Chapter 2 - THE GHOST WHO SENT HIS DAUGHTER
Vincent Maronei did not believe in ghosts.
He believed in blood.
Money.
Leverage.
Consequences.
Ghosts were stories weak men invented because admitting guilt was harder than fearing the dead.
But as seven-year-old Sophia Castellano stood in the center of his private restaurant, Vincent felt fifteen years of certainty collapse in less than thirty seconds.
“Marco Castellano,” he repeated.
Sophia nodded.
“My daddy.”
Tony Rini stepped closer.
“Boss, this could be a setup.”
Vincent turned slowly.
“If you speak again before I ask you to, Tony, you’ll regret it.”
Tony lowered his head.
Sophia stared at Vincent’s bleeding hand.
“You’re hurt.”
Vincent looked down.
The broken glass had opened a line across his palm.
He had not even felt it.
“I’m fine.”
Sophia frowned.
“My dad says people always say that when they’re not.”
The words hit him harder than they should have.
Marco used to say the same thing.
Not exactly.
Close enough.
Vincent crouched so he was eye level with the girl.
“Where is your father?”
Sophia’s expression changed.
For the first time since entering, she looked seven.
Small.
Afraid.
“I don’t know.”
Vincent’s chest tightened.
“When did you last see him?”
“Yesterday morning.”
“Where?”
“Our apartment.”
“What happened?”
“He told me we had to leave.”
“Leave where?”
“He wouldn’t say.”
Vincent looked at Tony.
“Clear the restaurant.”
Nobody argued.
Within minutes, the tables emptied. Doors were locked. Two of Vincent’s most trusted men moved outside.
Only Tony remained.
Sophia sat at a table with a plate of untouched pasta in front of her.
Vincent noticed how thin she was.
That angered him for reasons he did not want to examine.
“Tell me everything your father said.”
Sophia swallowed.
“He came home while it was still dark. His shirt was ripped.”
“Was he hurt?”
She nodded.
“There was blood.”
Vincent’s jaw hardened.
“He told me not to cry because he was okay. Then he packed my backpack.”
“Did anyone come to your apartment?”
“Men.”
“How many?”
“Three.”
“Did you see them?”
“No. Daddy pushed me into the laundry closet.”
Her fingers tightened around the tablecloth.
“He told me not to come out until I couldn’t hear anything anymore.”
Vincent knew what happened next before she said it.
“I heard yelling.”
Sophia looked down.
“A crash.”
Then quieter:
“Then nothing.”
Vincent felt a sick pressure behind his ribs.
“What did you do?”
“I waited.”
“How long?”
“I counted to a thousand twice.”
God.
Then she came out.
Marco was gone.
The apartment had been torn apart.
Sophia found a note beneath her pillow.
She reached into her jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper.
Vincent took it carefully.
The handwriting stopped his heart.
Marco’s.
There was no question.
He had seen that handwriting on birthday cards, gambling ledgers, restaurant napkins, and once on the wall of a police holding cell when they were twenty-two and stupid enough to think consequences were for other people.
The note contained only four lines.
Sophia, if I don’t come back, go to Vincent Maronei.
Show him the mark.
Tell him family never dies.
No matter what he thinks, he owes me the truth.
Vincent read it twice.
Then a third time.
Sophia watched him.
“Do you know my dad?”
Vincent could have lied.
He had lied about worse things.
But Marco’s daughter deserved something he had denied Marco fifteen years ago.
Truth.
“Yes.”
“Were you friends?”
Vincent stared at the paper.
“We were brothers.”
Sophia’s eyes brightened for half a second.
“Then you can find him.”
The faith in her voice was unbearable.
Vincent closed his fist around the note.
“I’ll try.”
“No.”
She leaned forward.
“You have to.”
Vincent looked at her.
“Why?”
“Because Daddy said if he disappeared, the only man dangerous enough to save him was the man who once tried to kill him.”
Silence.
Tony’s head snapped up.
Vincent stopped breathing.
Sophia did not seem to understand what she had just said.
Or perhaps she understood more than any child should.
“Your father told you that?”
“No.”
“Then where did you hear it?”
“He was talking to Mommy once.”
Vincent’s voice lowered.
“Your mother?”
Sophia nodded.
“Her name is Elena.”
“Where is she?”
“She died when I was five.”
Vincent looked away.
Another grave Marco had stood beside without him.
