PART 2.
“Can you hug me for five minutes?”
Six armed men stood frozen in the marble hallway.
Sofie Bennett kept both little arms raised toward Lorenzo Duca, Mr.
Buttons tucked beneath one elbow.
“Because I’ve never had a papa hug before,” she had told him.
Then, with the devastating honesty only a three-year-old could possess, she added:
“And you look like you need one too.”
For several long seconds, Lorenzo Duca did absolutely nothing.
Men who had watched him order beatings without blinking now exchanged nervous glances.
One of them, Matteo Russo, had known Lorenzo for almost twenty years.
He had seen him bleeding from a gunshot wound and still calmly finish a phone call.
He had once watched Lorenzo stare down three armed men while holding an empty pistol.
But Matteo had never seen the boss look frightened.
Until now.
Lorenzo slowly lowered his eyes to the child.
Sofie was still waiting.
No fear.
No hesitation.
Just trust.
It was the most dangerous thing anyone had ever offered him.
His right hand twitched at his side.
Then Lorenzo did something that made every man in that hallway forget how to breathe.
He knelt.
The expensive fabric of his black trousers touched the marble floor.
Sofie smiled.
Lorenzo opened his arms awkwardly, as though performing an action he had only seen other people do.
The little girl immediately stepped forward.
And wrapped herself around his neck.
Lorenzo went rigid.
Sofie smelled faintly of strawberry shampoo and crayons.
Her tiny fingers curled into the back of his jacket.
Mr.
Buttons became trapped between them, one floppy rabbit ear brushing Lorenzo's jaw.
For a moment, Lorenzo's arms remained suspended uselessly in the air.
Then very slowly, one settled across Sofie's back.
The other cradled the back of her head.
Something inside him cracked.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
It simply gave way.
A door locked for thirty years opened without permission.
And suddenly Lorenzo remembered being seven years old.
A kitchen in Cicero.
Rain striking the windows.
His mother humming while she made coffee.
Her hands smoothing his hair after his father had shouted at him.
The memory hit so violently he almost let go.
Instead, his arms tightened around Sofie.
The hallway disappeared.
The guards disappeared.
Chicago disappeared.
There was only the child holding onto him as though he belonged to something other than violence.
Matteo looked away first.
Because there were some things a man should not witness.
Sofie whispered against Lorenzo's shoulder.
“You're very good at hugging.”
Lorenzo swallowed.
“I've had very little practice.”
“That's okay.”
Her tiny hand patted his back.
“You can practice on me.”
One of the guards coughed suspiciously.
Lorenzo's eyes snapped toward him.
The man immediately stared at the ceiling.
Sofie leaned back.
“Are five minutes done?”
Lorenzo glanced at his watch.
“Not yet.”
“How many?”
“Three minutes and forty-two seconds.”
Sofie considered this.
“That's a lot.”
“It is.”
She rested her cheek against his shoulder again.
Lorenzo didn't check the watch after that.
Which was why nobody noticed the five minutes becoming seven.
Then nine.
Then eleven.
That was how Clara found them.
She came racing around the corner, pale with terror.
“Sofie!”
Her shoes skidded against the marble.
Every guard turned.
Clara stopped so abruptly she almost fell.
Her daughter was in the arms of Lorenzo Duca.
The man whose house came with locked rooms, security cameras, armed guards, and rules nobody explained twice.
The man employees whispered about only when they were certain nobody was listening.
Clara's blood turned cold.
“Oh my God.”
Sofie looked over Lorenzo's shoulder.
“Mommy!”
Clara rushed forward.
“I told you not to leave the staff room.”
Sofie frowned.
“I got curious.”
“You promised me.”
“I forgot.”
Clara closed her eyes.
Of course she had.
Three-year-olds considered promises binding only until something interesting appeared.
Clara looked at Lorenzo.
“Mr.
Duca, I'm so sorry.”
Lorenzo stood, still holding Sofie.
The sight somehow made Clara more nervous.
“You brought a child into my house without permission.”
His voice had returned to its usual calm.
That frightened Clara more than shouting would have.
“I had no choice.
My babysitter canceled.
I couldn't miss work.”
“You could have called.”
“I thought you'd fire me.”
“I still might.”
Clara's face drained of color.
Lorenzo noticed.
So did Sofie.
The little girl immediately wrapped both arms around Lorenzo's neck again.
“You can't fire Mommy.”
