Chapter 7 - Clara Jenkins Was Never Her Real NameThomas Jenkins was waiting when they returned to Boston.
He sat inside the Russo library.
A cane rested beside his chair.
The stroke had changed him.
His left hand still trembled.
His speech sometimes slowed.
But when Clara entered carrying Vittorio’s folder, something in her father’s eyes told her everything.
He knew.
“Dad.”
Thomas looked at Maximilian.
Then Elena.
Then the folder.
His shoulders lowered.
“So.”
Clara’s heart sank.
“It’s true?”
Thomas closed his eyes.
“Some of it.”
“What part?”
“Clara—”
“What part?”
Her voice broke.
Maximilian moved closer.
Not interfering.
Simply there.
Thomas looked at his daughter.
“My name was Thomas Bellandi.”
Clara sat down.
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I wanted you free.”
“Free from what?”
“Us.”
Thomas looked toward Maximilian.
“Families like ours.”
Maximilian did not react.
Thomas continued.
“Your grandfather, Carlo Bellandi, controlled Providence.”
“He and Alessandro Russo were partners before they became enemies.”
“Why?”
“Your mother.”
Clara froze.
“My mother?”
Thomas nodded.
“Her name was Sofia.”
Clara had been told her mother died shortly after childbirth.
“Sofia Russo.”
Maximilian’s head lifted.
Elena turned.
Thomas swallowed.
“She was Vittorio’s daughter.”
Clara stared at him.
That made Vittorio…
Her grandfather.
The man who had died in Geneva.
Her grandfather.
She pressed both hands over her mouth.
Maximilian sat beside her.
Thomas continued.
“Your mother fell in love with me.”
“A Bellandi.”
“A Russo.”
“Neither family accepted it.”
“So you ran?”
“Yes.”
“For a while.”
Thomas looked down.
“Then Sofia became pregnant.”
Clara felt Maximilian’s hand around hers.
“When Alessandro learned about the pregnancy, he saw an opportunity.”
“What opportunity?”
“A child carrying both bloodlines.”
Thomas looked toward her.
“You.”
Clara’s stomach tightened.
“He wanted to control you.”
“Why?”
“Because blood matters to men obsessed with dynasty.”
Thomas’s voice hardened.
“Carlo Bellandi wanted the same thing.”
“They both wanted custody.”
“Custody?”
Clara laughed bitterly.
“I wasn’t a company.”
“To them, you were more valuable.”
Thomas looked ashamed.
“So Sofia and I disappeared.”
“What happened to her?”
Thomas’s eyes filled.
“Alessandro found us.”
Silence.
“He sent men to bring you back.”
“Sofia resisted.”
Thomas stopped.
Clara already knew.
“They killed her.”
Her father nodded.
The room disappeared around Clara.
She had spent her entire life believing her mother died from complications after childbirth.
A sad story.
Ordinary tragedy.
Now she understood.
Her mother had died protecting her.
Just as Clara had nearly died protecting Antonio.
Maximilian wrapped one arm around her.
Clara did not cry immediately.
She simply stared at nothing.
Finally:
“And Alessandro?”
“Still wanted you.”
“How did you escape?”
“Elena.”
Everyone turned.
Elena stared at Thomas.
“What?”
“You were sixteen.”
Thomas nodded.
“You discovered where Alessandro’s men were holding us.”
“You opened the basement door.”
Elena’s face emptied.
Memories returned.
“I remember a baby.”
Clara looked at her.
Elena whispered:
“I thought…”
She swallowed.
“I thought you died.”
Thomas shook his head.
“You saved her.”
Elena stared at Clara.
Twenty-three years separated them.
But suddenly the relationship changed.
Clara was alive because Elena had chosen, as a teenager, to disobey her father.
Thomas continued.
“I took Clara and disappeared.”
“Jenkins was Sofia’s maternal grandmother’s surname.”
“We moved constantly.”
“Eventually Alessandro stopped searching.”
“Why?”
“Because I convinced him Clara had died.”
“How?”
Thomas looked ashamed.
“I paid a coroner.”
Clara stood.
She needed air.
Maximilian followed her toward the balcony.
“Don’t.”
She turned.
“Please.”
He stopped.
Clara walked outside alone.
Boston stretched beneath her.
For years she had thought she was nobody.
A temporary caterer.
A maid.
A woman drowning beneath hospital bills.
Now men were killing each other because of bloodlines she never asked to inherit.
The balcony door opened several minutes later.
Maximilian stepped outside.
This time she allowed him.
He stood beside her.
“My name isn’t even mine.”
“It is.”
She looked at him.
“Jenkins.”
“It became yours.”
He touched her face.
“Names belong to the people who survive them.”
Clara’s eyes filled.
“My mother died because of your father.”
“Yes.”
“You knew nothing.”
“No.”
“But part of me wants to hate someone.”
“I know.”
“I don’t want it to be you.”
Maximilian’s jaw tightened.
“Then hate me temporarily.”
A broken laugh escaped her.
“That’s terrible advice.”
“I have limited experience with healthy emotional communication.”
She laughed again.
Then cried.
Maximilian held her.
For several minutes, Clara simply allowed herself to break.
Eventually she whispered:
“Antonio carries all of it.”
“Yes.”
“Russo.”
“Bellandi.”
“Vittorio.”
“Sofia.”
“Yes.”
“And Alessandro wants him.”
Maximilian pulled back.
“He will never have him.”
The certainty in his voice steadied her.
Behind them, an alarm suddenly sounded.
Maximilian turned.
Security personnel rushed through the corridor.
His phone rang.
He answered.
“What?”
His expression changed.
“Repeat that.”
Clara watched.
Then Maximilian slowly lowered the phone.
“What happened?”
He looked at her.
“The estate perimeter was breached.”
Her blood went cold.
“Antonio?”
“Safe.”
She exhaled.
“Then what—”
“Someone left something at the front gate.”
“What?”
Maximilian stared at her.
“A coffin.”
Twenty minutes later, Clara stood inside the security garage.
The coffin was black.
Expensive.
Silver handles.
Across the lid:
MAXIMILIAN RUSSO.
Inside was no body.
Only a white suit.
A photograph of Antonio.
And a handwritten note.
Clara read it.
SON,
YOU HAVE BUILT YOUR EMPIRE.
NOW COME HOME.
— FATHER
Maximilian stared at the note.
Clara had never seen him look like that.
Not angry.
Not afraid.
Like a seven-year-old boy had briefly appeared behind the face of a forty-year-old Don.
Then the moment disappeared.
Maximilian folded the note.
“When?”
His security chief answered.
“The camera caught the delivery truck.”
“Destination?”
“We traced it.”
“Where?”
The man swallowed.
“Russo Tower.”
Maximilian looked up.
Russo Tower stood in downtown Boston.
Forty-eight floors.
The headquarters of the legitimate Russo corporation.
And apparently, his dead father was waiting inside.
Maximilian reached for his coat.
Clara caught his hand.
He looked at her.
“Together.”
This time he did not argue.
May you like
Because the war was no longer Maximilian’s past.
It belonged to both of them.
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