Chapter 3 - The Secret Behind My Father’s Name
The phone slipped from my hand and hit the wooden floor.
The line went dead.
But the sound remained.
Click.
Open.
Click.
Closed.
The same gold lighter.
The same sound Noah Moretti made every time he was thinking.
Except this time...
it wasn't Noah holding it.
I looked at him.
He didn't move.
For the first time since I met him, Noah Moretti looked like a man who had just heard something he never wanted to hear.
"Who was it?" Paulie asked.
Noah ignored him.
His eyes stayed on mine.
"What did they say?"
I wanted to answer.
I wanted to tell him everything.
But anger stopped me.
Because my father had nothing to do with his world.
My father had spent thirty-two years cutting fabric, sewing buttons, and making strangers feel confident.
He wasn't a criminal.
He wasn't involved with powerful men.
He was just a tailor.
A good man.
A man who died believing he had left me a simple life.
"You knew him."
Noah's expression changed slightly.
That was enough.
I saw it.
A reaction.
A tiny one.
But I saw it.
"You knew my father."
The shop became silent.
Even Paulie stopped moving.
Noah looked toward the front window.
The rain had become heavier.
"I knew of him."
I laughed.
A short, bitter sound.
"No."
I stepped closer.
"You don't get to say that."
His eyes returned to mine.
"My father wasn't famous. He wasn't rich. He wasn't powerful."
"I know."
"Then why does someone threaten me using his name?"
Noah didn't answer.
That was becoming his worst habit.
He always had an answer.
Just never the one I needed.
I walked behind the counter and grabbed my father's old notebook.
The one I kept beneath the register.
The one filled with measurements and customer names.
I opened it.
"Look."
I pushed it toward Noah.
"This is my father's entire life."
He looked down.
Pages of handwriting.
Dates.
Orders.
Names.
Nothing dangerous.
Nothing secret.
Just a man's work.
"He made suits for everyone," I said.
"Doctors. Lawyers. Politicians."
I looked at him.
"People like you."
Noah's jaw tightened.
"Lyra."
"No."
My voice became sharper.
"I want the truth."
For several seconds, he said nothing.
Then he reached into his coat.
I immediately stepped back.
His eyes noticed.
A flash of disappointment crossed his face.
Only for a second.
Then he slowly pulled out a small photograph.
Not a weapon.
A picture.
He placed it on the counter.
I looked down.
And everything stopped.
It was my father.
Younger.
Maybe twenty years ago.
Standing outside my shop.
But he wasn't alone.
Beside him was Noah.
Much younger.
Without the scar.
Without the cold expression.
Without the weight he carried now.
I stared at the picture.
"No."
My voice came out quietly.
"This isn't possible."
Noah looked at the photograph.
"My father knew yours."
I looked up.
"Your father?"
He nodded.
"My father was not a businessman."
The way he said it told me enough.
There was more.
Much more.
"My father built an organization."
The word hung between us.
Organization.
A careful word.
A word people used when they didn't want to say something worse.
I understood.
The city understood.
I looked at the man standing in my father's shop.
The man everyone feared.
The man who had walked into my life because of a suit.
"You were sent here."
"No."
"Then why?"
Noah looked at me.
For a moment, he looked almost uncomfortable.
"Because I needed a suit."
I stared.
"That is the worst lie you've told."
A small breath escaped him.
Almost a laugh.
Then his expression became serious.
"The first time I saw your name on the order list, I recognized it."
"My name?"
"Your father's name."
I felt a chill.
"What did he do?"
Noah looked away.
That answer scared me more than anything.
Because if my father had done something terrible...
I had spent my entire life loving a lie.
"He saved my life."
The words surprised me.
I blinked.
"What?"
"When I was nineteen."
Noah touched the scar on his jaw.
"I was supposed to die that night."
The shop felt smaller.
"He hid me."
"Why?"
"Because your father believed every person deserved one chance to choose who they became."
I looked at him.
That sounded exactly like my father.
Too much like him.
But it didn't explain anything.
"Then why is someone threatening me?"
Noah's expression hardened.
"Because your father knew something."
"What?"
"I don't know."
I stared.
"You don't know?"
"No."
For the first time, Noah Moretti sounded frustrated.
Not angry.
Frustrated.
"Your father disappeared from my world twenty years ago."
"He died last year."
"I know."
"How?"
Silence.
Again.
That silence.
I hated it.
"You've been watching me."
Noah didn't deny it.
My stomach tightened.
"How long?"
"Nine months."
I stepped back.
The answer hit harder than I expected.
Nine months.
The exact amount of time since my father died.
"You knew who I was."
"Yes."
"And you still came here pretending to be a customer?"
"I needed to know if you had the same problem."
I frowned.
"What problem?"
Noah looked toward the old sewing machines.
"The problem your father spent years hiding."
Before I could ask another question, the front door opened.
A man entered.
Late forties.
Dark suit.
Calm expression.
I had never seen him before.
But Noah immediately changed.
His entire body became different.
The relaxed customer disappeared.
The dangerous man returned.
"Luciano."
The stranger smiled.
"Noah."
Paulie moved closer.
I noticed.
Everyone in the room knew this man.
Everyone except me.
Luciano looked at me.
Then at the photograph on the counter.
His smile disappeared.
"So she knows."
Noah's voice became cold.
"Leave."
Luciano ignored him.
Instead, he looked directly at me.
"Your father never told you?"
I didn't answer.
He stepped closer.
"About the package?"
Noah moved between us.
"Enough."
Luciano smiled.
"You still protect her."
Protect her.
Those words bothered me.
Because they sounded like this had been happening long before I knew.
"What package?" I asked.
Nobody answered.
I looked between them.
"No."
My voice shook.
"I am done being the last person to know things about my own life."
Luciano reached into his jacket.
Noah immediately reacted.
But Luciano wasn't pulling out a weapon.
He placed something on the counter.
A small envelope.
Old.
Yellowed.
With my father's handwriting.
My name was written across the front.
Lyra Mason.
My hands went cold.
"That was found after your father died," Luciano said.
I stared at the envelope.
"Why didn't I get this?"
Luciano looked at Noah.
"Because he stopped us."
Noah's face changed.
"You're lying."
Luciano smiled.
"Am I?"
I reached for the envelope.
Noah grabbed my wrist.
Not hard.
But enough to stop me.
"Don't."
I looked at him.
"Why?"
His eyes were filled with something I had never seen before.
Fear.
Real fear.
"Because once you open that..."
He looked at the envelope.
"...there is no going back."
I pulled my hand away.
"You don't get to decide that."
I opened it.
Inside was a single piece of paper.
Three words.
Written by my father.
My breathing stopped.
Because underneath the message was a name.
A name I had heard before.
A name that made Noah Moretti turn completely pale.
May you like
The name was:
Noah Moretti.