“Sofie,” Clara whispered.
Lorenzo raised an eyebrow.
“And why is that?”
“Because we need food.”
Clara wanted the floor to swallow her.
Sofie continued.
“And Mommy says rent is a monster that eats all our money.”
Matteo turned away, shoulders shaking.
Lorenzo gave him a warning look.
The shaking stopped instantly.
Sofie leaned closer to Lorenzo as though sharing classified information.
“And our radiator makes scary noises.”
Clara covered her face.
“Sofie, please.”
“What?”
Sofie asked innocently.
Lorenzo studied Clara.
Her faded uniform.
The shoes repaired at the soles.
The exhaustion hidden beneath her eyes.
He had noticed those things before.
He simply hadn't cared enough to ask why.
Until now.
“Where do you live?”
Clara stiffened.
“West Side.”
“Where?”
She gave him the street reluctantly.
Something changed in Matteo's expression.
Lorenzo noticed immediately.
“What?”
Matteo hesitated.
“Nothing.”
“That wasn't a suggestion.”
Matteo glanced toward Clara and Sofie.
Then lowered his voice.
“Boss, that building's owned by Moretti Holdings.”
Lorenzo's expression cooled.
Clara looked between them.
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing you need to worry about,” Lorenzo said.
But Matteo knew better.
Moretti Holdings was not merely a property company.
It belonged to Victor Moretti.
And Victor Moretti had spent the last eighteen months trying to break Lorenzo's control over Chicago's northern operations.
Clara had unknowingly been living in enemy territory.
Lorenzo looked down at Sofie.
The girl had begun playing with the button on his shirt.
“Mommy says buttons keep people together,” she announced.
Lorenzo stared at her.
“Does she?”
“That's why Mr.
Buttons is called Mr.
Buttons.”
She held up the rabbit.
Only then did Lorenzo really examine it.
The rabbit was ancient.
One glass eye was scratched.
The fabric around its stomach had been repaired several times.
A large brown button had been sewn over the center of its chest.
Something about that button caught Lorenzo's attention.
He couldn't explain why.
It looked old.
Not antique.
Familiar.
Lorenzo reached toward it.
“May I?”
Sofie clutched the rabbit tighter.
“No.”
He withdrew immediately.
“All right.”
Clara blinked.
She suspected there were grown men buried somewhere for telling Lorenzo Duca no.
Yet Sofie had done it twice in ten minutes and remained completely alive.
More remarkably, Lorenzo seemed to accept it.
Sofie yawned.
The emotional excitement had exhausted her.
Lorenzo handed her carefully to Clara.
The moment Clara took her daughter, Sofie murmured:
“He needs more practice.”
“With what?”
“Hugs.”
Clara's eyes flicked toward Lorenzo.
For the first time in years, the feared man looked almost embarrassed.
“Your daughter talks too much.”
Clara couldn't help herself.
“She gets that from me.”
A tiny silence followed.
Then Lorenzo's mouth moved.
Not quite a smile.
But almost.
“Take the afternoon off.”
Clara's brief relief vanished.
“Am I fired?”
“No.”
“Then—”
“Paid.”
She stared at him.
Lorenzo looked at Matteo.
“Have a car take them home.”
“I can take the bus.”
“No.”
Clara bristled.
“I've taken the bus my entire life.”
“And you'll survive the disappointment of missing it once.”
Despite herself, Clara nearly smiled.
Nearly.
Twenty minutes later, she and Sofie were riding west in a black SUV that cost more than Clara's apartment building.
Sofie fell asleep almost immediately.
Mr.
Buttons rested beneath her chin.
Clara watched the city pass outside the tinted window.
Something about the afternoon felt unreal.
She had expected to lose her job.
Instead, the most frightening man she had ever met had held her daughter like she mattered.
That was dangerous.
Kindness from men like Lorenzo Duca always came with a price.
At least, that was what life had taught Clara.
Back at the estate, Lorenzo stood in his office staring through the windows.
Matteo entered quietly.
“You want the Bennett woman checked?”
Lorenzo didn't turn.
“Everything.”
Matteo nodded.
“Background, family, finances?”
“Everything means everything.”
Matteo studied him.
“You think she's connected to Moretti?”
“No.”
“You sound certain.”
“People who lie professionally don't wear shoes held together by glue.”
Matteo allowed himself a faint smile.
Lorenzo continued.
“But her building bothers me.”
