Chapter 7 — Sokolov’s Last Warning
Chapter 7 — Sokolov’s Last Warning
The first mistake I made was assuming Viktor Sokolov wanted me dead.
The second was believing that would make him easier to understand.
By sunrise, three of my men were missing, my mother had vanished with no explanation, Rachel was unreachable, and Emma was somewhere I couldn't find.
I had been shot three days earlier.
My heart was failing.
And every person I had trusted seemed to know more about my life than I did.
Yet none of that frightened me as much as the message waiting on my phone.
COME ALONE.
Beneath it was a photograph.
Emma.
She was sitting at a small wooden table.
Mr. Buttons was beside her.
She was drawing.
Her head was lowered.
Her curls covered half her face.
There was no blood.
No weapon.
No visible threat.
That somehow made it worse.
The photograph had been taken recently.
Very recently.
I enlarged it.
Behind Emma was a window.
Beyond the glass, I could see water.
A gray railing.
And something red.
A lighthouse.
I knew that lighthouse.
Staten Island.
Fort Wadsworth.
My pulse accelerated.
Marco noticed.
“Don't.”
I looked at him.
“Don't what?”
“Don't tell me you're going.”
“I am.”
“You're walking into a trap.”
“Yes.”
“You're saying that like it's a minor inconvenience.”
“I know it's a trap.”
“Then why are you going?”
I turned the phone toward him.
He looked at the photograph.
His face hardened.
“That's not enough.”
“It is for me.”
“Luca.”
“She's alive.”
“For now.”
I looked at him.
He knew immediately that he had chosen the wrong words.
“She'll stay alive.”
“You don't know that.”
“No.”
I slipped the phone into my pocket.
“But I know what happens if I wait.”
Marco stepped in front of me.
“You can't go alone.”
“The message says alone.”
“I don't care.”
“I do.”
“Then take me as far as the perimeter.”
“No.”
“Luca—”
“No one follows me.”
Marco stared.
“You've lost your mind.”
“Maybe.”
I walked past him.
He caught my shoulder.
Pain shot through my body.
I turned sharply.
His hand immediately released me.
“Sorry.”
I breathed through the pain.
“Don't apologize.”
“I saw you get shot once.”
“I know.”
“I don't want to watch it twice.”
I looked at him.
“Then make sure I come back.”
Marco's jaw tightened.
“I'll give you twenty minutes.”
“Ten.”
“Fifteen.”
“Fine.”
He nodded.
“Then I'm sending nobody inside.”
“Good.”
“But I'll be close enough to hear the first gunshot.”
I almost smiled.
“That sounds like you.”
The drive to Fort Wadsworth took forty-two minutes.
I spent every second thinking about Emma.
Not Sokolov.
Not my mother.
Not the man who had been following us.
Emma.
She was six years old.
She should have been worried about school.
Crayons.
Cartoons.
Whether Rachel would let her have pancakes for dinner.
She should not have been sitting in a strange room waiting for armed men to decide what happened to her father.
I closed my eyes.
The memory came back.
A photograph from six months ago.
Emma sitting on the floor.
Mr. Buttons beside her.
A green crayon in her hand.
She had drawn three figures.
Rachel.
Herself.
And a man without a face.
I had looked at it from a distance and thought it was evidence of my failure.
Now I wondered whether it had been a warning.
Children noticed things adults ignored.
A car parked outside too long.
A stranger standing near a fence.
A voice they heard twice.
A face that appeared somewhere it shouldn't.
Maybe Emma had been telling us the truth for months.
We simply hadn't known how to listen.
The meeting point was an abandoned coastal maintenance building.
The door stood open.
No guards.
No cameras.
No vehicles.
I checked my watch.
10:06 a.m.
Fifteen minutes.
I entered.
The room smelled of salt and rust.
A wooden chair sat in the middle.
On it was another photograph.
This time, it showed Rachel.
She was asleep.
I stopped.
The photograph had been taken inside the safe house.
I knew the curtains.
The lamp.
The sofa.
She had been unconscious.
Or sleeping.
I couldn't tell.
Behind her was a man.
His face had been deliberately scratched out.
My hand tightened around the photograph.
“Come out.”
Nothing.
“I know you're here.”
A speaker crackled.
Then a voice.
“Do you?”
I recognized it.
Viktor Sokolov.
I turned toward the wall.
A screen came alive.
Sokolov appeared.
He was sitting in a dark room.
Gray hair.
Cold eyes.
A scar beneath his right ear.
He looked older than the last time I had seen him.
But not weaker.
“Luca Bellini.”
“Where is my daughter?”
Sokolov smiled.
“You always did skip introductions.”
“Where is Emma?”
“Safe.”
“If you touch her—”
“You still think I'm the villain.”
“I don't think.”
“No?”
“I know.”
Sokolov leaned closer to the camera.
“Then you're not listening.”
“I don't need to listen.”
“Yes, you do.”
He tapped something on the desk.
Another photograph appeared.
My mother.
Isabella.
She was standing beside a car.
Alive.
Very much alive.
My chest tightened.
“Your mother came to me six months ago.”
I stared.
“Why?”
“To ask for protection.”
“For herself?”
“No.”
Sokolov's expression changed.
“For you.”
I laughed once.
“That makes no sense.”
“She knew your father had been monitoring your heart.”
I went still.
“She knew about my diagnosis.”
“Yes.”
“And you?”
“I knew before she did.”
“How?”
“Your father had enemies.”
“So do you.”
Sokolov smiled.
“Your father had something I wanted.”
“What?”
“The Bellini archives.”
I stared at him.
“What do they contain?”
“Names.”
“Whose names?”
“Everyone who bought their way into your family's empire.”
I said nothing.
Sokolov continued.
“Judges.”
“Politicians.”
