PART 2 — THE MAN MY FATHER NEVER TOLD ME ABOUT
My father was awake when we reached the care facility at 10:16 p.m.
Leo had tried to make me stay at the mansion.
I told him if he ordered me one more time, I would walk to the facility barefoot if necessary.
So we drove.
No convoy.
No sirens.
Just Leo behind the wheel of a black sedan, me in the passenger seat, and two security vehicles far enough behind that I could pretend they didn’t exist.
Rain had started.
Chicago blurred against the windows in streaks of gold and white.
Neither of us spoke for fifteen minutes.
Then I asked, “How old were you?”
Leo kept his eyes on the road.
“Seventeen.”
“When my father saved you?”
“Yes.”
“From what?”
Another pause.
“My father.”
I turned toward him.
Leo’s hands tightened around the wheel.
“Vittorio Santoro believed fear was the cleanest form of loyalty. When I was seventeen, I told him I wanted out.”
“You told a Mafia boss you wanted out.”
“He was also my father.”
“That didn’t make him safer.”
“No.”
His mouth twisted slightly.
“Made him worse.”
The wipers beat across the windshield.
“My father found out I had contacted my mother’s brother in Boston. I planned to disappear after graduation.”
“What happened?”
“He locked me in the basement of one of our warehouses.”
I stared at him.
Leo’s voice never changed.
That made it harder to hear.
“He told me I had forty-eight hours to remember who I belonged to.”
“Jesus.”
“Your father handled books for him. Payroll. Shell companies. Properties. He came to the warehouse looking for signatures and heard me.”
I pictured my gentle father.
Thin glasses.
Soft cardigans.
A calculator always within reach.
“What did he do?”
“Opened the door.”
“That simple?”
Leo glanced at me.
“No.”
“What happened?”
“My father’s men caught us leaving.”
A red light washed over Leo’s face.
He stared through the windshield.
“Thomas put me in his car and drove through a loading gate while they shot at us.”
My mouth opened.
No sound came.
“I spent the night in his apartment,” Leo continued. “Your mother stitched my shoulder at the kitchen table.”
A memory surfaced.
My mother owned an old green sewing kit.
After she died, I found blood on one of the towels stored with it.
I had assumed it was from the crash.
My stomach turned.
“You met my mother?”
Leo nodded.
“She made terrible coffee.”
A laugh escaped me.
A broken, unwilling sound.
“She did.”
Leo’s expression softened.
“She told me I looked too skinny and fed me eggs at two in the morning.”
That was so painfully my mother that tears rose again.
“What happened after?”
“My uncle found me the next day. He convinced my father that killing his only son might create succession problems.”
“Comforting.”
“I was sent to Italy for two years instead.”
I looked out at the rain.
“My father never told me.”
“He was trying to keep you out of it.”
“Apparently that worked beautifully.”
Leo flinched.
Tiny.
But I saw it.
“When did Greg enter this?”
“His real name is Gabriel DeLuca.”
The name meant nothing to me.
“His father, Marco DeLuca, was my father’s closest adviser.”
“What does he want?”
“Something Thomas took.”
“What?”
“A ledger.”
Of course.
My father.
Numbers.
Always numbers.
Leo continued.
“Your father discovered Vittorio was moving money without telling his own captains. Offshore accounts. Payoffs. Judges. Police. Politicians. But also payments connected to murders that had been blamed on rival families.”
“He copied it.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“To protect himself.”
I looked at Leo.
“Or you?”
Leo said nothing.
That silence answered.
The facility came into view ahead.
A low brick building glowing beneath the rain.
Before I opened the door, Leo caught my wrist.
Not hard.
“Anna.”
I looked at his hand.
He released me.
“If Thomas tells you things you hate hearing about me, believe him.”
That was not what I expected.
“You’re warning me against yourself?”
“I’m warning you that I have done things I cannot make clean by loving you.”
Everything inside me stopped.
Leo seemed to realize what he had said at the exact moment I did.
The rain struck the roof.
Once.
Twice.
A hundred times.
“What did you say?”
His face hardened.
Too late.
“You heard me.”
“Say it again.”
“No.”
A laugh trembled out of me.
“You can order me to remove a dress, investigate my date, hide half my life from me—but saying how you feel is where you suddenly develop boundaries?”
His eyes met mine.
“Because that is the one thing I have no right to ask you to carry.”
My throat tightened.
“You don’t get to decide that either.”
Leo stared at me.
For once, the feared Leo Santoro had no answer.
So I opened the car door.
My father looked small beneath the blankets.
That was the first thing I thought every time I saw him.
Thomas Bennett had once been six-foot-one.
Broad shoulders.
Big hands.
The kind of father who could carry a Christmas tree over one shoulder and me over the other.
Now one side of his face sagged slightly.
His left arm rested uselessly against the mattress.
His speech came in fragments when he was tired.
But his eyes remained exactly the same.
Warm brown.
Sharp.