“And the rabbit?”
That made Lorenzo turn.
“You noticed.”
“I notice what you notice.”
“The button.”
Matteo frowned.
“What about it?”
“I've seen it before.”
“Where?”
Lorenzo stared into nothing.
“I don't know.”
But that was a lie.
He did know.
Not consciously.
Not yet.
His body knew.
That button had opened a door somewhere inside his memory.
And behind it, something ugly was waiting.
Three hours later, Matteo returned.
This time he wasn't smiling.
He carried a thin folder.
Lorenzo sat behind his desk.
“Tell me.”
“Clara Bennett.
Twenty-eight.
Born in Illinois.
Mother died when Clara was nineteen.
No criminal record.
No significant debt except medical bills and overdue utilities.
Works two jobs when she can.”
“Sofie's father?”
Matteo paused.
“That gets complicated.”
Lorenzo looked up.
“Complicated how?”
“There isn't one listed on the birth certificate.”
“That isn't complicated.”
“She was receiving monthly payments for about eighteen months after Sofie was born.”
“From whom?”
“Shell corporation.”
Lorenzo's expression sharpened.
“Which one?”
“Bellador Consulting.”
Silence.
Lorenzo's fingers stopped moving.
Matteo continued carefully.
“Bellador was dissolved two years ago.”
“I know what Bellador was.”
Matteo nodded.
Everyone in Lorenzo's inner circle knew.
Bellador Consulting had been one of several companies used by Lorenzo's older brother, Gabriel.
Gabriel Duca had been dead for four years.
Killed when his car exploded beneath an overpass.
The murder had never been avenged because nobody had ever determined who ordered it.
Lorenzo stared at Matteo.
“Why was my brother sending Clara Bennett money?”
“We don't know.”
“You checked dates?”
“Twice.”
Lorenzo stood.
The room seemed to shrink around him.
“When did the payments begin?”
“Three weeks after Sofie was born.”
“And stop?”
“Six days after Gabriel died.”
Neither man spoke.
Outside, October rain began tapping the windows.
Lorenzo felt something cold settle beneath his ribs.
“How old is Sofie?”
“Three.”
“My brother died four years ago.”
“I know.”
“So Gabriel wasn't her father.”
“No.”
“Then why was he paying?”
Matteo placed another paper on the desk.
“There was something else.”
Lorenzo looked down.
A hospital record.
Clara Bennett.
Emergency admission.
Four years earlier.
Multiple injuries.
Lorenzo's jaw tightened.
“Who did that?”
“The report says she refused to identify the attacker.”
“Find out.”
“I already started.”
“Good.”
Matteo didn't leave.
Lorenzo noticed.
“What?”
“There was one person listed as her emergency contact.”
Lorenzo's pulse slowed.
“Who?”
Matteo slid a photocopy across the desk.
Lorenzo read the name.
Once.
Twice.
Then a third time.
ELENA DUCA.
His sister.
His dead sister.
For a moment, Lorenzo could hear nothing.
Elena had died twelve years ago.
At least that was what he had been told.
A body had been identified after a warehouse fire.
Their father had handled the funeral privately.
Lorenzo had never seen the remains.
He had been twenty-six and already knee-deep in a war that left no room for questions.
Now his dead sister's name was appearing on a hospital record eight years after her supposed death.
“That isn't possible.”
Matteo said nothing.
“It's a mistake.”
“Maybe.”
“You don't believe that.”
“No.”
Lorenzo's hand closed around the paper.
“Where did Clara meet Elena?”
“We don't know.”
“Does Clara know who I am?”
“Obviously she knows you're Lorenzo Duca.”
“You know what I mean.”
Matteo's expression hardened.
“That's what worries me.”
Across the city, Clara carried sleeping Sofie up three flights of stairs because the elevator had been broken for eleven days.
The apartment was cold.
Again.
Clara tucked Sofie beneath two blankets and knelt beside the radiator.
Nothing.
“Come on.”
She struck the metal pipe.
The radiator coughed once.
Then died.
Clara closed her eyes.
Wonderful.
She went to the kitchen.
Three envelopes waited on the counter.
Electricity.
Medical debt.
Rent.
She turned the final notice face down.
There was a knock at the door.
Clara froze.
Nobody visited.
Another knock came.
Three slow taps.
Her face changed.
Not fear.
Recognition.
She opened the door only two inches.
An elderly woman stood in the hallway.
