Chapter 3 – THE MECHANIC’S DAUGHTER

“The box has been missing for twenty-two years.”

Marco’s words hung in the quiet dining room. He reached out and gently took the heavy silver key from my trembling hand. His thumb traced the engraved Bellini crest, his eyes distant, trapped in a past he had tried desperately to bury.

“My father wore this key on a chain around his neck,” Marco said softly. “The paramedics noted it was missing when they recovered his body from the wreckage.”

My heart hammered against my ribs. “If Miss Warren has it…”

“Then she knows exactly what happened on that road,” Marco finished, his jaw tightening into a dangerous line.

He looked at the yellow train ticket still clutched in my left hand.

“Montreal,” Marco read, his eyes narrowing. “She’s running. She knows Daniel will tell me the truth tomorrow.”

He pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed his security chief.

“Lock down the estate. Nobody leaves. Especially not Celeste. Post two men outside her bedroom door.”

Marco ended the call and looked at me. The intimidating mafia boss, a man who commanded an empire, suddenly looked profoundly exhausted.

“Thank you, Olivia,” he said quietly. “You didn’t have to show me this. You could have just put it back in her purse.”

“You deserved to know the truth, Mr. Bellini.”

He studied my face for a long moment, a strange warmth flickering in his dark eyes.

“Go home, Olivia. Get some rest. Tomorrow is going to be a difficult day.”

I nodded, quickly changing out of my uniform and slipping out the staff entrance.

The rain had stopped, but the streets were slick and slick as I drove my battered sedan back to the small apartment I shared with my father.

When I unlocked the front door, the lights were still on in the kitchen.

My father, Thomas Carter, was sitting at the worn formica table. His hands, permanently stained with motor oil and grease from thirty years as a mechanic, were wrapped around a mug of cold coffee. A stack of past-due bills sat in front of him.

“Dad?” I called out softly. “It’s past midnight. Why are you awake?”

He looked up, offering a tired, strained smile. He looked older than his fifty-eight years. The stress of the failing repair shop was eating him alive.

“Just doing some math, Livvy,” he said, his voice raspy. “Trying to figure out how to stretch a dollar into five before the bank calls on Friday.”

I walked over and wrapped my arms around his shoulders from behind. “We’ll figure it out. We always do.”

He patted my hand, but his sigh was heavy. “How was the fancy engagement dinner? Did the bride-to-be behave herself?”

I hesitated. My father had always warned me to keep my head down and never get involved in the personal affairs of my wealthy employers.

“The dinner was canceled,” I said carefully.

My father turned in his chair, his brow furrowing. “Canceled? Why?”

“Family drama. Mr. Bellini’s brother is getting out of prison tomorrow.”

The coffee mug slipped from my father’s hand, crashing onto the linoleum floor.

Dark liquid splattered across his work boots, but he didn’t even flinch. He just stared at me, his face suddenly drained of all color.

“Daniel is getting out?” my father whispered.

I took a step back, shocked by his reaction. “Yes. Tomorrow morning. Dad, how do you know his brother’s name?”

My father scrambled out of his chair, grabbing a dish towel to wipe the spill, deliberately avoiding my eyes.

“Everyone in this town knows the Bellini family, Olivia,” he muttered quickly. “It’s big news, that’s all.”

But his hands were shaking. The exact same way Helen D’Angelo’s hands had been shaking in the rain.

“Dad, look at me.”

He wouldn’t. He just kept scrubbing the floor.

A terrible, cold dread began to pool in my stomach.

“Dad,” I pushed, my voice rising. “Celeste Warren dropped a key tonight. A key that belonged to Antonio Bellini before he died in that car crash.”

My father froze completely.

He slowly stood up, dropping the towel. His eyes were wide with a terror I had never seen before.

“Celeste has the key?” he choked out.

“Yes. Marco recognized it. He knows someone sabotaged his father’s car. He thinks his brother knows the truth.”

My father backed away from me until his shoulders hit the refrigerator. He squeezed his eyes shut, letting out a ragged, agonizing breath.

“Oh, God,” he whispered. “It’s happening. It’s all coming back.”

“What is coming back?” I pleaded, stepping toward him. “Dad, what aren’t you telling me?”

He looked at me, tears suddenly brimming in his exhausted eyes.

“Olivia,” he said, his voice cracking. “I need you to listen to me very carefully. You cannot go back to that house tomorrow. You have to pack a bag right now. We have to leave.”

“Leave? Why? We don’t have anywhere to go!”

My father reached into his grease-stained work jacket and pulled out a small, worn leather wallet. He opened it and pulled out an old, faded photograph.

He handed it to me with a trembling hand.

I looked at the picture. It was dated twenty-two years ago.

It showed my father, much younger, standing in front of his repair shop.

But he wasn’t alone.

Standing next to him, shaking his hand, was Antonio Bellini.

And parked right behind them in the garage bay was a sleek, black luxury sedan.

The exact same car Antonio Bellini had died in two days later.

I looked up at my father, the breath entirely knocked out of my lungs.

“Dad,” I whispered. “Did you touch that car?”

My father closed his eyes, a single tear escaping.

“I didn’t sabotage the brakes, Olivia,” he cried. “I swear to God, I didn’t. But I know who did.”

Before he could say another word, the heavy wooden door of our apartment exploded inward with a deafening crash.

Wood splintered everywhere as three men in dark suits stormed into our kitchen, drawing silenced pistols.

And stepping through the shattered doorway behind them was Celeste Warren.

She looked at the photograph in my hand, a cold, empty smile twisting her lips.

“Hello, Thomas,” Celeste said to my father. “It’s been a long time.”

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