Chapter 9 - The Man Who Came Back
I screamed Rico's name.
Dante practically lifted me into the waiting SUV.
“Get in!”
“No! He's still inside!”
Another shot echoed from the house.
Leo began crying.
“Daddy!”
I twisted toward the mansion.
“Dante, please!”
His face was tense.
“Rico knows what he's doing.”
“That's not an answer!”
The driver accelerated.
We shot down the driveway.
Through the iron gates.
Onto the dark road.
I looked back until the mansion disappeared behind the trees.
Leo was shaking in my lap.
I covered his ears gently.
“It's okay, buddy.”
But I couldn't stop my own hands from trembling.
We drove toward a smaller property near the waterfront.
Dante called it a safe house.
It looked like an ordinary two-story home with white siding, a covered porch, and a rusty basketball hoop.
Inside, there were security cameras, reinforced doors, and two armed guards.
Nothing about my life felt ordinary anymore.
Mrs. Bellini took Leo upstairs to change his pajamas.
He refused to let go of my sleeve.
“Daddy come?”
I knelt beside him.
“I hope so.”
He studied my face.
“Daddy sad.”
I nodded.
“Sometimes grown-ups get sad, too.”
Leo thought about that.
Then whispered, “Daddy needs milk?”
I almost cried.
“Maybe he does.”
It was a small, innocent question.
But it held something important.
Leo wasn't only beginning to accept comfort.
He was beginning to notice his father's pain.
After Mrs. Bellini settled him in the bedroom, I found Dante in the kitchen.
“Have you heard from Rico?”
“No.”
“How long?”
“Twenty-three minutes.”
I stared at him.
“That's too long.”
Dante said nothing.
I looked at the clock.
Every second felt enormous.
Then his radio crackled.
A voice came through.
“Package recovered. Principal en route.”
Dante straightened.
“Repeat.”
“Mr. Moretti is coming in.”
I gripped the counter.
“He's alive?”
Dante finally exhaled.
“Yes.”
I sat down before my legs gave out.
Rico arrived eleven minutes later.
His white shirt was stained at the shoulder.
There was a shallow cut along his cheek.
He looked exhausted.
But alive.
I stood so quickly my chair fell backward.
“What happened?”
He stared at me.
“You should be sleeping.”
I walked straight toward him.
“Do not tell me to sleep after you go running into a house full of people trying to kill you.”
Dante looked at the ceiling.
Rico blinked.
“Clara—”
“You have a three-year-old upstairs who thinks you're not coming back!”
Something changed in his face.
All the anger left it.
He looked toward the staircase.
“Is he okay?”
“He's scared.”
Rico nodded.
“I'll go to him.”
He started past me.
Then stopped.
“Thank you.”
I crossed my arms.
“For what?”
“For being angry because I came back.”
I stared at him.
He gave me a tired, almost disbelieving smile.
“It's been a long time since anyone did that.”
Before I could answer, he climbed the stairs.
I followed more slowly.
Leo was sitting up when we entered.
The moment he saw Rico, his eyes widened.
“Daddy!”
Rico crossed the room and dropped to his knees beside the bed.
“Hey, little man.”
Leo threw himself into his father's arms.
Rico held him.
And held him.
And held him.
“I'm here,” he whispered.
Leo pulled back and touched the cut on his cheek.
“Boo-boo.”
“Yeah.”
“Hurts?”
“A little.”
Leo considered that.
Then kissed the uninjured side of Rico's face.
“Better.”
Rico laughed.
It was a broken sound.
But real.
For the first time, I heard him laugh.
I backed toward the doorway.
They needed this moment alone.
But Rico looked up.
“Clara?”
I stopped.
He nodded toward the chair beside the bed.
“Stay?”
I looked at Leo.
He held out one hand.
So I stayed.
Later, when the boy finally fell asleep between his father and the stuffed rabbit, Rico handed me a small envelope.
“We found another compartment inside the painting.”
I opened it.
Inside was a handwritten list of names.
Account numbers.
Dates.
And one photograph.
I frowned.
The picture showed Elena standing beside a young woman outside the Moretti Children's Foundation.
The woman looked familiar.
Very familiar.
I held it closer.
Then my stomach dropped.
Because the woman beside Elena was my mother.
And she was standing on her own.
Without her cane.
The photograph was dated two months ago.
Four months after Elena's supposed death.
I looked at Rico.
“How is this possible?”
May you like
He was staring at the photograph.
“I was hoping you could tell me.”