Gray coat.
Gray hair.
Sharp eyes.
“Mrs.
Alvarez?”
The woman pushed a folded envelope through the gap.
“This was left downstairs.”
“For me?”
“No name.”
Clara accepted it.
Mrs.
Alvarez crossed herself.
“Don't open strange things around your baby.”
Then she walked away.
Clara locked the door.
The envelope contained no letter.
Only a photograph.
Clara looked at it.
And nearly dropped it.
The picture had been taken that afternoon.
Sofie.
Inside Lorenzo Duca's arms.
In the marble hallway.
Someone had photographed them inside the estate.
On the back, four words had been written.
HE KNOWS ABOUT HER.
Clara stopped breathing.
“No.”
Her hands began trembling.
“No, no, no.”
She rushed to Sofie's room.
The little girl remained asleep.
Safe.
Clara grabbed a suitcase from beneath the bed.
She began throwing clothes inside.
Shirts.
Pants.
Sofie's medicine.
Mr.
Buttons—
Her hand stopped.
Mr.
Buttons wasn't in the bed.
“Sofie?”
The little girl stirred.
“Baby, where's your rabbit?”
Sofie's eyes fluttered open.
“Mr.
Buttons?”
“Yes.”
She looked around sleepily.
Then sat up.
“He's gone.”
Clara's stomach dropped.
“Did you have him in the car?”
Sofie nodded.
“Did you bring him upstairs?”
Another sleepy nod.
“I think.”
Clara searched beneath the bed.
Behind the dresser.
Inside the bathroom.
Nothing.
Then she saw something on the floor near the apartment door.
A single strand of white cotton.
Stuffing.
Clara's heartbeat thundered.
She opened the door.
More stuffing lay in the hallway.
A trail.
Leading toward the stairs.
“Sofie, stay here.”
Clara followed it.
Second floor.
More stuffing.
First floor.
She reached the lobby.
The front door stood slightly open.
Rain blew across the tiles.
Outside, beneath the broken streetlamp, Mr.
Buttons lay in a puddle.
Clara ran to him.
The rabbit had been cut open from throat to stomach.
Stuffing spilled across the pavement.
Its brown chest button was gone.
Clara stared.
Behind her, tires screamed.
A black sedan accelerated down the street.
She caught only the last three numbers of the plate.
Then it disappeared.
Clara grabbed the rabbit and ran upstairs.
She locked every lock.
Dragged a chair under the handle.
Her shaking hands dialed the first number she could think of.
At the Duca estate, Lorenzo's phone rang at 9:17 p.m.
He almost ignored the unfamiliar number.
Then answered.
“Duca.”
Silence.
“Hello?”
A woman's voice.
Terrified.
“Mr.
Duca?”
Lorenzo stood immediately.
“Clara?”
“They know.”
Every muscle in his body tightened.
“Who knows?”
“I don't know.”
“What happened?”
Her breathing became uneven.
“Someone followed us.
There was a photograph.
Someone took Mr.
Buttons.”
Lorenzo looked at Matteo.
“What photograph?”
“Of you holding Sofie.”
Ice entered Lorenzo's veins.
That hallway had no blind spots.
There were only seventeen people with access to the estate's internal camera system.
Which meant one of his own people had betrayed him.
“What happened to the rabbit?”
Clara began crying.
Quietly.
“They cut him open.”
Lorenzo's voice became deadly calm.
“Clara.
Listen to me.”
“They took the button.”
That stopped him.
“What?”
“The brown button on his chest.”
Lorenzo felt the strange memory return.
Harder this time.
A woman's hand.
A brown button.
A needle.
Someone whispering:
If anything ever happens to me, this will tell you who did it.
Lorenzo gripped the desk.
“Where did Sofie get that rabbit?”
Clara didn't answer.
“Clara.”
Her voice broke.
“It belonged to Elena.”
Matteo saw Lorenzo's face change.
Not anger.
Something worse.
“Say that again.”
“Elena gave me the rabbit.”
Lorenzo's voice dropped almost to a whisper.
“My sister?”
Clara started crying harder.
“Yes.”
The truth crashed through twelve years of lies.
Elena had been alive.
And Clara had known her.
“How long?”
“Lorenzo—”
“How long was my sister alive?”
“Until four years ago.”
His knees nearly failed him.
Eight years.
His sister had lived eight years after the Duca family buried an empty coffin.
