Chapter 23 - The Split in the Family
The glass greenhouse felt like it was tilting on its axis.
*Dominic ordered that hit to kill Gabriel?*
I signed the question twice, my hands fumbling the movements because my mind refused to accept the geometry of what she was telling me. Reyes and Sterling had been arrested. We had exposed them at Lake Michigan. They were the ones who had sabotaged the docks and ordered the hit on Julian’s car.
Signora Rossi stepped closer to me, her fingers resting lightly against my forearm. Her touch was surprisingly firm, grounding me against the sudden rush of vertigo.
*Reyes was a vulture,* she signed, her expression tightening into cold disdain. *He took scraps from anyone who threw them. But Reyes didn't have the codes to the port security cameras. He didn't have the authority to pull the police patrol off Slip Nine that night. Only two men had that power: my husband, and my son.*
*Gabriel wouldn't kill his own family,* I signed back fiercely. I hated that I was defending him, but the past few weeks had shown me Gabriel’s fierce, almost obsessive loyalty to his code. He had bled on the gravel of Slip Nine to honor his word to my father.
Signora Rossi’s lips curved into a faint, tragic smile. *No. Gabriel would die for this family. That is his weakness. That is why his father chose to replace him.*
She walked over to an antique roll-top desk in the corner of the conservatory, pulled a small silver key from the chain around her neck, and unlocked the center drawer. Inside was an old leather-bound photograph album, its corners frayed with age. She didn't open the pages. She pulled a single yellowed telegraph receipt from the lining of the spine and handed it to me.
It was an international wire transfer receipt dated eight years ago. The originating account belonged to a holding firm in Zurich; the recipient account was an offshore shell company registered in the Cayman Islands under the name *A. Vance*.
"My father?" I whispered, reading the name aloud.
Signora Rossi shook her head firmly. She pointed to the signature line at the bottom. The cursive was unmistakable. It wasn't my father’s looping, unsteady scrawl. It was Julian’s neat, architectural lettering.
*Julian didn't steal the fifty million for himself,* she signed. *He funneled it through your father’s name so Dominic couldn't seize it without destroying Vance & Sons. Julian used your family’s legacy as a human shield.*
The room seemed to shrink. Julian hadn't just been a victim caught in the crossfire of Chicago’s underworld. He had stepped onto the board as a player. He had forged our father’s name on offshore accounts, betting our entire lives, our docks, and our freedom on a high-stakes shell game between an exiled father and an ambitious son.
"Where is Dominic now?" I asked, looking her straight in the eyes so she could read my lips.
Signora Rossi picked up the yellow note Julian had sent me, pointing her index finger directly at the brass key resting beside it.
*Locker 404 is not a storage unit,* she signed. *It is the access gate to Dry Dock Three in Rotterdam. That is where Dominic keeps his private freighter, the 'Caledonia.' If Julian is there, it means he has run out of places to hide. Dominic’s men have cornered him in the harbor.*
"Why send the key to me?" I asked, tears of frustration burning my eyelids. "Why not to Frankie? Why not to the Feds?"
Signora Rossi reached out and gently cupped my cheek with her palm. Her skin was cool, smelling of dried lavender and soil.
*Because Julian knows Gabriel loves you,* she signed simply.
The words struck me like a physical blow.
*Julian knows that as long as you are with Gabriel, Dominic cannot touch Vance & Sons without starting a war in Chicago that he cannot win,* she continued, her hands moving with heartbreaking precision. *Julian used you as his exit strategy six months ago, Maya. And he is using you again now.*
The conservatory door behind us clicked open.
I spun around, my heart leaping into my throat.
Gabriel stood in the doorway. He was still wearing his overcoat, rain dripping from the dark wool onto the marble threshold. His eyes were dark, shadowed with exhaustion and an intensity that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. Behind him, two of his personal enforcers stood in the hallway like stone pillars.
His gaze swept from me to his mother, then down to the yellow paper and the brass key sitting on the potting bench.
"You should have told me at the slip, Maya," Gabriel said, his voice flat, devoid of the warmth he had shown at Il Canto. "You shouldn't have come to my mother."
"Gabriel—" I started, stepping in front of the bench to block his view.
"Don't," he cut me off, walking forward until he was standing less than three feet away. He didn't look at the paper; he looked directly into my eyes. "My terminal manager in Rotterdam just called me. A man matching Julian’s description was spotted near the customs gate two hours ago. He was wounded. And he was asking for clearance to board the *Caledonia*."
He paused, his jaw tightening until the skin over his cheekbones went pale.
"My father’s ship," Gabriel whispered. "The ship I was told sank off the coast of Ireland nine years ago."
He reached out, his fingers brushing against mine as he picked up the brass key from the bench. He held it up to the gray light filtering through the glass ceiling.
"You knew," Gabriel said, looking over my shoulder at his mother. His voice cracked with a fury so deep it sounded like stone grinding against stone. "All these years. You let me bury an empty box."
Signora Rossi didn't flinch. She lifted her hands, her gestures calm, majestic, and unapologetic: *I buried a monster so my son could become a man. But you are still his son, Gabriel. And the monster is calling you home.*
Gabriel stared at his mother’s hands. For a second, the cold, untouchable boss of the Rossi family vanished, replaced by a shattered son standing in the ruins of his own history.
Then, his phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, glanced at the display, and his entire posture hardened into steel.
May you like
"We have six hours before the direct flight to Amsterdam," Gabriel said, turning his back on his mother and looking straight at me. "Pack your passport, Maya. We’re going to find out whose blood is really on that ground."
***
