Chapter 8 - The Brother Roman BuriedRoman woke up twelve hours later and found me reading his medical chart.
“You look guilty,” he whispered.
I looked over.
He looked terrible.
Pale.
Exhausted.
An IV ran into his arm.
Machines blinked beside the bed.
A hospital gown had finally succeeded in making Roman DeLuca look like a civilian.
Almost.
“You have a brother.”
His eyes closed.
Not dramatically.
Just slowly.
That was answer enough.
I put down the chart.
“Good morning.”
“Claire.”
“You were shot.”
“I remember.”
“You had surgery.”
“I was present for the beginning.”
“You have a brother.”
His eyes opened again.
“Apparently we are skipping the recovery conversation.”
“Yes.”
He looked toward the ceiling.
“Matteo.”
“Don’t blame Matteo.”
“I’m not.”
“You sound like you’re planning his funeral.”
“I’m deciding whether he still gets Christmas gifts.”
I folded my arms.
Roman winced when he tried to shift.
I immediately stepped forward.
Then stopped myself.
“Do you need help?”
His gaze moved to mine.
Even in pain, he noticed.
“Yes.”
I adjusted the pillow behind him.
Carefully.
He watched my face.
“You’re angry.”
“Yes.”
“I planned to tell you.”
“When?”
Silence.
“Before or after I accidentally met him at Thanksgiving?”
Roman sighed.
“His name is Luca.”
I sat.
“How old?”
“Thirty-two.”
“You’re thirty-nine.”
“Yes.”
“Same mother?”
“Yes.”
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know.”
“That is becoming your favorite sentence.”
“I haven’t seen him in seven years.”
“Why?”
Roman looked toward the window.
Outside, morning snow covered the hospital rooftops.
“Because he hates me.”
I waited.
Roman continued.
“When my father died, Luca wanted nothing to do with the family businesses. He was twenty-three. I thought he was naive.”
“That sounds promising.”
“I made him stay.”
My stomach tightened.
“How?”
Roman’s voice became flat.
“Money. Security. Threats disguised as concern.”
There it was.
Possession.
Not inherited.
Practiced.
Roman looked at me.
“I told you I spent twenty years teaching myself loyalty.”
“You left out the part where you failed sometimes.”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“He fell in love with a woman named Anna Bell.”
I said nothing.
“My father had used Anna’s father for financial transactions. When federal investigators began looking at several accounts, I believed Anna might be close to Luca because someone had put her there.”
“Was she?”
“No.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I destroyed their relationship before I bothered proving it.”
The pain in his face had nothing to do with the bullet.
“What did you do?”
“I paid her father’s debts. Then I showed Luca the records and told him the Bell family had approached us for money. I let him believe Anna knew.”
“Did she?”
“No.”
“Roman.”
“I know.”
“Why?”
“Because I was afraid.”
That answer stunned me more than an excuse would have.
Roman looked down at his hands.
“Luca wanted to leave. My mother had already moved to Italy. If he left too, I would have been alone with everything my father built.”
“So you kept him.”
“Yes.”
“With a lie.”
“Yes.”
My anger sharpened.
“Did he find out?”
“Three years later.”
“How?”
“Anna told him.”
“And?”
“He came to my house.”
Roman’s mouth tightened.
“He hit me.”
“Good.”
Roman gave me a tired look.
“I deserved that.”
“I’m glad we agree.”
“He left Boston the next morning.”
“Did you apologize?”
“Yes.”
“Did you tell him everything?”
“Yes.”
“Did he forgive you?”
“No.”
“Good.”
Roman almost smiled.
Then pain crossed his face.
I stood.
“Do you need the nurse?”
“No.”
“Roman.”
“No.”
I pressed the call button anyway.
He glared.
“You’re enjoying this.”
“A little.”
The nurse checked his medication.
When she left, I returned to the chair.
“So Luca knew about the backup archive.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“He helped design the system before he left.”
