CHAPTER 2 — THE NAME THAT SHOULD HAVE BEEN BURIED
CHAPTER 2 — THE NAME THAT SHOULD HAVE BEEN BURIED
I stared at him.
Every instinct screamed to throw him out.
Instead, I tightened my grip around the silver locket hanging against my chest.
"My mother never talked about your family."
His eyes never left the necklace.
"Don't lie."
"I'm not."
For the first time since he had invaded my apartment, the calm mask slipped.
Not anger.
Fear.
Real fear.
"You wear that every day," he said quietly.
"Yes."
"You've never opened it?"
I frowned.
"It doesn't open."
He stepped closer.
"It does."
Before I could move away, he held out his hand.
"May I?"
Everything about him told me I should refuse.
But curiosity won.
I unclasped the chain and placed the locket into his palm.
He examined the tiny silver piece for only a second before pressing one fingernail against a nearly invisible groove along the edge.
Click.
The locket sprang open.
My heart stopped.
Inside wasn't a photograph.
It was a folded strip of yellowed paper no larger than my little finger.
I had worn that necklace for twenty-three years.
I never knew.
He carefully unfolded it.
His face drained of color.
"What is it?" I demanded.
He didn't answer.
Instead, he handed it to me.
Written in faded blue ink were only four words.
Trust only Luca.
Below the message was a signature.
— Elena.
I felt my knees weaken.
"That's my mother's handwriting."
"I know," he whispered.
"You knew my mother."
"No."
He looked at me with an expression somewhere between disbelief and grief.
"I know exactly who she was."
Silence swallowed the apartment.
Outside, rain tapped softly against the broken window.
Inside, my entire life began to fracture.
"My mother's name wasn't Elena," I said.
"Her name was Sarah Bennett."
"No."
He shook his head once.
"Sarah Bennett was the identity she borrowed."
The room seemed to tilt.
"No."
"Her real name was Elena Rossi."
I laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because it was impossible.
"My mother was a waitress."
"No."
"She worked two jobs."
"No."
"She died from heart failure."
"No."
Every answer was the same.
Just one word.
"No."
Finally he took a slow breath.
"Your mother was one of the best forensic toxicologists our organization ever had."
I stared.
"Our organization?"
"The Cavalari family."
The words hit harder than any punch.
"My mother worked for the mafia?"
"She saved lives."
"For criminals."
"For people who wanted to stay alive."
He paused.
"And she disappeared the night she refused to identify a poison."
My mouth went dry.
"What poison?"
"The same one used on my mother three nights ago."
The air vanished from my lungs.
"You mean—"
"Someone has restarted a war that ended twenty-three years ago."
A loud crash interrupted him.
Glass exploded inward.
Both of us dropped instinctively.
A bullet ripped through the apartment exactly where my head had been a heartbeat earlier.
The kitchen cabinet shattered.
Plates crashed onto the floor.
Another shot.
Then another.
Someone outside wasn't trying to scare us.
They were correcting a mistake.
He grabbed my wrist.
"Move!"
We sprinted toward the hallway as more bullets tore through the living room.
The lights burst.
Darkness swallowed everything.
A black SUV screeched to a stop outside.
Car doors slammed.
Heavy footsteps thundered up the stairwell.
"They're coming inside," I whispered.
"They're professionals."
"How do you know?"
"Because amateurs don't miss twice."
He pulled a pistol from inside his jacket.
I froze.
"You carry that everywhere?"
"I was born into the kind of family where birthdays come with assassination attempts."
A sharp metallic click echoed from the hallway.
Someone was picking my apartment lock.
But...
The front door was already open.
We looked at each other.
The sound wasn't coming from my apartment.
It was coming from the apartment across the hall.
A woman's scream shattered the silence.
Mrs. Alvarez.
My seventy-year-old neighbor.
"They've got the wrong apartment!" I shouted.
"No," he said grimly.
"They're flushing us out."
Another scream.
Then a child cried.
Without thinking, I ran.
He cursed under his breath before chasing after me.
I kicked open Mrs. Alvarez's door.
The living room was in chaos.
Furniture overturned.
The old woman shielded her eight-year-old grandson behind her as two masked men searched every room with military precision.
One of them turned.
His rifle lifted toward the child.
Time slowed.
Before I could react, a deafening gunshot echoed through the apartment.
The gunman collapsed.
A single bullet through his forehead.
The second attacker spun around—
Only to fall seconds later.
Silence.
Smoke drifted through the doorway.
A woman stepped inside wearing black tactical clothing and carrying a suppressed rifle.
She removed her helmet.
Long dark hair fell over her shoulders.
She couldn't have been older than thirty-five.
She looked directly at me.
Then at the locket still clutched in my hand.
Her face went completely pale.
"No..." she whispered.
"It can't be..."
The rifle slipped from her fingers.
Tears filled her eyes.
She took one trembling step toward me.
"I buried your mother myself."
May you like
Then she spoke the sentence that shattered everything I thought I knew.
"So why are you wearing the Head Keeper's locket?"
