Chapter 2 - The Echoes of Oakhaven
The guest suite on the second floor was grander than my entire apartment building. A fire roared in the brick hearth, casting golden light over dark velvet armchairs, Persian rugs, and a wide mahogany four-poster bed.
I sat near the fire, wrapped in a plush navy wool blanket, sipping tea from a delicate porcelain cup. My clothes had been replaced with a warm gray cashmere sweater and dark trousers provided by the staff.
The door clicked open, and Dominic walked in. He had removed his rain-drenched coat and rolled up his white dress shirt sleeves, exposing forearms covered in dark ink and old scars.
He sat down in the armchair opposite mine, placing a heavy manila folder on the low table between us. Beside it lay the faded polaroid.
“Drink your tea,” he said quietly.
“I can’t,” I whispered, setting the cup down on the saucer with a soft rattle. “Not while you’re looking at me like I’m a ghost.”
“You are a ghost,” Dominic replied, his hands resting on his knees. “Twenty years ago, before my father dragged my family into the syndicate, we lived in a small coastal town called Oakhaven. I was twelve years old.”
My breath hitched. The name Oakhaven sent a strange, distant chill down my spine, like a forgotten melody played on an old piano.
“I didn't have brothers then,” Dominic continued, his gaze fixed on the fire. “Angelo wasn't born yet. My father was a low-level enforcer, always away. But next door to our cottage lived a woman named Clara Hart. And her four-year-old daughter, Lena.”
He pointed a calloused finger at the polaroid.
“You used to sit on that red swing for hours,” Dominic said softly. “You hated the dark. You used to cry every time the streetlights flickered, so I would sit on the porch steps and tell you stories about knights until you fell asleep. That scar above your eye? You got it when you tripped over my dog’s leash on the gravel driveway.”
I touched the scar above my brow again, my heart pounding so hard I felt dizzy.
“I... I remember a dog,” I breathed, the fog of my fragmented childhood memories suddenly parting slightly. “A big black dog named Barnaby?”
Dominic’s lips twitched into a small, painful smile. “Barnaby. Yes.”
“My mother told me my father died in a car accident when I was three,” I said, looking into Dominic’s intense eyes. “She moved us to Chicago when I was five. She worked double shifts at a laundry plant until she got sick and passed away four years ago. She never spoke about Oakhaven. She never spoke about any neighbors.”
Dominic leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, bringing his face closer to mine.
“Because your mother was hiding you, Lena,” he said tightly. “Three months after that photo was taken, my father made his move to take over the Chicago syndicate. His rivals came to Oakhaven to burn us out. They set fire to Clara’s house thinking my father was inside.”
I gasped, pulling the blanket tighter around my shoulders.
“Your mother survived, grabbed you, and vanished into the night,” Dominic explained. “My father told me you both died in the fire. I spent twenty years believing the little girl from the red swing was ash.”
“Then why did Angelo have this photo?” I asked, my voice rising with sudden, desperate confusion. “If Angelo wasn't even born when we lived in Oakhaven... how did he end up with a picture of me in his secret wallet flap? And why did he die an hour away from where I work?!”
Dominic’s face turned into dark stone. He opened the manila folder on the table, revealing a series of financial ledgers and decrypted phone records stamped with the logo of the Valenti Crime Family—the Costa syndicate’s fiercest rivals on the South Side.
“Because Angelo wasn't lured into that alley by a random phone call,” Dominic growled softly, a terrifying edge returning to his tone. “He was tracking down a debt. Three weeks ago, Angelo discovered that someone inside our inner circle had been funneling money out of our shipping ports to the Valentis.”
May you like
He tapped a line on the ledger.
“And the lead Angelo was following,” Dominic whispered, looking straight into my hazel eyes, “was a bank account opened under the name Clara Hart.”