“Why didn't she contact me?”
“She was afraid.”
“Of me?”
“No.”
The answer came immediately.
Lorenzo closed his eyes.
“Then who?”
Clara hesitated.
And that hesitation gave him the answer before she spoke.
“Your father.”
The room became silent.
Carlo Duca had been dead for six years.
A stroke, everyone said.
Natural causes.
Lorenzo had stood beside his hospital bed when his heart stopped.
“Explain.”
“Elena discovered something about your family.
Something she wasn't supposed to know.”
“What?”
“I don't know everything.
She never told me everything.”
“And the rabbit?”
“She made me promise to keep it.
She said if anyone ever came asking for the button, I should run.”
Lorenzo looked toward the window.
Rain streaked the black glass.
“Why?”
“I don't know.”
“You're lying.”
“I'm protecting my daughter.”
Lorenzo's expression hardened.
“Those may now be the same thing.”
Silence.
Then Clara whispered:
“There was something inside the button.”
Lorenzo turned.
“What?”
“Elena called it insurance.”
“What kind?”
“I don't know.”
“Where are you?”
“My apartment.”
“Lock the door.”
“I already did.”
“Don't open it for anyone except me.”
“You?”
“Yes.”
“Mr.
Duca—”
The line went dead.
Lorenzo was already moving.
“Matteo.”
Matteo reached for his gun.
“I'm with you.”
“Bring eight men.”
“Ten.”
Lorenzo didn't argue.
They reached Clara's building in seventeen minutes.
Too late.
The apartment door was open.
The lock had been smashed.
Lorenzo entered with his weapon drawn.
“Clara!”
No answer.
The living room was empty.
Kitchen empty.
Bedroom empty.
Then Lorenzo heard something.
A tiny sound.
From inside the closet.
He opened it.
Sofie sat curled behind a laundry basket.
Her cheeks were wet.
Mr.
Buttons, torn open and filthy, was clutched against her chest.
Lorenzo dropped his gun onto the bed.
“Sofie.”
She threw herself at him.
He lifted her.
“Where's your mother?”
“Bad men took Mommy.”
Lorenzo's eyes closed briefly.
“Did they hurt you?”
She shook her head.
“Mommy put me in the closet.”
Matteo appeared in the doorway.
“Boss.”
Lorenzo looked at him.
Matteo held up a phone.
Clara's.
On its screen was a message.
UNKNOWN NUMBER.
BRING THE GIRL TO PIER 19 BEFORE MIDNIGHT.
COME ALONE.
OR HER MOTHER DIES.
Lorenzo read it twice.
Then looked at Sofie.
She was trembling in his arms.
“Is Mommy coming back?”
Lorenzo stared toward the broken door.
“Yes.”
It was not reassurance.
It was a promise.
And men had died over smaller promises from Lorenzo Duca.
Matteo lowered his voice.
“They want Sofie.”
“No.”
“That's what the message says.”
“No.
They want something she has.”
His eyes dropped toward Mr.
Buttons.
The torn rabbit.
The missing button.
Then Lorenzo noticed something.
A second seam.
Almost invisible.
Running along the rabbit's left ear.
He touched it.
Something hard rested inside.
Lorenzo carefully opened the damaged stitching.
A tiny object dropped into his palm.
A brass key.
Old.
Small.
A number had been engraved into it.
Matteo stared.
“What does it open?”
Before Lorenzo could answer, Sofie reached for it.
“Auntie Lena's key.”
Lorenzo froze.
“What did you say?”
Sofie blinked at him.
“Auntie Lena's key.”
His heart stopped.
“Who told you that?”
“Mommy.”
“Have you seen this key before?”
Sofie nodded.
Lorenzo's voice became very quiet.
“When?”
The little girl pointed at the rabbit.
“Mommy takes it out sometimes.”
“And what does she do with it?”
“She goes to the train station.”
Matteo inhaled sharply.
Chicago Union Station had hundreds of rental lockers and secured storage services over the years.
Locker 317.
Lorenzo looked at the clock.
10:06 p.m.
Less than two hours before midnight.
“Matteo.”
“I'll send men to the station.”
“No.”
Matteo stared.
“We don't know who's watching.”
“We also don't know what's inside.”
“Exactly.”
Lorenzo slipped the key into his pocket.
Sofie touched his face.
“Are you going to get Mommy?”
“Yes.”
“I want to come.”
“No.”
