Chapter 8
We drove to Pennsylvania before sunrise.
Three SUVs.
Federal agents.
My men I still trusted.
Luke rode with Grace, not me.
I understood.
Trust does not arrive because DNA says so.
The farmhouse stood behind dead trees and a rusted gate.
Windows boarded.
Roof sagging.
A place built to hide shame.
Inside, the air smelled of dust and medicine.
In the back room, we found a bed.
Old restraints on the rails.
A locked cabinet full of empty prescription bottles.
Isabella Romano.
Her name was on every label.
Luke stood in the doorway.
His face turned white.
Grace covered his eyes, but he pulled her hand down.
“I need to see.”
On the wall beside the bed were scratch marks.
Days counted.
Weeks.
Years.
I pressed my hand against the wall and felt my soul go dark.
Detective Harris found a tape recorder beneath a loose floorboard.
The batteries were dead.
The evidence tech replaced them.
Isabella’s voice filled the room.
Weak.
Older.
“My name is Isabella Romano. If Luke ever hears this, I did not abandon you.”
Luke broke.
Grace caught him.
The recording continued.
“Carlo found us when you were five. He said Angelo had married Milena and ordered us erased. I didn’t believe him. Then he showed me papers signed by Milena. He took the money Don Torrisi left. He said if I fought, Luke would disappear.”
My hands shook.
“I tried to run twice. They caught me. The nurse says the medicine is for my nerves, but it makes my body heavy.”
Luke sobbed.
“I love you, my son. Find Grace. Find the photograph. Find your father if you can. And if he turns away, know that I never did.”
The tape clicked off.
No one moved.
Then Detective Harris found a final file in the cabinet.
Death certificate.
Unsigned.
Blank date.
Cause listed before death.
Cardiac failure.
A planned ending.
Luke looked at me.
“They killed her.”
May you like
I could not soften it.
“Yes.”
