Chapter 4 – THE PHOTOGRAPH IN THE BOX

Matteo took the photograph from Henry’s trembling fingers.

I stayed by the doorway, too afraid to move. The silence in the bedroom was so heavy it felt hard to breathe.

Matteo stared at the picture for a long time.

His breathing hitched. The fierce, untouchable mafia boss suddenly looked like a terrified little boy.

“Where did you get this?” Matteo asked, his voice cracking.

“Your father gave it to me,” Henry answered quietly. “The night before he died.”

“Show me,” I said, unable to bear the suspense anymore. I stepped forward. “Please, let me see.”

Matteo slowly turned the photograph around.

It was a Polaroid, faded at the edges.

In the picture, a beautiful young woman with dark, curling hair was sitting on a park bench. She was holding a tiny, swaddled newborn baby in her arms, looking down at the child with absolute adoration.

I stared at the young woman’s face.

Then, I reached up and touched my own cheek.

She had my nose. My jawline. My bright, unmistakable green eyes.

“Who is she?” I whispered.

“Her name was Isabella,” Matteo said, his eyes welling with tears. “She was my older sister.”

My heart stopped beating for a full second.

“Your sister?” I choked out. “But… she looks just like me.”

“She died twenty-seven years ago,” Matteo said, looking at me. “In a terrible car crash. Her car went off a bridge into the river. They never recovered her body.”

“Twenty-seven years ago,” I repeated, the math calculating instantly in my head. “I’m twenty-seven.”

Henry finally stood up, releasing June’s hand gently.

“Isabella didn’t die in that crash, Nicky,” Henry said softly. “She survived. She pulled herself out of the river and walked three miles to a hospital.”

Matteo grabbed Henry by the shoulders. “You’re telling me my sister lived? Where is she? Why didn’t she come home?!”

“Because someone in your family cut her brake lines!” Henry shouted, tears spilling down his wrinkled face. “She knew if she came back, they would finish the job! So she went into hiding to protect her baby!”

I stumbled backward, hitting the doorframe.

Her baby.

“My mother,” I whispered, the words tasting foreign on my tongue. “The woman who raised me… Mary Turner. She wasn’t my biological mother?”

“Mary was a neonatal nurse,” Henry explained, his voice softening as he looked at me. “Isabella trusted her. When Isabella knew the syndicate was still looking for her, she gave you to Mary. She begged Mary to take you far away and raise you as her own.”

“And my father?” Matteo asked, looking sick to his stomach. “Dominic knew about this?”

“He found out years later,” Henry nodded. “But he was dying. He knew Evelyn’s family was circling like vultures. He knew the Crosses wanted the Russo empire. So he transferred the deed to me, knowing they would never suspect the old gardener.”

Henry pointed a shaking finger at me.

“He made me swear to find you, Abigail. To bring you here. To keep you safe until Evelyn’s true motives were exposed.”

I couldn’t process it.

For fifteen months, I had scrubbed these floors. I had washed Matteo’s clothes. I had been humiliated, ordered around, and treated like dirt by Evelyn.

And this whole time… this was my house.

Matteo was my uncle.

Matteo turned to me, the realization washing over his face. The tough, unyielding mafia boss took a step toward me, reaching out a trembling hand.

“Abigail,” he whispered. “You’re my blood.”

Before he could touch me, the heavy oak door of the bedroom slammed open.

Dante, the security chief, stood in the doorway, bleeding from a cut above his eye.

“Boss,” Dante gasped, clutching his ribs. “We have a massive problem.”

Matteo’s demeanor instantly snapped from a grieving brother to a ruthless boss.

“What happened to you?” Matteo demanded.

“It’s Marcus Cross,” Dante wheezed. “Evelyn’s brother. He just breached the front gates with three SUVs full of armed men.”

Matteo cursed. “Where is Evelyn?”

“Marcus took out the guards in the east wing,” Dante said. “He broke her out. They’re heavily armed, sir. They aren’t leaving without the deed.”

“Lock down the house,” Matteo roared, pulling a sleek black handgun from a hidden holster under his jacket. “Get Henry and June to the panic room in the basement.”

“It’s too late for that, Matteo.”

A cold, arrogant voice echoed from the top of the grand staircase.

We stepped out into the hallway.

Standing at the balcony was Marcus Cross. He was holding an assault rifle, completely relaxed, a lit cigarette dangling from his lips.

Beside him stood Evelyn.

She wasn’t crying anymore. She was smiling.

“You really should have married me, darling,” Evelyn sneered, looking down at Matteo.

“You’re making a mistake, Marcus,” Matteo warned, raising his weapon. “My men will slaughter yours.”

Marcus laughed, flicking his cigarette onto the expensive carpet.

“Maybe,” Marcus said. “But while your men are busy at the front door, mine are out back.”

Marcus pulled a walkie-talkie from his belt and pressed the button.

“Burn it down,” Marcus ordered over the radio. “Make sure the old lady is inside.”

Henry screamed.

Out the window, bright orange flames suddenly erupted into the night sky.

They had set the cottage on fire.

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