Chapter 13 - THE FATHER SHE NEVER KNEW
Z
Claire laughed.
It was not because anything was funny.
It was because sometimes the human body refused to choose the correct reaction.
Matteo Bellandi stood across the chapel.
Abigail stared at him.
Vincent remained between Claire and everyone else.
Alessandro quietly ordered the doors closed.
Claire looked down at the birth certificate.
“No.”
Matteo swallowed.
“I understand.”
“No, you don’t.”
She held up the document.
“Patrick raised me.”
“Yes.”
“My mother was married to him.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re telling me—”
“Margaret and I knew each other before she married Patrick.”
Claire went still.
Matteo continued.
“She studied art history in Florence for one summer when she was twenty-two.”
Claire remembered an old photograph of her mother beside the Arno.
Patrick had always called it Margaret’s ridiculous European phase.
“I was in medical school.”
Matteo smiled painfully.
“We fell in love.”
“What happened?”
“Her father became ill. She returned to America.”
“And married Patrick.”
“Yes.”
Claire looked down.
“Then how am I yours?”
Matteo hesitated.
Vincent’s expression hardened.
“Careful.”
Claire touched his arm.
“Let him answer.”
Matteo nodded.
“Years later, Margaret contacted me.”
“When?”
“After your sisters were born.”
Claire’s stomach turned.
“Did you have an affair?”
“Yes.”
The word landed heavily.
Claire closed her eyes.
She had wanted truth.
Truth had no obligation to arrive gently.
Matteo continued.
“Margaret was deeply unhappy.”
“That excuses it?”
“No.”
Claire opened her eyes.
Matteo looked ashamed.
“It explains nothing. I loved her. She loved me. We made decisions that hurt people.”
“Patrick.”
Matteo’s expression changed.
“Patrick was already hurting her.”
“That still isn’t the same thing.”
“No.”
Claire appreciated that he did not argue.
“How long?”
“Several months.”
“And then she became pregnant.”
“Yes.”
“With me.”
“Yes.”
“Did Patrick know?”
Matteo looked at Alessandro.
Then back.
“Eventually.”
Claire’s blood chilled.
“When?”
“When you were around seven.”
That was when Patrick’s treatment of her had changed.
Claire remembered birthdays becoming smaller.
Family portraits where she stood at the edge.
Dinners she stopped attending.
Patrick telling her she was built wrong.
Too emotional.
Too awkward.
Too much.
Her body had begun changing around then.
But perhaps Patrick’s cruelty had not started because of her weight.
Perhaps the weight had simply been useful.
“He knew I wasn’t his.”
“Yes.”
Claire sat.
Vincent crouched beside her.
She stared at the floor.
“So every time he looked at me…”
Matteo’s voice broke.
“I am sorry.”
Claire looked up.
“Were you there?”
He froze.
“When he insulted me?”
“No.”
“When he told me nobody would want me?”
“No.”
“When he hid me from people?”
“No.”
“When he sold me?”
“No.”
“Then don’t apologize like you were.”
Matteo’s eyes filled.
Claire stood again.
“You weren’t my father either.”
The words hit him.
“You gave me DNA. That’s all.”
Matteo nodded slowly.
“You’re right.”
Claire had expected defense.
Excuses.
Maybe gratitude demands.
His agreement unsettled her more.
Abigail stepped closer.
“Claire.”
She turned.
“Did you know?”
“No.”
“Lauren?”
“I don’t think so.”
Claire looked back at the box.
There were letters from Margaret to Matteo.
Dozens.
She did not want to read them.
Not yet.
Vincent saw.
“You don’t have to.”
Claire nodded.
Matteo reached into his jacket.
Vincent immediately stiffened.
Matteo stopped.
“A photograph.”
Claire waited.
He slowly removed it.
Margaret holding infant Claire.
Matteo beside her.
Claire stared.
She had never seen herself as a baby in Patrick’s arms.
There were family photographs.
Christenings.
Christmas.
But not one where Patrick held Claire alone.
Now she understood why.
Matteo placed the photograph on the altar.
“I stayed away because Margaret asked me to.”
Claire looked at him sharply.
“She thought Patrick would retaliate against all of you if I challenged him.”
“So everyone decided silence was safer.”
Matteo nodded.
“Did you ever check on me?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Private investigators.”
Claire laughed in disbelief.