“Did your father ever tell you why I wanted him dead?”
Sophia shook her head.
“He said grown-ups ruin families when they believe lies too quickly.”
Vincent flinched.
That one belonged to Marco.
Exactly.
Fifteen years ago, Vincent had received proof that Marco Castellano was betraying the Maronei family.
Bank transfers.
Recorded meetings.
A photograph of Marco entering a warehouse controlled by their enemies.
Worst of all, one of Vincent’s men had died after a shipment route was exposed.
Every piece pointed to Marco.
Vincent had confronted him.
Marco denied everything.
Begged him to investigate further.
Vincent had been twenty-eight.
Newly in power.
Surrounded by men telling him weakness would get everyone killed.
He issued the order.
Three days later, photographs arrived of a burned vehicle containing what he was told remained of Marco.
Vincent had never slept properly again.
“Boss.”
Tony’s voice pulled him back.
“We should verify the girl.”
Sophia stiffened.
Vincent saw it.
“She has a name.”
Tony looked uncomfortable.
“Verify Sophia’s story.”
Vincent nodded.
He hated that Tony was right.
“Call Dr. Levin.”
Sophia looked between them.
“Who’s that?”
“A doctor.”
“I’m not sick.”
“He won’t hurt you.”
She studied Vincent.
“Are you going to make me leave?”
“No.”
“Promise?”
Vincent hesitated.
Promises were dangerous.
To a child, they were sacred.
“You can stay somewhere safe until we find your father.”
“Here?”
Vincent looked around his restaurant.
“No.”
She immediately looked afraid.
He added, “At my house.”
Tony’s eyebrows rose.
Nobody brought strangers into the Maronei estate.
Vincent ignored him.
Two hours later, DNA confirmed what Vincent already knew.
Sophia was Marco Castellano’s biological daughter.
And the faded hand-poked tattoo on her wrist was not accidental.
It matched an old symbol Vincent and Marco had designed when they were twenty.
A crooked crown surrounding the letters FND.
Family Never Dies.
Vincent’s own tattoo had been professionally repaired over the years.
Marco’s apparently had not.
Sophia’s was only a tiny copy.
“Who gave you this?” Dr. Levin asked.
“Daddy drew it with marker first.”
Sophia smiled faintly.
“Then he said when I was older, I could decide if I wanted the real one. This one isn’t real.”
Vincent looked closer.
She was right.
It was permanent marker faded into the skin.
He almost laughed at himself.
He had been so shaken he had not noticed.
Then Dr. Levin handed him another result.
“Mr. Maronei, there’s something else.”
Vincent frowned.
“What?”
“We ran the emergency identification test you requested.”
“And?”
“Sophia has a recent blood transfusion marker.”
“That matters why?”
“Because I compared it with the medical records your investigator found under Marco Castellano’s alias.”
Vincent’s pulse slowed.
“Alias?”
The doctor handed him a file.
Michael Castle.
Construction contractor.
Forty-two years old.
Hospitalized six weeks earlier after an industrial accident.
Blood type matched.
Facial reconstruction records from fourteen years ago.
Vincent stared at the photograph.
Older.
Bearded.
A scar along the left side of his jaw.
But Marco.
Alive.
Definitely alive.
Tony whispered, “Jesus.”
Vincent turned the page.
There was an emergency contact listed.
Samuel Vieri.
Vincent went completely still.
Tony noticed.
“What?”
Vincent looked up.
Samuel Vieri was not a friend.
He was not a doctor.
He was not a construction worker.
He was Vincent’s uncle.
His mother’s older brother.
The man who had brought Vincent the evidence proving Marco’s betrayal fifteen years ago.
The man who had personally delivered the photographs showing Marco dead.
The door opened.
One of Vincent’s guards hurried in.
“Boss.”
“What?”
“We checked Sophia’s apartment.”
Vincent stood.
“And?”
“Someone got there first.”
His stomach dropped.
“What did they take?”
“Everything.”
The guard swallowed.
“And whoever searched it left a message on the wall.”
Vincent stared at him.
“What message?”
The guard handed him a photograph.
Three words were painted above Sophia’s bed.
HE SHOULD’VE STAYED DEAD.
Vincent looked at the name in the medical file again.
Samuel Vieri.
For fifteen years, Vincent had blamed himself for killing his brother.
Now he understood something far worse.
May you like
Someone had made sure he believed he had.
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