Chapter 6 - The Letter My Father Never Sent
Salvatore Conti survived because Marco dragged him behind an armored SUV before the second volley hit.
Three of his men were wounded.
One Bellandi guard took a bullet through the shoulder.
The shooters escaped.
Again.
By sunrise, Luca’s estate looked like a war room.
And somehow I sat at his kitchen table eating toast.
Human beings are ridiculous.
Your entire identity can collapse, two mafia families can nearly start a war in a driveway, and eventually someone still asks whether you want coffee.
I wanted whiskey.
Bianca gave me coffee.
Salvatore sat across from me.
The man I had called Uncle David.
My paternal grandfather.
He had been shot through the upper arm, but after a doctor stitched him, he refused pain medication.
“You always hated hospitals,” I said.
His eyes softened.
“You remember.”
“I remember everything.”
My tone made him flinch.
Good.
“You lied to me.”
“Yes.”
“You let me think you died.”
“Yes.”
“You and my mother deserve each other.”
Mom sat beside me.
“Fair.”
Salvatore gave a tired laugh.
I didn’t.
“Letter.”
His expression sobered.
He reached inside his jacket.
Marco immediately moved.
Salvatore looked offended.
“If I wanted to kill her, Marco, I had twenty-six years.”
“Still.”
Salvatore slowly removed an old envelope.
My name was written across it.
For my daughter, Mara.
The handwriting belonged to a stranger.
My father.
My hands trembled.
“Daniel knew I was a girl?”
“Your mother had an ultrasound,” Salvatore said.
Mom smiled through tears.
“He bought pink socks.”
Something inside me broke.
Such a stupid detail.
Pink socks.
Not mafia wars.
Not murder.
Not bloodlines.
A young man excited about his unborn daughter.
I opened the letter.
Mara,
If you are reading this, then I did not get the chance to tell you these things myself. Your mother says writing that sentence is dramatic. She is probably right. She is usually right, which is something I will deny if I survive long enough for you to meet me.
A laugh escaped me through tears.
Mom covered her mouth.
I continued.
There are people in our families who believe your name will decide what you become. Bellandi. Conti. Hart. I hope you ignore all of them.
You are not a family name. You are not somebody’s alliance. You are not a debt.
You are my daughter.
I had to stop.
Luca stood near the window holding Nico.
His gaze was lowered.
Giving me privacy without leaving.
I read on.
Your mother is the bravest person I know. If she tells you to run, run. If she tells you to fight, fight. If she tells you I loved you, believe her.
There is one thing I want from you.
Choose the life they tell you you’re not allowed to have.
Love, Dad.
I pressed the letter against my mouth.
Twenty-six years too late, I met my father.
And loved him immediately.
Salvatore’s eyes were wet.
“He wrote it the night before Vittorio’s men took him.”
Vittorio stood across the room.
He looked ancient.
“I didn’t know Celia was pregnant.”
Mom’s laugh was bitter.
“Would it have changed anything?”
“Yes.”
“That makes it worse.”
He lowered his head.
She was right.
Killing an innocent man only because he had no unborn child would not have been better.
Luca spoke.
“Enough history. We still have people trying to kill all of you.”
“Romantic as always,” Bianca said.
He ignored her.
Marco spread documents across the table.
“We traced the shooters from last night.”
“Gabriel?” Luca asked.
“No. Hired men.”
“By who?”
“One shell company paid them.”
Salvatore leaned forward.
“I know that company.”
Everyone looked at him.
“It belonged to Isabella.”
Vittorio’s hand tightened on his cane.
“My wife is dead.”
Salvatore gave him a long look.
“So was Celia. So was I. Apparently our generation was very committed to theatrical exits.”
Bianca covered a laugh with a cough.
Even Luca’s mouth twitched.
Vittorio did not appreciate it.
“Where is Isabella?”
Salvatore became serious.
“I don’t know.”
Mom spoke.
“I think Alessia found her.”
Luca turned.
“What makes you say that?”
“Three months before she died, Alessia asked me about a convent outside Montreal.”
