Chapter 6 - THE FORGOTTEN SISTER
Back inside the SUV parked beside the bluffs, the silence was suffocating. Cal sat behind the wheel, checking his mirrors every thirty seconds, while Roman inserted the audio cassette into a vintage portable player Sister Beatrice had provided.
The tape hissed with static, followed by the muffled hum of an old reel-to-reel recorder. Then, the harsh, unmistakable voice of Michael DeLuca filled the vehicle:
“You think you can take my grandchildren, Helena? You’re an outsider. You brought nothing into this family, and you’ll leave with nothing.”
“Michael, please,” Helena’s recorded voice sobbed, young, terrified, and desperate. “Let me take the baby. She’s only four months old. She needs her mother. Roman and Leo need their sister!”
“The girl is sickly,” Michael’s cold voice snapped. “She’s a DeLuca in blood, but she will never carry the company name. Silvio knows a family in Ohio who will take an unregistered infant without questions. As for you, Helena, you sign these papers forfeiting custody of Roman and Leo, or you’ll spend the rest of your life in a state asylum. If you tell my sons they have a sister, I’ll tell the authorities you sold her.”
The tape ended with the sound of a woman screaming in agony, followed by a heavy click.
Leo slammed his fist into the seatback, his knuckles turning white. “A sister. We have a sister. All these years, Silvio knew where she was!”
Roman was terrifyingly still. The calm that descended over him was far more dangerous than Leo’s rage. “Grandfather didn't just hide our mother. He gave away his own granddaughter to keep the DeLuca name clean of scandal. And Silvio orchestrated the payoff.”
“Why?” Mara asked, leaning forward, her eyes blazing with righteous anger. “Why would a grandfather give away a four-month-old baby girl just because she was sick?”
“DeLuca Freight’s original charter had an ancient trust clause,” Roman explained, his voice low, vibrating with icy fury. “My great-grandfather mandated that the estate could only be inherited by male heirs unless a female heir was the sole surviving bloodline. If Grandfather died with an acknowledged granddaughter, part of the shipping line would have been placed into an untouchable trust for her medical care. Michael DeLuca didn't want a dime diverted away from the docks.”
“And Silvio?” Mara asked.
“Silvio was the executor,” Roman said. “If the baby vanished, Silvio controlled the auxiliary trust. He’s been skimming millions off Clara’s existence for twenty-eight years while she lived as an orphan.”
Cal’s phone buzzed sharply on the dashboard. He answered, listened for three seconds, and hung up, turning around with a grim expression.
“Sir. Silvio’s men just entered the mansion in Lake Forest. They didn't know you left. They’ve brought power tools into the hallway. They’re tearing the wall down to the brick.”
“Let them tear it down,” Roman said coldly. “There’s nothing left in that house for him.” He turned to Leo. “Call Nora. Tell her to bring Helena’s medical release documents to our private clinic in Evanston. We’re bringing Mom home.”
“And what about Silvio?” Leo demanded.
“Silvio is going to meet us at the port authority tonight,” Roman said. “He thinks he has the leverage. He doesn't know we have Grandfather’s voice on tape.”
Roman turned to Mara. He reached out, his large, scarred hand gently cupping the side of her neck, his thumb tracing her cheekbone. The tenderness in his touch stood in stark, breathtaking contrast to the violence simmering beneath his skin.
“Mara. I am sending you to my apartment in Gold Coast with Cal. It’s fortified. Silvio doesn't know it exists.”
Mara leaned into his hand for half a heartbeat before pulling back with a defiant glint in her warm eyes. “Roman DeLuca, I faced you down with a fireplace poker in lemon pajamas at one in the morning. If you think I’m going to hide in a penthouse while you and your brother walk into a trap at the docks, you’ve severely underestimated who Aunt Nora hired.”
Roman stared at her, a slow, genuine smile finally breaking across his rugged face—a smile full of fierce respect and unspoken desire. “You’re impossible.”
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“I’m practical,” Mara countered. “And your mother gave me this.”
She opened her palm. Resting in her hand was a small bronze locker token from the Port of Chicago, stamped with the DeLuca crest, which Helena had slipped into her pocket while the brothers were embracing their mother.
