Chapter 7 - The Patriarch's Shadow
The silence that followed was heavier than the Chicago rain beating against the courtyard glass.
Vincent Caruso looked older than he had in the family portraits scattered throughout the mansion—his hair was completely silver, his face lined with the cruel geometry of a man who had spent a lifetime trading human lives for real estate portfolios. But his eyes were terrifyingly sharp, cold, and entirely devoid of surprise.
He didn't look at Dominic first. His gaze drifted past his nephew, sliding over the rearranged furniture, the shifted Persian rug, and landing squarely on the open wainscoting panel behind us.
A slow, chilling smile touched Vincent’s lips.
"Well," Vincent murmured, his voice smooth as old silk. "It seems hiring an agency to manage the estate was a mistake, Dominic. I told Rosa that keeping outsiders in the house would only invite rats into the pantry."
Dominic didn't flinch. He stepped forward, putting himself squarely between Vincent’s line of sight and the hidden alcove. "You're a long way from Florida, Uncle. Especially for a man who officially retired from the syndicate board five years ago."
"Retirement is a luxury for men who don't leave loose ends," Vincent replied smoothly, taking a slow step into the parlor. His two guards fanned out instantly, their suppressed weapons leveled with mechanical precision. "And you, my ambitious nephew, have spent the last week digging into graves that should have stayed flooded."
"Is that why you erased Elena?" Dominic’s voice rose, cutting through the room like a jagged blade. "Is that why you locked a child away in a concrete box and forged adoption papers to cover your tracks? Because she knew about the syndicate accounts?"
Vincent’s smile vanished. His face darkened into a mask of pure venom.
"Elena was weak," Vincent spat. "She threatened to hand our entire financial foundation over to federal prosecutors because she felt a sudden surge of maternal guilt. We didn't kill her, Dominic. We simply... relocated her. And her precious daughter."
My breath hitched in my throat. I looked down at the heavy adoption decree clutched in my trembling hands—the document bearing my mother's name, signed in November 1984.
May you like
"My mother," I whispered, the words tearing past my lips before I could stop them. "You didn't relocate her. You sold her off, didn't you?"
Vincent’s cold eyes snapped toward me for the first time, locking onto my face with a look of sudden, horrific recognition.