“And he still has access?”
“He shouldn’t.”
“Matteo says Geneva was accessed before we arrived at the church.”
Roman’s expression changed.
“Luca.”
“Maybe.”
“No.”
“You sound certain.”
“He wouldn’t come back for the archive.”
“You haven’t spoken to him in seven years.”
“I know him.”
“Do you?”
The question landed.
Roman looked away.
“I knew my father too,” I said.
He looked at me.
“I thought he panicked under pressure. I thought greed made him desperate. I didn’t know he had been stealing for more than a decade.”
“That’s different.”
“Is it?”
“Luca is not Thomas.”
“I’m not saying he is.”
I leaned forward.
“I’m saying love makes us overconfident.”
Roman was silent.
Then he nodded.
“What do you want to do?”
“We find him.”
“No.”
I stared.
His eyes closed again.
A second later they opened.
“Let me rephrase.”
“You’re learning quickly under anesthesia.”
“I would prefer you not approach my estranged brother without understanding who he became.”
“Better.”
“I will help find him.”
“Much better.”
Matteo located Luca DeLuca six hours later.
Not in Geneva.
Not in Italy.
Not hiding beneath another former church.
He was in Boston.
He had entered the country three days before Samuel Park died.
His hotel was less than two miles from the hospital.
Roman took the news badly.
“How long?”
Matteo stood near the window.
“Three days.”
“You didn’t know?”
“No.”
“You’re becoming expensive for a security director.”
“Get shot once and suddenly everyone’s a critic.”
I almost laughed.
Roman did not.
“Bring him here.”
Matteo hesitated.
“What?”
“He already knows you’re here.”
Roman went still.
“How?”
“He called me.”
“When?”
“Twenty minutes ago.”
“And?”
“He wants to meet Claire.”
The room changed.
Roman sat straighter despite the pain.
“No.”
I raised one eyebrow.
He exhaled.
“Please do not meet him alone.”
“That was much better.”
Roman looked at Matteo.
“What does he want?”
“He said he has something Evelyn Mercer left behind.”
My heart stopped.
“What?”
Roman’s face hardened.
Matteo continued.
“He said Claire’s mother gave it to Anna Bell eleven years ago.”
I stood.
“Where is she?”
“Dead.”
The word landed hard.
“How?”
“Cancer. Four years ago.”
“And Luca?”
“He was with her.”
Roman looked like someone had struck him.
I turned.
“You didn’t know.”
“No.”
Matteo’s expression softened slightly.
“She and Luca reconnected after he left Boston.”
Roman closed his eyes.
For a moment, he was not the head of an empire.
He was an older brother learning that seven years of someone’s life had happened without him.
Then his face hardened again.
“Where does Luca want to meet?”
“He doesn’t.”
“What?”
Matteo held up his phone.
“He’s coming here.”
Roman swore.
Ten minutes later, the door opened.
I knew immediately.
Not because Luca looked exactly like Roman.
He didn’t.
Luca was leaner.
His hair was lighter.
His face less severe.
But the eyes were the same.
Dark.
Observant.
The kind that watched a room before entering it emotionally.
He stopped inside the doorway.
Roman stared at him.
Seven years filled the silence.
Luca’s gaze moved to the IV.
Then the bandage.
“You always were dramatic.”
Roman’s expression did not move.
“You look terrible.”
“So do you.”
“That’s because I’m related to you.”
I looked between them.
Apparently sarcasm was genetic.
Luca turned toward me.
“Claire Mercer.”
“Luca DeLuca.”
He reached into his coat.
Roman’s hand moved beneath the blanket.
Luca noticed.
His face twisted.
“Really?”
“Slowly.”
Luca removed a small envelope.
Placed it on the table.
Then stepped back.
“Anna kept that for eleven years.”
I stared at it.
My mother’s handwriting again.
This time, only two words.
For Claire.
My chest tightened.
