Chapter 4 - THE TWO FAMILIES CONNECTED BY A LIE
Matteo stared at his mother's photograph for so long that I wondered whether he could still hear us.
Her name was Isabella Marino.
A woman who had died eleven years earlier.
A woman Matteo had spent years trying to avenge.
And now she was standing beside my father in a photograph taken after her supposed death.
“How?” he whispered.
Luca shook his head.
“We're still verifying the date and source.”
Matteo stepped toward the window.
For the first time, the powerful man who controlled half of Manhattan looked like a little boy who had just lost his mother all over again.
I understood that feeling.
Because I was experiencing it too.
“Matteo?”
He turned.
“I'm sorry.”
His expression changed.
“For what?”
“For making you think about your mother again.”
He looked at me for a long moment.
Then said quietly, “You didn't do this.”
Neither of us spoke.
Finally, I asked the question that had been haunting me.
“Did our parents know each other?”
Matteo nodded toward the photograph.
“Apparently.”
Luca opened another document.
“Daniel Parker worked for Marino Shipping twenty-five years ago.”
My stomach tightened.
“My father was an accountant.”
“Yes.”
“He never told me he worked for your family.”
Luca continued.
“He was assigned to internal auditing.”
Matteo's expression hardened.
“Then he might have known about the old financial network.”
“What network?” I asked.
Matteo hesitated.
“The part of my father's empire that existed before I took control.”
I looked at him.
“And you inherited it?”
“Some of it.”
He paused.
“Not all of it willingly.”
I studied his face.
The rumors about Matteo Marino had always frightened me.
But the man sitting beside me seemed trapped inside a family history he barely understood.
Then my phone vibrated.
An unknown number.
A message appeared.
Stop asking questions about the red door.
My hands turned cold.
Another message followed.
You were supposed to forget.
Matteo immediately noticed my expression.
“What happened?”
I showed him the screen.
His face hardened.
Then a third message appeared.
A photograph.
It showed me at six years old.
Standing in front of a red door.
My father knelt beside me.
His hand rested on my shoulder.
And behind him stood Isabella Marino.
Matteo leaned closer.
“Where was this taken?”
I stared at the photograph.
A memory flashed.
A hallway.
A crying baby.
A woman begging someone to stop.
I covered my mouth.
May you like
Then the fourth message appeared.
“Naomi, you weren't the only child behind that door.”