“What convent?”
“Saint Aurelia.”
Luca’s face changed.
“Alessia traveled to Montreal six weeks before the crash.”
Marco looked at him.
“You told me it was a charity event.”
“That is what she told me.”
Mom nodded.
“Saint Aurelia owns a private hospice. Isabella used Bellandi donations there for years.”
Vittorio looked sick.
“You think she has been living there?”
“Maybe.”
Luca handed Nico to Bianca.
“Get the plane ready.”
“No,” Marco said.
Luca stared at him.
Marco rarely challenged him.
“We have a bigger problem.”
He slid a photograph across the table.
Gabriel.
Taken that morning.
Entering a courthouse.
“Why would he go there?” I asked.
Marco placed another document beside it.
A petition.
My name appeared at the top.
Petition for Emergency Guardianship of Mara Hart Bellandi-Conti.
I stared.
“What the hell?”
Salvatore swore.
Luca read faster.
“They’re claiming she is mentally unstable.”
“What?”
“Trauma. Delusions. Financial vulnerability.”
“They can’t possibly—”
Mom’s face changed.
“They can.”
I looked at her.
“How?”
“When I faked my death, I had you temporarily committed.”
My chair scraped backward.
“You did what?”
“Only on paper.”
“That is not better!”
“I needed medical records explaining why you might claim to see me alive.”
I laughed in disbelief.
“So if I ever discovered the truth, everyone would think I was crazy?”
Her eyes filled with shame.
“Yes.”
“Brilliant parenting.”
“Mara—”
“No.”
I walked away.
Luca followed.
I entered the library and slammed the door.
He opened it.
“Does anyone in your life respect closed doors?” I snapped.
“No.”
“Fantastic.”
He stood there silently.
That made me angrier.
“Say something.”
“You’re angry.”
“Excellent observation.”
“You have the right.”
“I don’t need permission from you to feel anything.”
“I know.”
I looked away.
“My entire life was manufactured.”
“No.”
“You heard them.”
“Your history was manipulated.”
He stepped closer.
“Your life was yours.”
I looked at him.
He nodded toward the kitchen.
“Your mother could fake records. Salvatore could fake a funeral. Vittorio could destroy your father.”
His voice lowered.
“None of them made you work double shifts. None of them made you keep going after your mother disappeared. None of them made you hold my son when you were terrified.”
My throat tightened.
“That was you.”
It was the kindest thing anyone had said to me all night.
Which was inconvenient because it came from a terrifying criminal.
“You’re still annoying.”
“I know.”
“And bossy.”
“Yes.”
“And technically holding me here.”
“For your safety.”
“Still counts.”
He almost smiled.
Then his phone rang.
Marco.
Luca answered.
His expression changed immediately.
“What?”
I stepped closer.
He put the call on speaker.
Marco’s voice came fast.
“They granted temporary guardianship.”
My stomach dropped.
“To who?”
“Not a person.”
“What does that mean?”
“A private medical foundation.”
Mom entered behind us.
“Which one?”
Marco hesitated.
“Saint Aurelia.”
Silence.
The convent in Montreal.
The foundation linked to Isabella.
Luca’s eyes became cold.
“They’re not trying to control Mara’s money.”
“No,” Mom whispered.
“They’re trying to legally take her.”
Sirens approached outside.
Luca went to the window.
Police vehicles.
Several.
Marco continued through the phone.
“They have a court order.”
“For what?”
“To transport Mara for emergency psychiatric evaluation.”
I laughed.
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
Luca did not laugh.
“No.”
He reached for his jacket.
“It’s exactly what they want.”
I stared at the police cars entering the estate.
“What do we do?”
Luca looked at me.
“We stop running.”
He extended his hand.
“Do you trust me?”
I looked at the dragon tattoo crossing his knuckles.
At the mark my mother had taught me to fear.
Then at the man holding out that hand.
“No.”
His mouth twitched.
“Good.”
I took it anyway.
“Tell me the plan.”
May you like
His eyes hardened.
“We let them take you.”
