care of it. I hated him for it. I built an empire trying to outrun his shadow, punishing him every day since his stroke." Norah stared at him, the pieces violently clicking into place. "Three weeks ago," Dominic continued, his voice softer, "my men tracked down a federal pension payout that had been going to a woman in Brooklyn for thirty years. Rosa Marchetti. I realized she had lived. She had survived him. But she was dead... and she had left behind a granddaughter." "So you brought me here." "I needed to see if you knew," Dominic said, looking up at her, his eyes shining with unshed tears. "I needed to see if you carried her secrets. If you were a threat. Or if... if you were family." Norah looked at the bluebird bracelet. "She bought two of these," Dominic whispered. "One for me when I was born. And one she kept. She must have given it to you." "We're cousins," Norah said, the reality crushing her. "No," a new voice rasped from the shadows of the servant passage door. Norah and Dominic both jumped. Salvatore’s wheelchair sat in the darkness of the hidden corridor. He had wheeled himself through the passage with his one good arm. He was exhausted, pale as a ghost, but his eyes burned with fierce clarity. In his lap was the iron box. He managed to lift his good hand, pointing a trembling finger at Norah. Then, slowly, agonizingly, Salvatore forced his paralyzed vocal cords to form actual words. "Not... cousins." The old man gasped for air. "You... are... my... daughter."
