Chapter 8 – THE HEIR TO THE EMPIRE
The fire cracked in the quiet study.
Matteo held the train ticket to Boston in one hand, and the heavy trust document in the other.
I stood by the door, my heart pounding. Was he going to send me away? Was he going to choose the syndicate over me, to protect his power? I wouldn’t blame him. I was just a maid yesterday. I was nobody.
Matteo looked at the portrait of his father. Then, he looked at me.
Without a word, he walked over to the roaring fireplace.
He tossed the leather-bound trust document straight into the flames.
“Matteo!” I gasped.
“The empire is dead,” Matteo said, his voice steady and resolute as he watched the paper burn. “My grandfather built a syndicate of fear. My father tried to fix it, and it got him murdered. Evelyn tried to steal it, and it almost cost me the only family I have left.”
He turned to me, a warm, genuine smile breaking across his face for the first time since I’d known him.
“I don’t want to be a boss anymore, Abigail,” he said softly. “I want to be an uncle.”
Tears spilled over my cheeks. I ran to him, and the terrifying mafia boss wrapped his arms around me in a crushing, protective hug.
“Welcome home, Abigail Russo,” he whispered into my hair.
The next morning, the estate felt entirely different.
The heavy, oppressive atmosphere that Evelyn had cultivated was completely gone. The sun was shining through the massive windows of the dining room.
I wasn’t wearing a uniform. I was wearing a beautiful emerald green dress that Maria had insisted I borrow from the guest closets.
Henry and June were brought downstairs by the nurses. Matteo had formally transferred ownership of the master suite to them. The old gardener and his wife would spend the rest of their days living in absolute luxury, cared for around the clock.
I walked over to the dining table and picked up a plate.
On it was a massive, perfect slice of vanilla cake with fresh strawberries.
I carried it over to June, kneeling beside her wheelchair just like I had the night before.
“Here you go, June,” I said softly.
June looked at the cake, her eyes lighting up. She picked up a fork and took a bite.
A slow, beautiful smile spread across her wrinkled face.
She turned to Henry, who was crying silent tears of joy beside her.
“Thank you, Henry,” June whispered, patting his frail hand. “You always remember.”
Henry pulled her hand to his lips and kissed it. “I’ll never forget, my sweet girl.”
Matteo watched them, his hands buried in his pockets, looking more at peace than I had ever seen him.
The syndicate lawyers had already been called. The mob ties were legally severed. The legal businesses were being restructured into a legitimate charity foundation in Dominic Russo’s name.
We had taken our dignity back. We were safe.
“Everything is perfect,” I said, walking over to Matteo.
“Almost,” Matteo replied, his eyes narrowing slightly as he reached into his pocket.
He pulled out the velvet box Maria had found in Evelyn’s room.
He opened it, staring at the train ticket to Boston and the rusted iron key.
“Evelyn was planning to run,” Matteo said quietly. “If her plan to force Henry to sign the deed failed, she had a backup. This ticket is for noon today.”
“What do you think is in Boston?” I asked.
Matteo picked up the heavy iron key. Etched into the side of the metal were three letters: S.D.B.
“Safe Deposit Box,” Matteo muttered. He turned the key over. On the back was a small serial number and the logo of the First National Bank of Boston.
“She was hoarding something,” I realized. “Something valuable enough to start over.”
“Or something dangerous enough to use as leverage against us,” Matteo corrected.
He looked at his watch. It was 8:00 AM.
“Get your coat, Abigail,” Matteo said, a familiar fire returning to his eyes. “We have a train to catch.”
Three hours later, we stood inside the freezing, marble-floored vault of the First National Bank in Boston.
The bank manager had recognized Matteo instantly and escorted us to the private viewing room without a word.
Matteo slid the heavy iron key into Box 402.
It clicked open.
Matteo reached inside and pulled out a thick, leather-bound portfolio.
He opened it on the table.
There was no money inside. No blackmail photos. No offshore bank accounts.
Instead, there was a stack of handwritten letters.
I picked up the first one. The handwriting was elegant, looping, and desperately rushed.
If you are reading this, Evelyn has finally been caught.
My heart hammered.
“Matteo,” I breathed, looking at the signature at the bottom of the page.
It was signed by Isabella.
“She wrote this,” Matteo said, staring at the paper in shock. “But… the date. Look at the date.”
I looked at the top of the letter.
It was dated three years ago.
Twenty-four years after she supposedly died in the car crash.
“She survived,” Matteo whispered, his hands shaking. “Henry was right. She survived the river.”
I quickly read the next line aloud.
“I trusted the doctor who found me on the riverbank. I thought he was keeping my secret to protect me from the syndicate. But I was wrong.”
Matteo flipped to the next page, his eyes scanning frantically.
“The doctor didn’t hide her to protect her,” Matteo realized, his voice dropping to a horrified whisper. “He held her hostage. He kept her isolated so she could never reclaim the Russo empire.”
“Who was the doctor?” I asked.
Matteo pulled a medical file from the back of the portfolio.
The name on the front of the file made the blood freeze in my veins.
Dr. Elias Cross.
Evelyn’s father.
And beneath the file was one final, sealed envelope.
It was addressed directly to me.
To my beautiful Abigail.
I tore it open with shaking hands.
“If you are reading this, my sweet girl,” the letter began, “it means Evelyn’s father didn’t keep his promise. It means he didn’t let me go.”
I dropped the letter onto the table.
“She’s alive,” I gasped, looking at Matteo. “My mother is still alive.”
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