Chương 7
For years, people had tried to get his attention.
Business competitors.
People wanting favors.
People wanting money.
People wanting access.
But Sophia was different.
She was the one place where he did not expect anyone to attack.
The thought made him angry in a way he could barely control.
Mercer noticed.
"Mr. Stallone."
Sylvester looked up.
"Anger is understandable."
The officer paused.
"But it can make people miss details."
The comment was not criticism.
It was advice.
Sylvester nodded once.
"I know."
"Good."
Mercer looked at his notes.
"We need access to all messages, devices, security records, and any communication between your household and this person."
"Of course."
"Also, until we know more, I recommend changing routines."
Sylvester looked toward Sophia.
"She is not going back to school tomorrow."
Mercer did not argue.
"That decision is yours."
After the officers left, the mansion became quiet again.
The kind of quiet that came after people had said everything they could but understood nothing had been solved.
Helena remained in the living room.
Sylvester stood near the window.
Snow covered the courtyard.
The overturned bench had been moved back into place.
A small repair crew had already fixed what they could.
The house was trying to return to normal.
He knew better.
"Who is from my past?"
Helena did not answer.
He turned.
"I am asking you directly."
She looked exhausted.
"I don't know."
"Then what did the investigator mean?"
"I think he meant someone connected to something you left behind."
The wording bothered him.
"Something I left behind."
Helena looked down.
"Not everyone forgets things just because we move on."
The sentence sounded less like an accusation and more like a warning.
Sylvester walked closer.
"What are you talking about?"
She opened her mouth.
Stopped.
Then reached for the envelope again.
This time she removed one more item.
A photograph.
Older than the others.
Not of Sophia.
Not of the mansion.
A photograph of Sylvester.
But not the man he was now.
A younger version of him.
Standing outside a boxing gym.
Next to a woman he had not seen in more than a decade.
His expression changed before he could stop it.
Helena saw.
"You know her."
He did not answer.
The woman in the picture was someone he had spent years trying not to remember.
Someone connected to the part of his life before fame, before the mansion, before people called him powerful.
A part of himself he had buried because he believed leaving it behind meant protecting the people he loved.
"Where did you get this?"
Helena watched him carefully.
"The investigator found it."
Sylvester took the photograph.
The edges were worn.
Someone had held it many times.
"Who gave this to him?"
"I don't know."
His phone vibrated again.
Neither of them moved.
The sound seemed louder than it should have been.
Sylvester looked at the screen.
A new message.
One sentence.
"Now ask yourself why she disappeared."
"Now ask yourself why she disappeared."
Sylvester stared at the message until the screen dimmed in his hand.
He did not notice Helena watching him.
He did not notice the clock above the fireplace moving closer to dawn.
For a moment, he was not in the mansion.
He was standing outside a boxing gym twenty years earlier, smelling old leather and cigarette smoke, hearing the sound of gloves hitting bags through a cracked open door.
The past had a way of returning without asking permission.
"Who is she?" Helena asked quietly.
Sylvester placed the photograph on the table.
"You already know."
"No."
Her answer was immediate.
Too immediate.
He looked at her.
"Then why are you showing me this?"
"Because I think whoever is doing this wants you to remember."
"Remember what?"
Helena looked at the photograph.
"That you didn't leave everything behind."
He picked it up again.
The woman in the picture was Elena Marquez.
Before anyone knew his name.
Before reporters cared where he went.
Before people assumed his life had always been surrounded by wealth and opportunity.
Elena had known him when he was just a fighter trying to convince himself he belonged in rooms where nobody expected him to succeed.
She had known the version of him who worked nights, came home with bruised hands, and lied about how much pain he was in because admitting weakness felt impossible.
She had also known the version of him who made mistakes.
"She disappeared," Helena said.
Sylvester looked at her.
"You knew about her?"
"I knew the name."
"From who?"
Helena hesitated.
"From documents."
"What documents?"
She looked uncomfortable.
"Your father kept records of people from your early years."
Sylvester frowned.
"My father?"
"He was afraid someone would use your past against you."
The explanation did not make him feel better.
It made him feel like he was the last person to know the story of his own life.
"My father died before I became successful."
"Yes."
"So why would he have records about her?"
Helena looked toward the window.
"Because he knew things about people."
Sylvester almost dismissed it.
Almost.
But he remembered something.
His father had always been suspicious.
Not paranoid.
Prepared.
The kind of man who kept receipts, old letters, and phone numbers written on paper even after everyone else trusted technology.
"When did you find these documents?"
"After he died."
"And you never told me?"
"I didn't think they mattered."
The answer irritated him.
Not because she was wrong.
Because too many people in his life had decided what information mattered without asking him.
"What else did you find?"
Helena looked at him.
"I don't know."
"That's not possible."
"It is when someone spends years avoiding the things they don't want to see."
The honesty in her voice made him stop.
She was not defending herself anymore.
She was admitting something.
A flaw.
A failure.
A fear.
Sylvester sat down.
The exhaustion finally reached him.
May you like
For years, he had believed strength meant carrying everything without letting anyone see the weight.
Now he was beginning to understand that sometimes people around you stopped helping because you had convinced them you never needed help.
