Chapter 5 - THE MAFIA FAMILY I NEVER KNEW I BELONGED TO
By midnight, everything I knew about myself had become questionable.
Margaret wasn’t merely connected to the Avery family.
She had been married to Vincent Avery.
She had a son named Michael.
And possibly a daughter named Hannah.
Me.
Malcolm arranged independent DNA testing.
I agreed only because I wanted facts.
Not stories.
Not family myths.
Facts.
The results wouldn’t come immediately, but the paper trail was already disturbing.
My original birth certificate contained inconsistencies.
A hospital record had been amended.
And the listed father’s name didn’t match the sealed archive copy.
The archive copy listed:
VINCENT AVERY.
I stared at it.
Tyler sat beside me.
“So you’re an Avery?”
“Maybe.”
He tried to smile.
“Does that mean we’re rich?”
I laughed despite myself.
“Nice try.”
Then his expression softened.
“You’re still my sister.”
My eyes filled with tears.
“Always.”
But another question remained.
“What about you?”
Tyler looked confused.
“What?”
“If Margaret was hiding me from the Averys… who was your father?”
He shrugged.
“Mom always said Robert Reed.”
I remembered Robert.
A quiet mechanic who died when Tyler was four.
He had loved us both.
If he wasn’t my biological father, it didn’t make him less my dad.
But I was beginning to understand Margaret’s life contained layers she never told us.
Then Malcolm arrived.
He removed his coat.
For once, he came without a crowd.
He looked at the birth certificate.
His face tightened.
“If Vincent is your father…”
“Then you’re my uncle.”
He closed his eyes.
“Yes.”
The most feared man in Chicago suddenly looked very old.
Then he whispered:
“I spent thirty-eight years looking for my father’s watch.”
I looked at him.
“And?”
“Maybe the watch wasn’t meant to lead me to my father.”
My stomach tightened.
“Then what?”
“To you.”
Before I could answer, Nathan entered quickly.
“Sir.”
Malcolm turned.
“What?”
“We found the old Mercantile Trust vault.”
My heart raced.
“And box eighteen?”
“Still there.”
Malcolm looked at me.
“The key?”
I reached beneath my shirt and touched the brass key Margaret had left me.
Then Nathan continued.
“There’s a problem.”
“What?”
“The access log shows someone opened box eighteen yesterday.”
I froze.
“Who?”
Nathan turned the document.
Signature:
Margaret Hale Avery.
My mother.
Alive.
Then beneath her name appeared another signature.
Michael Avery.
May you like
Malcolm’s face went white.
The son everyone believed died as a baby had apparently opened the vault yesterday.
