Chapter 4 - The Secret Camille Had Been Hiding
The family voted.
Vincent repeated the words in his mind for hours.
Not a rogue uncle.
Not one bitter cousin.
A vote.
Anthony eventually admitted that a private council existed.
Older Castellano relatives.
Former business partners.
Men who believed Vincent had weakened the family by dismantling illicit operations.
Selling casinos.
Closing smuggling routes.
Refusing bribes.
Allowing outside audits.
To them, Vincent’s reforms were not morality.
They were betrayal.
“How many?” Vincent asked.
Anthony said nothing.
Marcus restrained him.
Federal authorities would receive him later.
Vincent no longer handled family betrayal in basements.
That change had apparently become the reason family wanted him dead.
Camille found him in the library after midnight.
No guards.
No files.
Just Vincent sitting beside dark windows.
“You should be in bed.”
“So should you.”
“I have a toddler.”
“Fair.”
She sat across from him.
“Does it hurt?”
“The wound?”
“Yes.”
“Less.”
“That means yes.”
He smiled slightly.
Camille studied him.
“Were you close to Anthony?”
“He taught me to drive.”
“Rafael?”
“My father trusted him more than anyone.”
“Isabella?”
“My sister.”
Camille nodded.
“Then you really don't know who to trust.”
Vincent looked at her.
“Not currently.”
She almost laughed.
Then became serious.
“I do.”
“What?”
“Know who I trust.”
“Who?”
“My daughter.”
That answer affected him.
“Children simplify things.”
“No.”
Camille shook her head.
“They expose them.”
She looked toward the hallway.
“Adeline knew you were hurt before she knew what betrayal meant.”
Vincent thought of the phone.
The frog.
Keep eyes.
“She’s strange.”
“Excuse me?”
“Compliment.”
“She likes you.”
“Concerning.”
Camille smiled.
Then stopped.
“I lied to you too.”
Vincent’s eyes sharpened.
“About?”
“Mateo.”
He waited.
“I knew there was a possibility he was alive.”
Vincent's expression changed.
“How?”
“Three years ago, after Mia died, I got a letter.”
Her older daughter.
“What letter?”
“Only four words.”
She looked at him.
I’M SORRY. I’M ALIVE.
Vincent stared.
“And you never told anyone?”
“No.”
“Did you recognize handwriting?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn't you search?”
“I did.”
“And?”
“Nothing.”
“Police?”
“How do I tell police my husband who has a death certificate may be alive because of one unsigned letter?”
“You could’ve come to me.”
Camille laughed.
“Mateo’s letter also said, DO NOT TRUST THE CASTELLANOS.”
Fair.
“What happened next?”
“Another letter six months later.”
“What did it say?”
“Mia wasn't random.”
Vincent went still.
“The break-in?”
“Yes.”
“Mateo believed Rafael’s men did it.”
Camille’s hands tightened.
“They were looking for evidence he thought I had.”
“You didn't.”
“No.”
“And your daughter died because of it.”
“Yes.”
Vincent looked away.
His family.
Again.
“Why come here after that?”
Camille’s eyes hardened.
“Because grief did something ugly to me.”
“What?”
“It made me tired of being afraid.”
She came to the estate not only for employment.
She wanted access to Isabella.
The one Castellano who had once tried contacting her through an attorney after Mateo’s death.
“Isabella knew?”
“Some.”
“Why didn’t she tell you Mateo survived?”
“She said she couldn't.”
“Because?”
“She claimed knowing would put me in more danger.”
Vincent almost laughed.
Same excuse everywhere.
Protection through silence.
“I hate that sentence.”
“What sentence?”
“I couldn’t tell you because it was safer.”
Camille looked at him.
“You use it too.”
That shut him up.
The next morning, Isabella returned.
Not voluntarily.
Police found her car near Baton Rouge.
She walked into a sheriff’s station twenty minutes later.
Exhausted.
Bruised.
Alive.
Vincent met her at the estate under federal observation.
She saw him.
Stopped.
“You survived.”
He smiled without warmth.
“Disappointed?”
She ran to him.
Despite the wound, despite everything, Vincent hugged his sister.
She cried against his shoulder.
“I’m sorry.”
“For which part?”
“All of it.”
They sat.
Isabella confirmed Anthony attacked Vincent.
She entered the office halfway through.
Anthony fled through garden doors.
She tried stopping the bleeding.
Then realized someone would frame her because her credentials had already been stolen.
So she ran to find Mateo.
“Did you?”
“Yes.”
Camille’s breathing stopped.
“Where is he?”
Isabella looked at her.
For the first time, guilt became visible.
“Camille.”
“Where is my husband?”
“He’s nearby.”
Camille stood.
“Bring him.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“You all love that sentence.”
Vincent almost smiled.
Isabella continued.
“Mateo is working with federal investigators unofficially.”
“Unofficially?”
“He’s still wanted for crimes connected to the old freight network.”
Camille stared.
“He was part of it?”
Isabella nodded.
That changed everything.
Mateo wasn't only victim.
Before he tried exposing Rafael, he had participated.
Money laundering.
False manifests.
Bribes.
Then he tried to get out.
Camille sat again.
“My husband lied.”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“Years.”
Camille closed her eyes.
Vincent knew the feeling.
Loving a person and discovering another version of them beneath memory.
“Where is he?”
Isabella gave an address.
An abandoned fishing lodge outside Slidell.
Camille insisted on going.
Vincent insisted on coming.
“You’re injured.”
“So?”
“You were stabbed yesterday.”
“Two days.”
“That improvement means nothing.”
“I own the car.”
Camille stared.
“You think that ends arguments?”
“Historically.”
“Not anymore.”
Vincent almost smiled.
They went together.
The lodge sat beside dark water surrounded by cypress trees.
A man stood on the porch.
Older.
Lean.
Scar beside his eye.
Camille stopped walking.
Mateo Ruiz did too.
Seven years.
Neither moved.
Then Camille crossed the yard.
She slapped him.
Hard.
Mateo accepted it.
She slapped him again.
“You let me bury you.”
“I know.”
“Our daughter died.”
His face broke.
“I know.”
“You knew?”
“After.”
“You didn’t come.”
“I wanted to.”
“You didn't.”
“I would have brought them back.”
“Who?”
“Rafael’s people.”
Camille hit his chest.
Again.
Again.
Then collapsed against him.
Mateo held her.
Not romantically.
Desperately.
Two people carrying different versions of the same grief.
Vincent looked away.
Adeline stood beside Isabella holding her green alligator.
Camille had refused to leave her elsewhere.
The toddler looked at Mateo.
“Who?”
Camille pulled back.
Her face was wet.
“This is Mateo.”
Adeline frowned.
“Daddy?”
Nobody breathed.
Camille had shown her photographs.
Of course.
Mateo dropped to his knees.
“Yes.”
Adeline stared.
Then hid behind Vincent’s leg.
That hurt Mateo more than the slap.
Vincent felt it.
Mateo looked at him.
“You.”
“Me what?”
“She trusts you.”
Vincent looked down.
Adeline’s small hand gripped his trousers.
Apparently.
Mateo whispered:
“I missed everything.”
Camille’s anger returned.
May you like
“Yes.”
And for the first time, the living ghost understood that surviving had not spared him from loss.
