Chapter 1 - THE MAN WHO KNEW MY REAL NAME
The rain fell harder.
I stood in the alley behind the restaurant with my injured wrist pressed against my chest, staring at Thomas Dinaro as though he had just spoken a language only I could hear.
“You know me?”
Thomas didn't answer immediately.
Water darkened the shoulders of his black suit.
A black sedan waited at the curb, but no driver stepped out.
No bodyguards.
No men with guns.
Just him.
And that somehow made me more nervous.
“My name wasn't on my uniform tonight,” I said.
“I noticed.”
“I never introduced myself.”
“No.”
My heart beat faster.
“So how do you know my name?”
Thomas studied my face.
Under the streetlamp, he looked less like the terrifying man people whispered about and more like someone carrying a memory he couldn't put down.
“Your last name isn't Lewis.”
My stomach dropped.
I took one step backward.
“Yes, it is.”
“It is now.”
“What does that mean?”
His jaw tightened.
“Jean, what was your mother's maiden name?”
I went still.
My mother had died when I was seventeen.
She'd been complicated.
Loving one day.
Terrified the next.
She moved us constantly when I was a child, always claiming rent was too high or neighborhoods were unsafe.
For years, I'd believed we were just poor.
Then, three days before she died, she made me promise never to contact anyone from her past.
I swallowed.
“Why?”
“Answer me.”
I hated being ordered.
“Marino.”
Thomas closed his eyes.
Just for a second.
When he opened them again, something had changed.
“Your mother's name was Elena Marino.”
My skin went cold.
“How do you know that?”
Thomas looked toward the alley entrance.
“Because I knew her.”
I laughed nervously.
“No. You didn't.”
“Yes.”
“She worked in a pharmacy in Queens.”
“That wasn't what she did before you were born.”
I stared at him.
“You're lying.”
“I wish I were.”
The rain hit the pavement between us.
Thomas reached slowly into his coat.
I tensed.
He noticed.
“I'm not armed.”
“People like you are always armed.”
One corner of his mouth almost moved.
“Fair.”
He took out an old photograph.
He held it toward me.
I hesitated before taking it.
The picture was faded.
Taken inside what looked like a private club.
Three people stood beside a staircase.
A younger Thomas.
A beautiful dark-haired woman.
And another man whose face had been torn away from the photograph.
The woman was my mother.
I stopped breathing.
She looked twenty-five.
Happy.
Nothing like the frightened woman I remembered.
My fingers shook.
“When was this taken?”
“Thirty-two years ago.”
Before I was born.
“Who is the man beside her?”
Thomas's expression hardened.
“My older brother.”
I looked at the missing face.
“Why was it torn?”
“I didn't tear it.”
“Who did?”
“Your mother.”
My stomach twisted.
“Why?”
Thomas stepped closer.
“Because three months after that photograph was taken, my brother disappeared.”
I stared at him.
“And?”
“And Elena disappeared the same night.”
My pulse thundered.
“You think she had something to do with it?”
“I know she did.”
I wanted to walk away.
But my feet wouldn't move.
Thomas continued.
“For thirty-one years, I've wondered what happened after that night.”
“Thirty-one?”
“Yes.”
I frowned.
“My mother disappeared before I was born?”
His gaze settled on my face.
Then on my eyes.
Then on the small scar beside my chin.
A scar I'd had since infancy.
His expression became unreadable.
“What?”
Thomas whispered,
“Elena was pregnant when she disappeared.”
The alley suddenly felt too narrow.
My mouth went dry.
“No.”
“She never told anyone who the father was.”
I shook my head.
“My father left before I was born.”
“That's what you were told.”
I started backing away.
“Stop.”
Thomas didn't follow.
“Jean.”
“No.”
“You asked why I knew you.”
I stared at him.
His voice became quieter.
“Because you have my brother's eyes.”
Everything inside me froze.
Then my phone rang.
Marcus.
I grabbed it immediately.
“Baby?”
But it wasn't my son's voice.
A man spoke.
“Jean Lewis?”
My blood went cold.
“Yes?”
May you like
The man chuckled.
“We have your son.”
