Chapter 3 - THE SCAR
I stared at the faded Polaroid.
The man in the picture—Vanessa’s father—had the same sharp jawline and icy blue eyes as the woman who had just slapped me. But it was the sheer terror on my father’s young face that made my stomach twist into knots.
“I don’t understand,” I whispered, pulling Grace closer to my chest. She was resting her head against me, exhausted by the night’s chaos. “The Romano family always said my father was a traitor. They said he stole from the family business and ran away in the middle of the night.”
Vincent set the photograph down on the heavy mahogany desk. He braced his hands on the edge, leaning over the scattered letters.
“That’s what my grandfather believed,” Vincent said, his voice thick with repressed anger. “The safe was emptied. The rubies were gone. And Matteo was missing. My father… my father searched for him for years. He never believed Matteo would betray them.”
“He didn’t,” I said fiercely. “My father is the most honorable man I’ve ever known.”
Vincent looked at me, really looked at me. His gaze traced the tired lines around my eyes, the cheap fabric of my uniform, and the scuffed shoes on my feet.
“If he didn’t betray us, Hannah, why did he run?” Vincent asked. “And why did he hide you from us?”
I looked down at my hands. They were trembling.
“Because he knew if he stayed, they would kill him. And if he ever reached out to the Romanos, Vanessa’s family would find out he was still alive.”
Vincent stood up straight, pacing the length of the study. The tattoos on his hands flexed as he clenched his fists.
“Vanessa’s family, the Carltons, were our biggest rivals back then,” Vincent muttered, piecing the puzzle together aloud. “But they were losing. They were going bankrupt. Suddenly, after Matteo disappeared, they had millions in capital. They bought up half the city’s shipping ports.”
“With the money they forced my father to steal,” I finished for him.
Vincent stopped pacing. He looked at the door, then back at me.
“Why didn’t he just go to my grandfather? Giuseppe would have protected him.”
I let out a bitter, hollow laugh.
“Protect him? Mr. Romano, your grandfather is the one who ordered the hit.”
Vincent froze. “What?”
“Vanessa’s father didn’t just force Matteo to steal the money. He framed him. He planted falsified ledgers in your grandfather’s desk. He made it look like Matteo was selling Romano secrets to the feds. Giuseppe didn’t wait for an explanation. He sent his men to handle it.”
Vincent shook his head, denial flashing in his dark eyes. “No. My grandfather loved Matteo like a second son. He wouldn’t have ordered a hit without proof.”
“He had proof! Forged proof, but it was enough,” I pleaded, desperate for him to believe me. “My father told me he barely escaped the estate that night. He spent the next twenty years looking over his shoulder, terrified that Giuseppe’s men would finally catch him.”
The heavy silence in the room was broken only by the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner.
Vincent walked over to a crystal decanter, poured a glass of amber liquid, and downed it in one swallow.
“Where is he now, Hannah?” Vincent asked softly. “Where is Matteo?”
Tears pricked the corners of my eyes.
“I don’t know.”
Vincent slammed the glass down on the tray. “Don’t lie to me. You came here tonight. You brought the key. You must know where he is.”
“I don’t!” I cried out, covering Grace’s ears so the shouting wouldn't wake her fully. “Eight years ago, we were living in a tiny apartment in Chicago. We had new names. We were safe. But then… someone found us.”
Vincent stepped closer, the anger draining from his face, replaced by a sharp, focused concern.
“Who found you?”
I took a shaky breath.
“I don’t know who they were. But they didn’t come to talk. They came to finish the job.”
I gently shifted Grace off my lap, letting her lie back against the plush leather sofa. I unbuttoned the cuffs of my cheap white uniform shirt and slowly rolled up my left sleeve.
Vincent approached, his eyes falling to my arm.
Starting from my elbow and stretching all the way to my shoulder was a massive, jagged burn scar. The skin was mottled and tight, a permanent reminder of the worst night of my life.
Vincent reached out, his fingers hovering just inches over the ruined skin. He didn’t touch it, but I could feel the heat radiating from his hand.
“They didn’t just drive him out,” I whispered, tears finally spilling over my cheeks. “They tried to burn us alive.”
Vincent’s jaw tightened so hard I thought his teeth might shatter.
“Who set the fire, Hannah?”
“I never saw their faces. I was eighteen. My mother… she didn’t make it out. My father dragged me through the flames. We ran into the woods. He told me he had to lead them away from me.”
I wiped my face with the back of my hand.
“He gave me a backpack with cash, the silver key, and a set of instructions. He told me to disappear. He promised he would find me when it was safe. But he never came back.”
Vincent stared at my scar for a long time.
Then, he did something I didn't expect. He gently gripped my wrist, pulled my sleeve down, and carefully buttoned the cuff back into place, covering the painful memory.
“You’re safe now,” he said, his voice a low, gravelly vow. “No one will ever hurt you or your daughter again. You have my word as a Romano.”
A small, cynical part of me wanted to laugh. His family’s name was the reason my mother was dead and my father was missing. But looking into Vincent’s eyes, I saw a fierce, uncompromising loyalty that reminded me so much of my dad.
Suddenly, Grace stirred on the couch.
She sat up, rubbing her sleepy eyes. From her little pocket, something small and wooden slipped out, clattering onto the hardwood floor.
Vincent bent down and picked it up.
It was a handmade wooden rosary. The beads were irregularly shaped, whittled from scrap wood, but the cross at the end was carved with intricate, exquisite detail.
Vincent stared at the rosary, his face draining of color all over again.
“Where did she get this?” he choked out.
“My father carved it for me when I was a little girl,” I explained. “I gave it to Grace when she was born.”
Vincent shook his head, stepping backward as if the rosary had burned him.
“No,” he whispered. “No, that’s not possible.”
“What is it?” I asked, standing up in alarm.
He looked at me, his eyes wide with a terrifying realization.
“Hannah… my father gave me a rosary exactly like this on the night he died. He said a monk carved it for him on his deathbed at a charity hospital in Chicago.”
My blood ran cold.
May you like
Vincent took a step toward me, holding the wooden cross up to the dim light.
“My father died eight years ago in Chicago, Hannah. On the exact same night you were attacked.”