Alive.
They moved from me to Leo.
Then widened.
His monitor quickened.
“Dad.”
I hurried to him.
His fingers closed around mine.
“Anna.”
“I’m here.”
His gaze stayed on Leo.
His mouth worked.
“Santoro.”
Leo stood at the foot of the bed.
“Hello, Thomas.”
My father’s eyes filled with something I couldn’t identify.
Fear.
Anger.
Grief.
Maybe all three.
“You,” he whispered.
“Yes.”
My father began trying to sit up.
I helped him.
“Dad, what happened the night of the accident?”
His face changed instantly.
There it was.
Recognition.
Not confusion.
Not a damaged memory.
Terror.
“Greg,” I said.
Nothing.
“Gabriel DeLuca.”
My father’s fingers crushed mine.
“DeLuca.”
Leo moved closer.
“Thomas, where is the ledger?”
My father looked at him.
Then at me.
His eyes filled with tears.
“No.”
“Dad?”
“No book.”
Leo frowned.
“You took it.”
“No.”
“You told me—”
My father struck the mattress with his good hand.
“No book!”
I jumped.
Leo went silent.
My father began breathing hard.
I leaned closer.
“Then what did you take?”
His gaze found mine.
His lips trembled.
“You.”
The word was barely audible.
“What?”
He touched my cheek.
“You.”
My entire body went cold.
“Dad, I don’t understand.”
He closed his eyes.
A tear slipped toward his ear.
“Not… mine.”
The room stopped.
I heard the monitor.
Rain.
My own breath.
Nothing made sense.
“What did you say?”
My father looked at Leo.
And Leo’s face changed.
Not surprise.
Recognition.
I stood.
“You knew.”
Leo’s silence was enough.
“You knew this too.”
“Anna—”
“Who am I?”
My voice rose.
“Who the hell am I?”
My father began crying.
Leo looked devastated.
And somehow that frightened me most.
“Thomas found you the night he helped me escape,” Leo said.
I shook my head.
“No.”
“You were three months old.”
“No.”
“Anna—”
“My mother gave birth to me.”
“Your mother raised you.”
The distinction split something open inside me.
I backed against the wall.
“Who gave birth to me?”
Leo did not answer.
My father did.
A name.
Broken by damaged speech.
But clear enough.
“Maria.”
Leo closed his eyes.
I whispered, “Maria who?”
My father looked at him.
Leo opened his eyes.
“Maria DeLuca.”
Every hair on my arms lifted.
“DeLuca.”
“Yes.”
“As in Greg.”
“Yes.”
I felt sick.
“Gabriel is—”
“Your biological brother.”
The room seemed to tip.
I gripped the edge of the dresser.
The boring actuary.
The man I had kissed twice.
The man who held my clutch.
The man waiting for me at a restaurant.
My brother.
“No.”
“He didn’t know at first,” Leo said quickly.
“How could you possibly know that?”
“Because I’ve been following him since he arrived in Chicago.”
I laughed wildly.
“Of course you have.”
My father was shaking his head.
“Bad.”
He pointed toward Leo.
“No. Tell.”
Then toward me.
“Tell.”
I went back to the bed.
“Dad, tell me.”
His speech fractured under stress.
“Maria… scared. Marco… baby… leverage.”
Leo translated softly.
“Marco DeLuca used his wife and children as leverage against anyone who tried to leave him.”
My father nodded violently.
“Maria wanted you gone,” Leo continued. “She asked Thomas and your mother for help.”
I looked at Dad.
He was crying openly now.
“She gave me away?”
He squeezed my hand.
“Saved.”
One word.
It destroyed me.
“She saved me.”
He nodded.
Leo spoke behind me.
“Maria died three days later.”
I turned.
“How?”
His voice was flat.
Too flat.
“I was told suicide.”
“You don’t believe that.”
“No.”
My knees weakened.
“And Gabriel?”
“He was six. Marco kept him.”
Everything rearranged itself inside my skull.
Greg’s questions.
His interest.
His appearance.
The tracker.
“Does Gabriel know I’m his sister?”
“Yes.”
“When did he find out?”
“Three months ago.”
The exact length of time Leo had started watching me differently.
I stared at him.
“You found out three months ago too.”
“Yes.”
“And that’s when you suddenly started following me with your eyes.”
Leo’s face hardened with pain.
“That isn’t why.”
“Then why?”
He looked toward my father.
Then back at me.
“Because three months ago, Gabriel sent me a photograph of you sleeping.”
My blood turned to ice.
Leo continued.
“It had one sentence beneath it.”
“What sentence?”
His voice dropped.
“Vittorio took my mother. I’ll take what his son loves.”
I couldn’t breathe.
“So all this time…”
My eyes burned.
“You weren’t jealous.”
Leo looked at me.
“I was jealous.”
Despite everything, a hysterical laugh broke from my throat.
He almost smiled.
Almost.
“But jealousy was the least dangerous thing in that foyer tonight.”
