Chapter 13 - The Man Behind the Professor
I didn't sleep.
Not that night.
Not the following morning.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw my mother in the security video, smiling up at a man she thought she'd lost forever.
And then I remembered Rosa Morales whispering his name.
Daniel Bennett.
My father.
The professor.
The man everyone seemed to fear.
At six in the morning, I found Matteo sitting alone in his study.
His tie was gone.
His sleeves were rolled up.
A cup of untouched coffee sat beside three open folders.
He looked exhausted.
I stood in the doorway.
"You look terrible."
He glanced up.
"Good morning to you too."
"Did you sleep?"
"No."
"Join the club."
I entered.
He closed one of the folders.
Too quickly.
I noticed.
"What are you hiding?"
"Nothing."
I raised an eyebrow.
"Matteo."
He sighed.
"Evidence."
"Of what?"
"Things I'm not ready to conclude."
I folded my arms.
"That's politician language."
"I assure you, politicians are much better at lying than I am."
"That is a horrifying statement coming from you."
He almost smiled.
Then his expression softened.
"How's your arm?"
"Still attached."
"Pain?"
"Manageable."
"Good."
I sat across from him.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then I looked at the folders.
"Tell me about the professor."
Matteo leaned back.
"That name appeared in my father's records."
"When?"
"Late nineties."
"Who was he?"
"A financial strategist."
"Meaning?"
"Someone who understood how to move money, hide ownership, and make crimes look like legitimate business."
I swallowed.
"Daniel?"
"That's what we're trying to establish."
I rubbed my temples.
"What did he do for the FBI?"
"Possibly the same thing."
I looked up.
"He helped criminals and investigated criminals?"
"Those roles weren't always separate."
My stomach twisted.
"So he played both sides."
"Maybe."
I stared out the window.
"Why would Mom love someone like that?"
Matteo's expression changed.
"People aren't always who they become."
I turned toward him.
"Are you talking about my father or yourself?"
He looked at me for a long moment.
"Both."
The honesty caught me off guard.
I studied his face.
There was a faint scar near his left eyebrow.
Another along his jaw.
His knuckles bore the marks of old injuries.
He was handsome in a way that felt almost unfair.
But there was something beyond his appearance.
Something tired.
Something lonely.
I looked away.
"Why haven't you married?"
He blinked.
Of all the things I'd asked him, apparently that one surprised him.
"What?"
"You're rich. Powerful. Ridiculously dramatic."
He stared.
"Ridiculously dramatic?"
"You wear charcoal suits to nightclubs like you're attending a board meeting with the devil."
His mouth twitched.
I continued.
"Surely somebody tried to marry you."
"Several people."
"What happened?"
"I said no."
"Shocking."
He watched me.
"Why do you ask?"
I shrugged.
"Just wondering whether you have a wife who's going to show up and accuse me of stealing her husband."
"I don't."
"Girlfriend?"
"No."
"Fiancée?"
"No."
"Secret family in Connecticut?"
He laughed.
"No."
I narrowed my eyes.
"You answered that one suspiciously fast."
He leaned forward.
"What about you?"
"What about me?"
"Boyfriend?"
I snorted.
"Does a landlord who texts me every three days count?"
"No."
"Then no."
"Anyone waiting for you?"
I looked down.
"No."
His expression softened.
I hated that it made me feel exposed.
"Clara."
"Don't."
"What?"
"Don't look at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like I'm something sad."
He shook his head.
"That's not how I'm looking at you."
I swallowed.
"Then how?"
He didn't answer.
For a moment, the room felt too quiet.
Then a knock sounded.
Leo entered.
He looked grim.
"Boss."
Matteo straightened.
"What?"
"We traced the device from the Velvet Room."
My heart jumped.
"The one planted in my apron?"
Leo nodded.
"It wasn't just a tracker."
"What was it?"
"A secure authentication device."
I frowned.
"Authentication for what?"
Leo placed a tablet on the desk.
Matteo studied the screen.
His face changed.
"What is that?" I asked.
Leo took a breath.
"The device contained a certificate tied to a dormant financial archive."
I stared.
"In English?"
Matteo looked up.
"Someone wanted to use your identity to access an old account system."
My stomach dropped.
"What identity?"
Leo swallowed.
"Your legal identity."
I stared at him.
"Why?"
Matteo looked at the tablet again.
Then his expression hardened.
"Because your name is already attached to the archive."
I laughed nervously.
"That's impossible."
Leo turned the screen toward me.
There it was.
CLARA ELEANOR BENNETT
My full name.
Beneath it were several unfamiliar codes and a date.
November 17, 2000.
The night of the fire.
The night before my birth certificate claimed I was born.
I went cold.
"Wait."
Matteo looked at me.
"What?"
"That date."
Leo frowned.
"What about it?"
"I wasn't born until November twenty-fourth."
The room went silent.
Matteo looked at Leo.
Leo looked at the screen.
Then back at me.
"Clara," he said carefully, "are you sure?"
I stared.
"Yes."
"My birthday is November twenty-fourth."
Matteo leaned forward.
"But you're twenty-six today."
"Yes."
He went very still.
I felt the blood drain from my face.
Because suddenly I remembered something.
My mother had always celebrated my birthday a week early.
Every year.
She claimed it was because of a mistake on my original hospital paperwork.
I had never questioned it.
Now I looked at the screen again.
November seventeenth.
The fire.
My official records.
The discrepancy.
Matteo spoke quietly.
"Clara, what hospital were you born in?"
"Saint Catherine's."
Leo checked the tablet.
His expression changed.
"Boss."
Matteo looked up.
"What?"
"Saint Catherine's maternity wing didn't open until 2002."
I stared at him.
"No."
Leo continued.
"Before that, the building was a rehabilitation hospital."
My stomach twisted.
"That can't be right."
Matteo stood.
"Get the original birth records."
Leo nodded and hurried out.
I sat frozen.
My entire life suddenly felt like a stack of papers someone had rearranged.
The father who was dead.
The mother who wasn't a baker.
The birthday that might be wrong.
And the name attached to an account opened before I was supposedly born.
I looked at Matteo.
"What am I?"
His face softened.
"Clara."
"No."
My voice cracked.
"What am I to these people?"
He came around the desk.
Knelt beside my chair.
For the first time, he looked at me without trying to solve me.
"You're Clara Bennett."
I shook my head.
"That doesn't mean anything anymore."
He held my gaze.
"It means everything."
I swallowed.
He continued.
"Whatever your parents did, whatever documents were altered, whatever secrets they buried, none of it changes who you are."
My eyes filled.
I wanted to believe him.
Then his phone rang.
Leo.
Matteo answered.
"What?"
His expression changed.
"Are you certain?"
A pause.
"Send it."
He ended the call.
I looked at him.
"What?"
He didn't answer.
"Matteo."
He turned the screen toward me.
A scanned document filled the display.
A hospital transfer record.
Dated November 18, 2000.
Patient: Eleanor Bennett.
Infant: Female.
My heart stopped.
Because beneath the record was a second name.
Infant's registered guardian: Vittorio Conti.
I stared at it.
Then whispered:
"Why was your uncle my guardian?"
May you like
Matteo's face went white.
And before he could answer, the front door alarm began screaming.
