Chapter 4 - The House With No Safe Room
Alessandro took my phone.
His eyes studied the image.
"Do you recognize anything?"
"My apartment."
"I know."
"No. I mean that coat."
A black sleeve was visible in the mirror beside my door.
"Whose?"
I stared.
"I don't know."
He called Nico.
"Get a team to Claire's building. Nobody enters until I arrive."
I grabbed his arm.
"You're not going there."
"Yes, I am."
"They want you to."
"Probably."
"Then why—"
"Because whoever entered your apartment may have left evidence."
"Or a bullet."
His gaze softened.
"I'm not careless."
"That's what powerful men always say right before they do something stupid."
To my surprise, he almost smiled.
"Stay with my mother tonight."
"No."
His expression changed.
"I'm not sending you alone."
"I said no because I don't want to be hidden in a family house while everyone decides my life."
"What do you want?"
I looked at him.
"The truth."
"About?"
"Everything."
He nodded once.
"Then you're coming with me."
We went somewhere I had never seen.
Not his apartment.
Not the family estate.
A narrow brick townhouse in Lincoln Park.
Inside was almost empty.
A couch.
A table.
A kitchen.
No photographs.
No expensive art.
"What is this?"
"My place."
"I thought your apartment was your place."
"That's the address everyone knows."
"And this?"
"The address almost nobody knows."
That told me more about Alessandro than any confession could.
He didn't trust his penthouse.
He didn't trust his family's mansion.
His real home was a quiet townhouse with mismatched coffee mugs.
I walked into the kitchen.
On the refrigerator was a child's drawing.
A stick figure wearing a black suit.
Another figure with long hair.
At the top: SOFIA + ALE.
"Your sister drew this?"
"When she was eight."
"You kept it?"
"Apparently."
I looked at him.
For the first time that night, the mafia heir disappeared.
He was simply Alessandro.
A man who had saved his little sister's drawing for twenty years.
He made tea.
I couldn't drink it.
He sat across from me.
"Ask."
"What?"
"You wanted the truth. Ask."
I hesitated.
"Have you killed anyone?"
His face went still.
Not the question he expected.
"Yes."
My stomach tightened.
He didn't soften it.
Didn't lie.
"Why?"
"Once in self-defense. Once protecting Sofia."
"That's two."
He looked down.
"Yes."
I waited.
He didn't continue.
"Do you hurt people for business?"
"No."
"Have you?"
"No."
"Do you run illegal businesses?"
"Some businesses my family owns operate in gray areas."
"That's not an answer."
"Gambling. Protection payments. Unregistered loans."
My chest tightened.
"Drugs?"
"No."
"Human trafficking?"
His expression hardened.
"Never."
"Weapons?"
"Not through my companies."
I sat back.
"Do you expect me to raise a child around that?"
"No."
The answer came immediately.
"Then what happens?"
"I leave."
I stared.
"You can?"
"I've been separating my businesses from my father's for three years."
"Why hasn't he stopped you?"
"He tried."
"And?"
"I own enough legitimate companies now that he can't."
"What about the rest?"
"I've been shutting them down."
I didn't know what to say.
He leaned forward.
"Claire, I won't ask you to pretend I'm something I'm not. My name opens doors because people are afraid of it. Some of that fear was earned before I had any choice in the matter. Some was earned by me."
His eyes held mine.
"But our child will not inherit this life."
Our child.
The words made my eyes burn.
He continued.
"And neither will you."
"You can't promise that."
"I can promise what I control."
"And what you don't?"
"I'll fight."
"That's what scares me."
"I know."
I put both hands over my face.
"I'm pregnant."
Saying it aloud broke something open.
"I'm actually pregnant."
Alessandro moved from his chair.
He knelt beside me.
"Can I touch you?"
I nodded.
His arms wrapped around me.
I cried against his shirt.
Not elegant tears.
Not movie tears.
The kind that made breathing difficult.
He didn't tell me to calm down.
He didn't tell me everything would be fine.
He simply held me.
After several minutes I whispered, "Are you happy?"
His arms tightened.
"Terrified."
I pulled back.
"That's not what I asked."
He looked at me.
"Yes."
The answer was almost painful in its sincerity.
"I'm happier than I know how to say."
I laughed through tears.
He touched my cheek.
Then his eyes dropped toward my stomach.
"Can I?"
I nodded.
His palm rested gently over the fabric of my uniform.
Nothing could be felt yet.
We both knew that.
It didn't matter.
His face changed.
I had never seen a man look so powerful and so vulnerable at the same time.
"I'll protect you," he whispered.
I covered his hand.
"No."
He frowned.
"Protect us, yes. But don't build a cage and call it protection."
Something passed through his eyes.
Then he nodded.
"Fair."
My phone rang.
Jenna.
I answered.
"Claire?"
She was crying.
"What happened?"
"The diner."
I stood.
"What about it?"
"Someone broke in."
"Are you okay?"
"I'm home. Police called me."
"Did they steal anything?"
"No."
"Then—"
"They didn't take money."
My heartbeat slowed.
"What did they do?"
Jenna swallowed audibly.
"They went through your locker."
Alessandro was already standing.
"What else?"
"They left something."
"What?"
"A white envelope."
My mouth went dry.
"What's written on it?"
"Your name."
Alessandro held out his hand.
"Put her on speaker."
I did.
"Jenna," he said, "don't go back there."
She recognized his voice immediately.
"Okay."
"Did the police open the envelope?"
"No. They said they'd wait for Claire."
"We're coming."
We reached the diner forty minutes later.
Police lights reflected against the windows.
The owner, Rosie, stood outside wrapped in a coat.
She hugged me.
"Oh, sweetheart."
"I'm sorry."
"This isn't your fault."
Inside, my locker door hung open.
Nothing looked stolen.
My spare shoes were there.
My textbooks.
My cheap makeup bag.
On the metal shelf sat an envelope.
CLAIRE BENNETT.
A detective opened it with gloves.
Inside was one sheet of paper.
No words.
Just a photocopied birth certificate.
Mine.
I stared.
"Why would someone leave this?"
Alessandro took one look and went pale.
"What?"
He pointed.
My father's name.
DAVID BENNETT.
My father had died before I was born.
At least that was what my mother had always told me.
Alessandro looked at the detective.
"Can I see the reverse?"
The detective turned it.
A handwritten message covered the back.
ASK MARCO WHO DAVID BENNETT REALLY WAS.
My knees weakened.
Alessandro caught me.
"No."
"What?"
He stared at my father's name.
"I've seen this before."
"Where?"
He looked at me.
"In my father's private records."
My blood went cold.
"Why would your father have records about my dead father?"
Alessandro didn't answer.
His phone buzzed.
Marco.
He answered.
"Father."
Marco didn't greet him.
His voice came through clearly.
"Do not let Claire read that certificate."
Too late.
I grabbed the phone.
"Who was my father?"
Silence.
"Marco."
Another silence.
Then he said something that changed everything.
"Claire, David Bennett didn't die before you were born."
My hand went numb.
"What?"
"He died because of us."
The line went dead.
May you like
And behind us, the diner kitchen door slowly opened.
A man stepped out holding my father's photograph.