I wiped my face angrily.
“You could have told me.”
“I should have.”
“You let me keep seeing him.”
“I needed to know what he wanted.”
“You used me as bait?”
“No.”
His answer cracked through the room.
“No.”
For the first time that night, real anger entered his voice.
“I had men within thirty feet of you every time you saw him.”
“That is not better!”
“I know.”
“Then why?”
“Because if I locked you inside my house without telling you the truth, you would hate me.”
I stared at him.
“And what exactly do you think I’m doing now?”
Leo absorbed that without flinching.
My father suddenly made a strangled sound.
His hand clawed at the blanket.
“Dad?”
His eyes fixed beyond me.
Toward the doorway.
I turned.
A man in blue scrubs stood there.
For one second, nothing seemed unusual.
Then I saw the shoes.
Expensive brown leather.
Not hospital shoes.
The man smiled.
“Hello, Anna.”
Greg.
I had never seen Leo move that fast.
He crossed the room before I understood what was happening.
Greg raised both hands.
“Easy.”
Leo stopped.
Not because Greg had a weapon.
Because Greg held a small black remote.
His thumb rested over a button.
“What is that?” I whispered.
Greg looked at me.
The warmth I knew was gone.
He seemed older without it.
Colder.
“Insurance.”
Leo’s gaze flicked toward my father’s IV pump.
Greg smiled.
“Smart.”
My stomach turned.
“You did something to him?”
“Not yet.”
“Gabriel,” Leo said.
Greg’s face twitched.
“Don’t call me that.”
“It’s your name.”
“It was my father’s name for me.”
Leo’s voice remained calm.
“Anna is your sister.”
Greg looked at me.
Something broke through his expression.
Pain.
Real pain.
For the first time, I saw it.
Not a villain.
A child who had grown up inside the wrong house.
“You think I don’t know?” he whispered.
“Then why were you dating me?”
His face twisted.
“I wasn’t.”
“You kissed me.”
“I needed access.”
“You could have told me.”
He laughed bitterly.
“That I’m the brother nobody mentioned? That your perfect parents stole you while I stayed behind with the man who killed our mother?”
My father made a sound.
Greg looked at him with hatred.
“You took her.”
Dad struggled.
“Saved.”
“You saved her and left me.”
My father’s face collapsed.
“Child.”
“You knew I was there!”
“Yes.”
Greg froze.
The word landed harder than shouting.
Dad began crying.
“Tried.”
His speech broke.
“Car… came back… Marco… gone.”
Greg stared.
“No.”
“Came… back.”
“No.”
My father pounded his own chest.
“I came.”
Greg’s thumb loosened over the remote.
Dad looked at him.
“Too late.”
Something fragile crossed Greg’s face.
Six years old.
Waiting for someone.
Nobody coming.
“You’re lying.”
My father shook his head.
Leo spoke quietly.
“Thomas filed a missing-child report under a false name in Wisconsin. I found it four months ago.”
Greg looked at him.
“What?”
“He searched for you.”
Leo slowly took a folded photograph from his inside pocket.
He placed it on the dresser.
A photocopy of an old document.
Greg stared at it.
“You knew?”
“I found out after you threatened her.”
Greg’s breathing changed.
“You could have told me.”
Leo looked at him with terrible calm.
“You put a tracker in her purse.”
Greg’s face crumpled.
Just for a second.
“I wanted him afraid.”
He looked at me.
“I wanted Santoro to understand what it felt like to watch someone he loved become unsafe.”
“And me?”
My voice shook.
“What was I supposed to feel?”
His eyes found mine.
For the first time all night, he looked ashamed.
“I didn’t think…”
“That’s the problem.”
Tears spilled down my face.
“You spent your entire life furious nobody saved you, and the first thing you did when you found me was make me afraid.”
Greg lowered the remote slightly.
Leo moved.
One step.
Greg jerked it upward.
“Don’t.”
Leo froze.
I looked at Greg.
“Do you actually want me to be your sister?”
His mouth opened.
No sound came.
“Because this is your chance.”
I stepped toward him.
Leo said my name sharply.
I ignored him.
Greg’s eyes widened.
“Anna.”
I took another step.
“If you press that button, you become exactly what our father taught you to be.”
“He was your father too.”
“No.”
I glanced at Thomas Bennett.
At the man crying in a hospital bed because twenty-eight years earlier he had been too late to save one child and brave enough to save another.
“That is my father.”
Greg flinched.
I reached out my hand.
“But you can still be my brother.”
The room went silent.
Greg stared at my hand.
His face folded inward.
All the anger drained.
What remained was exhausted.
Lost.
Human.
His thumb slid away from the button.
Leo crossed the distance in two steps.
He took the remote.
No punch.
No gunshot.
Nothing dramatic.
Just Leo’s hand closing around Greg’s wrist while Greg sagged against the wall as though he had finally become tired enough to stop running.
And then my brother began to cry.