“You watched me from a distance.”
“Yes.”
“Did you know how he treated me?”
Matteo’s silence answered.
Claire stared.
“You knew.”
“I knew some.”
“How much is some?”
“That he excluded you. That he criticized your appearance.”
“And you still stayed away.”
Matteo’s voice shook.
“I believed appearing would make it worse.”
Claire stepped closer.
“That is what cowards always say after danger passes.”
Vincent looked at her.
Matteo lowered his head.
“You are right.”
Again.
No defense.
Claire hated that it made anger harder.
She walked outside.
Vincent followed.
The Sicilian afternoon had become cloudy.
Claire stood beneath an olive tree.
“Are you going to ask if I’m okay?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“You’re clearly not.”
She laughed.
Vincent stood beside her.
“My whole life is a forged document.”
“No.”
She looked at him.
“Parts of your history were hidden.”
“That sounds like therapy language.”
“I married an increasingly expensive therapist.”
Claire almost smiled.
Then her expression broke.
“If Patrick knew I wasn’t his…”
Vincent understood.
“All those years.”
“Yes.”
Claire pressed her hand over her mouth.
Vincent pulled her against him.
She let him.
“He hated me because I wasn’t his.”
Vincent held her tighter.
“No.”
Claire pulled back.
“What?”
“He chose to hurt you because of what you represented to him.”
“That sounds like the same thing.”
“It isn’t.”
She stared.
Vincent’s voice became firm.
“A child is not responsible for the circumstances of her birth.”
Claire’s eyes filled.
“He punished you because he was cruel.”
She looked away.
“Maybe if I’d been prettier.”
“Stop.”
His tone was sharp enough that she looked back.
Vincent’s expression was fierce.
“This is not your body’s fault.”
Claire started crying again.
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“Some days.”
“Then today I’ll know it for you.”
She laughed through tears.
“That’s annoyingly romantic.”
“I have occasional weaknesses.”
Later that evening, Daniel received a call from New Jersey.
Lauren Callahan had disappeared.
Her apartment was open.
Her phone remained inside.
No sign of forced entry.
Claire’s pain vanished beneath immediate fear.
“Who took her?”
Daniel hesitated.
“We don’t know.”
Abigail went pale.
Vincent asked the important question.
“When?”
“Five hours ago.”
Claire looked at the time.
Five hours.
Almost exactly when she opened the box.
Her phone rang.
Unknown number.
Everyone froze.
Claire answered.
A man spoke in accented English.
“Mrs. Caruso.”
Vincent leaned closer.
The voice continued.
“You opened something that should have stayed closed.”
Claire gripped the phone.
“Where is my sister?”
A soft laugh.
“Alive.”
“What do you want?”
“The Bellandi records.”
Claire looked at Matteo.
“Who are you?”
“You know the symbol.”
Claire’s stomach tightened.
“The serpent.”
“Yes.”
She looked toward Alessandro.
His face changed.
“No,” he whispered.
Claire heard him.
The man on the phone laughed.
“Old Alessandro has lied too.”
Claire’s heart pounded.
“What do you mean?”
The voice lowered.
“The Vescari family did not send the serpent to threaten you.”
Claire looked at Alessandro.
“Then who did?”
Silence.
Then:
“The woman your mother tried to save.”
The call ended.
Alessandro sat down slowly.
Vincent looked at him.
“Who?”
The old man closed his eyes.
“My daughter.”
Claire stared.
“You said my mother saved her life.”
“She did.”
“Then why would she take Lauren?”
Alessandro looked suddenly older.
“Because after Margaret died, my daughter became something else.”
Vincent’s voice sharpened.
“What is her name?”
Alessandro opened his eyes.
“Elena Vescari.”
Daniel went still.
Vincent noticed.
“You know that name.”
Daniel nodded slowly.
“Everyone in European intelligence knows that name.”
Claire’s stomach turned.
“Why?”
Daniel looked at her.
“Because Elena Vescari runs one of the largest private criminal networks in the Mediterranean.”
Claire stared at Alessandro.
His daughter.
Her mother’s supposed friend.
And now Lauren’s captor.
Alessandro spoke quietly.
“If Elena has your sister, she does not want money.”
Claire tightened her grip on the phone.
“Then what does she want?”
May you like
The old man looked at Margaret’s unopened letters.
“Revenge.”
