Chapter 10 – THE HOUSE ON THE COAST
The following weekend, Vincent chartered a flight to Maine. He brought Leo, Elena, Mia, and me.
We rented an SUV and followed Isabella’s hand-drawn map up the rugged coastline, driving for hours through dense pine forests until the paved road turned into a dirt driveway.
At the end of the driveway, overlooking the crashing grey waves of the Atlantic Ocean, stood a breathtakingly beautiful beach house.
It wasn’t a massive, imposing mansion like the one in Chicago. It was a home. Made of weathered cedar shingles, with wide wraparound porches and huge glass windows looking out at the sea.
Vincent parked the car. He stared at the house, completely overwhelmed.
We walked up the wooden steps. Vincent used the brass key from the wooden box to unlock the front door.
The inside was fully furnished. It smelled faintly of cedar and sea salt.
“She built this,” Vincent whispered, walking into the sunlit living room. “She bought this land under a shell company. She spent years building this for us.”
Leo ran to the massive windows, pressing his hands against the glass. “Dad, look! The ocean!”
Vincent followed him, placing a hand on his son’s shoulder.
Elena carried Mia into the kitchen, tears in her eyes as she looked at the beautiful farmhouse sink and the family dining table.
“She wanted to leave Chicago,” Elena realized softly. “She wanted to take you all away from the mafia. Away from the danger.”
I stood in the doorway, watching them.
Vincent walked over to the mantle above the stone fireplace.
Resting in the center was a framed photograph.
It was a picture of Vincent and Isabella on their wedding day, laughing together under a shower of confetti.
Vincent picked it up, pressing his forehead against the glass frame.
“I’m so sorry, Izzy,” Vincent whispered, his voice cracking. “I should have protected you. I should have seen what Daniel was doing.”
Leo walked over and hugged his father’s waist.
“Mom didn’t blame you, Dad,” Leo said, his young voice surprisingly wise. “She loved you. She just wanted us to be safe.”
Vincent dropped to one knee and pulled Leo into a tight embrace, burying his face in his son’s neck.
I turned away, giving them their privacy, and walked down the hallway to explore the rest of the house.
I opened the door to the master bedroom. It was beautiful, with French doors opening onto a private balcony overlooking the water.
But what caught my eye was a small, white envelope resting on the perfectly made bed.
It had my name on it.
Emma.
My breath hitched. I walked over and picked it up.
I sat on the edge of the bed and carefully opened the seal.
Emma, the letter began.
If you are standing in this house, it means you succeeded. It means my family is safe, and Vincent finally brought them home.
I have one last secret to tell you.
I gripped the paper tighter.
You think I picked your resume randomly out of a pile. I didn’t. I knew who you were long before you applied for the job.
Fifteen years ago, when I was a teenager in the foster system, I was placed in a group home in downtown Chicago. It was a dark, terrible place. I was bullied, starved, and terrified.
But there was a woman who volunteered there every Sunday. She brought home-cooked meals. She brushed my hair. She taught me how to sew.
My heart stopped.
She taught me how to make a teddy bear out of old blankets.
Tears immediately flooded my eyes, blurring the ink on the page.
Her name was Mary Brooks. Your mother.
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