Chapter 2 - The Name on the File
"You didn't bring me here to talk about art restoration," I said, breaking the silence that had settled thickly over the room.
Luca closed the heavy oak door behind us with a solid, echoing click that sounded entirely too much like a vault sealing shut. He walked slowly around the desk, his movements fluid and unhurried, carrying the coiled, effortless tension of a predator who didn't need to flex to remind you of his strength.
Instead of sitting behind the desk, he leaned against the edge of it, crossing his arms and looking down at me with an intensity that made it difficult to draw a full breath.
"No, Elena," he said, his deep voice vibrating quietly in the quiet room. "We aren't going to talk about paintings today. We're going to talk about how a girl from a foster system in Baton Rouge ended up rolling around in a titanium-alloy mobility frame designed exclusively for the pediatric ward of a clandestine medical research facility that burned to the ground twenty-two years ago."
The room seemed to tilt violently on its axis.
For a terrifying, disorienting second, the sound of the port outside—the distant hum of diesel engines and screech of metal—vanished completely, replaced by a sudden, high-pitched ringing in my ears.
"What did you just say?" I whispered, my fingers tightening automatically around the rubberized hand-rims of my wheels until my knuckles turned white.
"You heard me," Luca said softly, his gaze never wavering from my face. He reached out and tapped the corner of the manila folder resting on the mahogany desk. "That chair you're sitting in? It wasn't mass-produced, Elena. It was custom-milled in a private machine shop in Zurich for a specific project. A project my father funded before his company was liquidated and our family was nearly wiped out in what the police politely called a tragic warehouse fire."
"You're lying," I choked out, a cold defensive wall slamming down around my heart. "My name is Elena Vance. I grew up in state custody. My parents died in a car crash when I was three—or at least that's what the case files always said. I've lived with my legs like this since I can remember, and I built a quiet, honest life out of broken things because it was the only thing I knew how to do!"
"Your name isn't Vance," Luca said, his voice dropping to a harsh, gravelly register that left no room for argument. He picked up the manila folder, flipped it open, and slid a single sheet of heavy, yellowed cardstock across the desk toward my lap.
I looked down. My breath caught in my throat.
Tapered neatly at the top of the document was a birth certificate, aged and stamped with a seal I didn't recognize. The infant's name listed wasn't Elena Vance.
May you like
It was Elena De Santis.
And beneath it, listed as the father, was a name that made my blood run instantly cold: Matteo De Santis — Luca’s uncle, a man officially recorded as having died in the same mysterious fire that consumed the family empire two decades ago.