“Why did Anna have this?”
“Your mother gave it to her.”
“When?”
“Two days before she died.”
Roman looked at Luca.
“How did Evelyn know Anna?”
Luca laughed without humor.
“She didn’t.”
“What?”
“Anna was working evenings at a café near Vale’s office while finishing graduate school. Evelyn came in several times. She was frightened. Anna noticed.”
I sat slowly.
Luca continued.
“On the last night, your mother asked Anna whether she could trust her.”
“Why her?”
“Because Anna was nobody.”
The words were not cruel.
They were practical.
“Your mother believed anyone connected to business, law, banking, or your family might be compromised. So she trusted a waitress.”
I looked at the envelope.
“What’s inside?”
“I don’t know.”
“You never opened it?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because Anna asked me not to.”
Roman’s jaw tightened.
“When did she tell you?”
“Before she died.”
“Four years ago?”
“Yes.”
“And you waited.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Luca turned toward his brother.
“Because everything connected to you destroys people.”
Silence.
Roman absorbed the blow without moving.
Luca continued.
“Anna spent years terrified because she thought your father might come looking for that envelope.”
“My father was dead.”
“She didn’t know that at first.”
“You could have contacted me.”
Luca laughed.
“You mean like when I trusted you with the woman I loved?”
Roman went still.
I stood.
“This is not about either of you.”
Both men looked at me.
I pointed at the envelope.
“My mother died trying to protect information. Anna carried it for years. Whatever happened between you can wait five minutes.”
Luca’s mouth almost curved.
“I like her.”
Roman looked irritated.
“That is not required.”
“Still controlling.”
Roman glared.
I opened the envelope.
Inside was a keycard.
No letter.
No explanation.
Just a white hotel keycard with handwritten numbers.
And a date.
The day before my mother died.
Luca leaned closer.
“What is it?”
I turned it over.
A hotel logo had faded almost completely.
Roman recognized it first.
“The Copley Marston.”
I frowned.
“That hotel closed.”
“Twelve years ago,” Roman said.
“Then why did Mom have a keycard from the year she died?”
Luca answered.
“Because the building didn’t close.”
We looked at him.
“What does that mean?”
“It was converted.”
“To what?”
He hesitated.
“Private residences.”
Roman’s expression darkened.
“Who owns it?”
Luca looked directly at him.
“Arthur Vale.”
The room fell silent.
I looked down at the keycard.
A unit.
A door.
Something my mother had hidden outside the trust.
Outside the company.
Outside everyone.
Roman reached for his phone.
I put one hand over it.
“No army.”
His eyes lifted to mine.
“Claire.”
“No.”
“Vale may know we have that card.”
“Then twenty men arriving in black SUVs will announce exactly what we’re doing.”
Luca nodded.
“She’s right.”
Roman looked between us.
“This alliance is already irritating.”
I almost smiled.
Then Luca said, “There’s another problem.”
“What?”
He looked at me.
“The building’s sixth floor doesn’t have a unit 614.”
My stomach tightened.
“What does it have?”
Luca’s face became serious.
“According to the old architectural plans, nothing.”
Roman frowned.
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“It does if the original plans were altered.”
Luca pulled out his phone and showed us an image.
A blueprint.
Sixth floor.
Units 601 through 612.
Then a blank section between two structural walls.
A space with no door.
No label.
No official purpose.
I stared at it.
“Mom hid something inside a room that legally doesn’t exist.”
Roman looked at the keycard in my hand.
“Yes.”
“And Arthur Vale owns the building.”
“Yes.”
I closed my fingers around the card.
For eleven years, I had thought my mother died leaving only a notebook, a trust, and questions.
Now I knew better.
She had left a trail.
A lawyer.
A waitress.
May you like
A hidden room.
And somewhere at the end of it was whatever had frightened Thomas Mercer, Arthur Vale, and Roman’s father enough to keep killing the truth long after she was gone.
