Chapter 4 - The Father She Buried
Matteo Valente’s estate sat behind iron gates on the edge of Lake Forest, far from the broken streets Sloan knew.
It was not a mansion designed to impress.
It was designed to survive.
Stone walls. Security cameras. Guards who did not pretend not to be guards. Windows reinforced with steel beneath polished glass.
Sloan noticed everything.
The blind corners. The exits. The cameras. The rhythm of the patrols.
Matteo noticed her noticing.
“You really were trained,” he said as Arthur—his head of security—led her through a hallway.
“I was raised around men who thought training children was normal.”
Matteo’s expression shifted.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” Sloan looked at him. “You weren’t there.”
That evening, Matteo brought her to his office.
Unlike the diner, the room was quiet, warm, and lined with books. There was no obvious display of wealth except for a painting above the fireplace.
A woman stood beside it.
She was maybe fifty, elegant even in a plain black dress. Her silver-blond hair was pulled into a low knot.
When she turned, Sloan’s heart stopped.
The woman had her mother’s eyes.
Not exactly.
But close enough that Sloan’s knees nearly gave out.
“My name is Elena Sokolova,” the woman said gently. “I knew your mother.”
Sloan’s voice barely worked. “My mother died.”
Elena’s face filled with sorrow.
“Yes.”
“Who are you?”
“Your mother’s younger sister.”
Sloan laughed sharply.
“No.”
“I understand.”
“You understand nothing. I spent eighteen years believing everyone I loved was dead.”
Elena stepped closer, tears shining in her eyes.
“Your father hid you after the fire. Viktor had men searching every hospital, every foster record, every border crossing. Nikolai believed the only way to keep you alive was to let the world think Anastasia Orlov died that night.”
“He didn’t hide me,” Sloan snapped. “I was found three days later behind a bus station. I spent years in foster homes.”
Elena closed her eyes.
“I know.”
“Then why didn’t anyone come?”
“Because Viktor watched every name connected to you. Every person who tried to find you was threatened.” Her voice broke. “I searched quietly. For years.”
Sloan turned away.
The anger was too large for the room.
Too old.
“You should have tried harder.”
Elena did not defend herself.
“I should have.”
That honesty hurt more than excuses would have.
Matteo stood near the desk, silent until Sloan faced him.
“You knew all of this?”
“Not all of it,” he said. “Elena came to me after Viktor’s men began moving through Chicago.”
“Why you?”
“Because Viktor has an alliance with people who want my territory. He thinks using you will make your father appear.”
“And will it?”
Matteo held her eyes.
“Yes.”
Sloan felt the world tilt.
Her father was alive.
He had spent eighteen years alive.
And he had never found her.
As if reading her thoughts, Elena reached into her bag and removed a small envelope.
“Your father wrote this six months ago,” she said. “He did not know where to send it.”
Sloan stared at the envelope.
Her name was written in Russian.
Anastasia.
The handwriting was unfamiliar and instantly devastating.
She did not open it.
Not yet.
Before anyone could speak again, Matteo’s phone rang.
Arthur’s voice came through the speaker.
“Boss, we have a problem.”
Matteo’s face hardened. “What happened?”
“Two men found Carla at the motel.”
Sloan’s blood went cold.
“Is she alive?” she demanded.
Arthur paused.
“Yes. But they took her.”
The room went silent.
Then a video appeared on Matteo’s phone.
Carla sat tied to a chair in a dark room. Her face was bruised. She was crying but trying not to show it.
A man’s voice came from behind the camera.
“Bring us the Orlov girl,” Viktor Sokolov said. “Or the nurse-in-training stops breathing.”
Sloan stared at the screen.
Every instinct in her screamed to move.
“I’m going,” she said.
Matteo stepped in front of her.
“No.”
“They took her because of me.”
“They took her to pull you out.”
“Then let them.”
“No.”
Sloan shoved his chest.
Matteo did not move.
“You don’t understand,” she said, her voice shaking. “People get hurt around me. They always have.”
Matteo caught her wrist—not painfully, but firmly.
“Sloan,” he said. “Look at me.”
She did.
“You are not the weapon Viktor built. You are not your father’s sins. And you are not going to walk into a trap alone.”
Her eyes filled with rage and tears.
“What if Carla dies?”
Matteo’s grip tightened once.
May you like
“Then Viktor will learn what happens when he makes me choose.”
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