Chapter 4 - MY MOTHER'S SECRET
My father took me to an old brownstone in Brooklyn.
It looked abandoned.
The windows were dusty.
The paint was peeling.
But inside, everything was immaculate.
“This belonged to your mother,” he said.
I stared.
“She lived here?”
“Before she met me.”
We entered a small room.
There were photographs everywhere.
My mother.
Me.
My childhood.
My first school recital.
My eighth birthday.
My father had kept them all.
“You watched me?”
“I protected you.”
“From a distance.”
“Yes.”
I turned toward him.
“Tell me everything.”
He sat down.
“When your mother discovered what my organization was doing, she wanted out.”
“Organization?”
He sighed.
“I built a criminal empire.”
I swallowed.
“You're admitting that?”
“To you, yes.”
“What kind?”
“Money laundering. Protection. Smuggling. Things I regret.”
“But you stopped?”
“Mostly.”
“Mostly?”
“I walked away from the worst of it.”
My father showed me a photograph.
Three men stood together.
Vincent.
Charles Whitmore.
And another man.
I recognized him from an old newspaper article.
Edward Kane.
A powerful businessman who had supposedly died twenty-four years earlier.
“He's dead,” I said.
“No.”
My father looked at me.
“He isn't.”
I felt a chill.
“Why did Mom leave?”
“She discovered Kane had been using our organization to manipulate legitimate businesses.”
“What businesses?”
“Banks. Construction firms. Insurance companies. Investment groups.”
My father pointed at the photograph.
“Your husband is connected to Kane.”
I stared.
“Brandon?”
“Yes.”
The pieces began connecting.
Whitmore.
Brandon.
The forged loans.
My company.
The money.
My father continued.
“Your mother found evidence.”
“What evidence?”
“A ledger.”
“What kind?”
“A list of payments. Names. Account numbers. Political donations. Bribes.”
“Where is it?”
“Your mother hid it.”
“Where?”
“I never found it.”
I looked at the photographs.
“What happened to her?”
“She ran.”
“Then why did she die?”
My father looked down.
“She didn't.”
I stopped breathing.
“What?”
He looked at me.
“Your mother is alive.”
I laughed.
It wasn't funny.
“Dad.”
“Emma.”
“My mother died when I was seven.”
“That is what you were told.”
“Who told me?”
“Your aunt.”
My knees weakened.
“Why?”
“Because your mother had to disappear.”
“From Kane?”
“Yes.”
“Then why didn't she take me?”
My father's eyes filled with pain.
“She believed you were safer with people who could give you a normal life.”
I shook my head.
“That doesn't make sense.”
“It didn't to me either.”
“Where is she?”
“I don't know.”
That was the first time I saw something like defeat in my father's face.
Then my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
A woman's voice whispered:
“Emma?”
I froze.
I knew that voice.
I hadn't heard it in twenty years.
But I knew it.
“Mom?”
Silence.
Then:
“Don't trust your father.”
The line went dead.
I looked at Vincent.
He had heard everything.
His face had gone completely pale.
“Dad…”
He stood.
“She's alive.”
Then the lights in the brownstone went out.
A gunshot shattered the window.
My father grabbed me and pushed me behind the wall.
“Down!”
Another shot.
Then another.
Men shouted outside.
My father's security team moved through the building.
Minutes later, silence returned.
On the floor near the window was a bullet.
Beside it was a folded piece of paper.
My father picked it up.
He read it.
Then handed it to me.
Three words were written in black ink.
SHE KNOWS EVERYTHING.
I looked at him.
“Who?”
He didn't answer.
But I knew.
May you like
My mother.
And whatever she knew was dangerous enough that someone had just tried to kill us for it.
