Chapter 12 – THE LOCKER

The rain in Paris was relentless, slicking the cobblestone streets like dark mirrors.

We arrived at Gare du Nord just after midnight. The massive train station was echoing and empty, lit by harsh, buzzing fluorescent lights. Marco walked ten paces ahead of us, his hand resting inside his coat.

Dominic held my hand tightly as we walked past the closed ticket counters toward the luggage lockers in the lower terminal.

“Locker 402,” Dominic muttered, scanning the rusted metal doors.

We found it in the back corner, shadowed by a broken overhead light.

Dominic pulled the small metal key from his pocket. His hand hesitated for a fraction of a second before sliding it into the lock. It turned with a harsh click.

He pulled the metal door open.

Inside sat a single, battered leather briefcase.

Dominic pulled it out and set it on a nearby bench. He popped the latches.

Inside wasn’t money. It wasn’t weapons.

It was a stack of passports. All with his mother’s photo, all with different names. But beneath the passports was a thick leather journal, and a birth certificate.

Dominic picked up the birth certificate. As he read it, all the color drained from his face.

“Dominic? What is it?” I asked, stepping closer.

He handed me the paper.

It was a French birth certificate. Dated thirty years ago.

The mother’s name was Elena Moretti. Dominic’s mother.

But the child’s name wasn’t Dominic. It was a girl’s name. Isabella.

“I have a sister,” Dominic whispered, staring at the document in absolute shock. “My mother had another child after she went into hiding. I have a sister I never knew existed.”

Suddenly, Marco stepped forward, drawing his weapon.

“Boss. We have company.”

From the shadows of the train platform, three men in dark trench coats stepped out. They were armed, and they were blocking the only exit.

But they didn’t shoot.

Instead, they parted down the middle.

A woman walked out from behind them. She looked to be in her early thirties, with striking dark eyes and raven hair. She wore a tailored black coat and held a silk umbrella.

She looked exactly like the photographs of Dominic’s mother.

She stopped ten feet away from us, her eyes locking onto Dominic.

“You look just like him,” she said softly, her voice carrying a thick European accent. “You look just like our father.”

Dominic stood frozen. “Isabella?”

She smiled, but it was a sad, tired smile. “Hello, big brother.”

“Where is she?” Dominic demanded, taking a step forward. “Where is our mother?”

Isabella looked down at the cobblestones.

“She’s safe,” Isabella said quietly. “But you shouldn’t have come here, Dominic. Because the men who burned down her house eighteen months ago weren’t Sicilians.”

She looked up, and her dark eyes were suddenly terrifyingly cold.

“They were sent by Uncle Silvio. He didn’t want the truth coming out. And now, I have to kill you to protect her.”

The men raised their weapons.

Dominic pushed me behind him, reaching for his gun. The ultimate betrayal had just been revealed, and the true war for our family’s survival had only just begun.

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