Her lower lip trembled.
“You said Mommy comes back.”
“She will.”
“You promise?”
Lorenzo hesitated.
Promises were liabilities.
Promises were weaknesses.
Promises gave fate something to break.
Then he looked into Sofie's eyes.
“I promise.”
She wrapped her arms around him.
“Five-minute hug?”
Lorenzo glanced at the clock.
“We don't have five minutes.”
Sofie looked wounded.
Something inside Lorenzo twisted.
He held her closer.
“Three.”
She considered that.
“Four.”
Matteo's eyebrows rose.
Lorenzo sighed.
“Four.”
Sofie rested her head on his shoulder.
While Lorenzo held her, Matteo's phone vibrated.
He checked it.
His face changed.
“Boss.”
Lorenzo looked over.
Matteo turned the screen toward him.
Security had identified the black sedan seen outside Clara's apartment.
The plate ended in 417.
Registered to a company called Northstar Transport.
A company controlled by Victor Moretti.
But that wasn't what disturbed Matteo.
“There was another vehicle near the building.”
He swiped to a surveillance image.
A silver Mercedes.
Lorenzo stared at the grainy photograph.
He recognized it.
Everyone in the Duca organization would.
It belonged to Father Dominic Russo.
The priest who had heard the Duca family's confessions for thirty years.
The priest who had officiated Elena's funeral.
The priest who had stood beside Lorenzo when Gabriel was buried.
And according to the timestamp, Father Dominic had arrived at Clara's building eleven minutes before she was kidnapped.
Lorenzo's expression went completely still.
Matteo whispered:
“This goes back further than Moretti.”
Lorenzo looked down at Sofie.
At Mr.
Buttons.
At the old brass key hidden in his pocket.
Then Sofie lifted her head.
“There was a man in Mommy's room.”
Lorenzo stiffened.
“What man?”
“Before the bad men.”
“What did he look like?”
Sofie thought carefully.
“He had white hair.”
Father Dominic had white hair.
Lorenzo felt rage rising.
“Did he say anything?”
Sofie nodded.
“What?”
“He told Mommy he was sorry.”
Lorenzo and Matteo exchanged a look.
Then Sofie added something neither man expected.
“He said you were never supposed to find out.”
Lorenzo's blood ran cold.
“Find out what?”
Sofie hugged the rabbit.
“I don't know.”
Then she remembered.
“Oh.”
“What?”
“The man called Mommy something funny.”
Lorenzo leaned closer.
“What did he call her?”
Sofie smiled innocently.
“Elena.”
Silence consumed the room.
Lorenzo stared at Clara's daughter.
No.
Impossible.
“Elena was my sister.”
Sofie nodded.
“I know.”
Lorenzo stopped breathing.
“How do you know that?”
“Mommy told me.”
The world seemed to tilt beneath him.
“Sofie.”
His voice was barely audible now.
“What is your mommy's real name?”
The little girl looked confused.
Then answered with the simple certainty of a child revealing something everyone else should already understand.
“Elena Clara Duca.”
Matteo went pale.
Lorenzo could not move.
Clara Bennett had never existed.
The woman cleaning his house.
The woman he had spoken to for six weeks.
The woman raising Sofie alone.
His sister.
Alive.
Hiding directly beneath his roof.
And if Clara was Elena—
Lorenzo slowly looked at the three-year-old girl in his arms.
Sofie wasn't a stranger's child.
She was his niece.
Before he could speak, the phone on the bed rang.
UNKNOWN NUMBER.
Lorenzo answered.
A distorted voice came through.
“Now you understand.”
Lorenzo's eyes darkened.
“Where is my sister?”
A quiet laugh.
“At Pier 19.”
“If you've hurt her—”
“Oh, Lorenzo.”
The voice lost its distortion.
And Lorenzo recognized it.
Every trace of color disappeared from his face.
Because the man speaking was supposed to have been dead for four years.
“Bring the key,” Gabriel Duca said.
“Come alone.”
The call ended.
Matteo stared at him.
“Who was that?”
Lorenzo looked toward the rain-blackened window, holding Sofie tighter as everything he believed about his family collapsed around him.
“My brother.”
Matteo's face emptied.
Lorenzo reached for his gun.
“And apparently,” he said quietly, “the dead in my family have been very busy.”
…If you want to know what happened next, please type “YES” and like for more.
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Source: Stories of Destiny · Thao Thao