“Bankers.”
“Police officers.”
“Businessmen.”
“People who built careers on your family's money.”
I stared at the screen.
“And you want those names.”
“No.”
He leaned back.
“I wanted the truth.”
I almost laughed.
“You kidnapped my daughter for the truth?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
“Because your family took something from me.”
“What?”
“My son.”
The room went silent.
I had heard rumors.
Everyone had.
Sokolov's eldest son had died five years earlier.
Overdose.
At least, that was the official story.
I looked at him.
“Your son died.”
“Yes.”
“That's not my fault.”
“No.”
Sokolov's eyes hardened.
“Your father killed him.”
I froze.
“What?”
“He ordered the shipment.”
“I don't understand.”
“You don't need to.”
“I do.”
“You think your father built the Bellini empire with legitimate businesses.”
“No.”
“You know what your family does.”
“Yes.”
“You don't know how much.”
Sokolov looked directly into the camera.
“Your father sold weapons through medical charities.”
My stomach turned.
“That's impossible.”
“Is it?”
He displayed another photograph.
A warehouse.
Boxes marked with pharmaceutical company logos.
But beneath the labels were military serial numbers.
I stared.
“This was twenty years ago.”
“Yes.”
“Why show me?”
“Because the man you're looking for isn't trying to take your empire.”
I looked at him.
“He's trying to erase it.”
“Who?”
Sokolov smiled.
“Your uncle.”
I clenched my jaw.
“You know him?”
“I knew your father.”
“That's not an answer.”
“It is the only answer that matters.”
I stepped closer to the screen.
“Where is Emma?”
“Safe.”
“Where?”
“You will see her.”
“When?”
“When you understand the warning.”
“What warning?”
Sokolov's expression became serious.
“Stop looking for your mother.”
My heart stopped.
“Why?”
“Because she isn't the one holding your daughter.”
I stared.
“Then who is?”
Sokolov said nothing.
“Who?”
He looked away.
Then:
“The man your father was afraid of.”
My throat tightened.
“My uncle?”
“No.”
“Then who?”
Sokolov reached toward the camera.
The screen went black.
A final sentence appeared.
YOU HAVE TEN MINUTES.
Then another.
GO TO THE LIGHTHOUSE.
Then:
AND DO NOT BRING MARCO.
I left the building.
Marco was waiting near the road.
He saw my face.
“What happened?”
“Sokolov.”
“I know.”
“He wants me at the lighthouse.”
Marco shook his head.
“No.”
“He has Emma.”
“You don't know that.”
“He showed me photographs.”
“That proves nothing.”
“He showed me Rachel.”
Marco went silent.
I continued.
“He knows about my heart.”
“So do too many people.”
“He knows my mother.”
Marco looked away.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
I grabbed his arm.
“What aren't you telling me?”
He hesitated.
Then:
“Your mother contacted me six months ago.”
My blood ran cold.
“You knew?”
“She asked me not to tell you.”
“Why?”
“She said you'd come looking for her.”
“I would have.”
“Exactly.”
“What did she want?”
“Protection.”
“From whom?”
“She wouldn't say.”
I stared at him.
“Did she mention Emma?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“She said if anything happened to her, I was to keep Emma away from the Bellini family.”
I felt sick.
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because I thought she was trying to manipulate you.”
“Maybe she was.”
“Maybe.”
I looked toward the lighthouse.
“Did she say anything else?”
Marco hesitated.
“She gave me a name.”
“Whose?”
He looked directly at me.
“Julian Bellini.”
I stopped breathing.
“Who is Julian?”
Marco's face changed.
“You don't know?”
“No.”
“He's your uncle.”
My stomach dropped.
“The faceless man?”
“No.”
“Then who?”
Marco swallowed.
“The man who was supposed to inherit the Bellini empire before your father.”
I stared.
“Then why did I never hear his name?”
“Because he died.”
“When?”
“Twenty-six years ago.”
I looked toward the lighthouse.
“But someone is using his name.”
Marco nodded.
“And that's what scares me.”
I went alone.
The lighthouse stood at the edge of the water.
Wind tore across the rocks.
The door was unlocked.
Inside, the stairwell spiraled upward.
I climbed.
Every step hurt.
My heart raced.
The monitor I had been told to wear vibrated against my chest.
I ignored it.
Halfway up, I heard a child laughing.
I stopped.
“Emma?”
No answer.
I climbed faster.
At the top was a small observation room.
Emma sat on the floor.
Mr. Buttons in her lap.
She looked up.
“Daddy.”
I almost collapsed.
I crossed the room and dropped to my knees.
She ran into my arms.
I held her carefully.
My shoulder screamed.
I didn't care.
She smelled like shampoo.
Like crayons.
Like home.
“Are you okay?”
She nodded against my chest.
“Mommy?”
“She isn't here.”
“Is she safe?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sick?”
I closed my eyes.
“Yes.”
She pulled back.
“Will you die?”
I couldn't lie.
“Not today.”
She considered that.
“Good.”
Then she hugged me again.
I held her tighter.
For three years, I had imagined touching my daughter.
I had imagined it would feel like redemption.
It didn't.
It felt like grief.
Because I knew how much I had missed.
I kissed the top of her head.
“I am so sorry.”
She looked up.
“For what?”
“For not being here.”
“You were.”
I frowned.
“What?”
She pointed toward the window.
“You always watched.”
My blood went cold.
“What?”
She smiled.
“I saw you.”
I stared at her.
“When?”
“Lots of times.”
“Where?”
“Outside school.”
My heart stopped.
“That wasn't me.”
Emma's smile disappeared.
“Yes, it was.”
“No.”
She shook her head.
“You wore the black coat.”
I froze.
“What black coat?”
She pointed toward the window.
“The man who looks like you.”
My blood ran cold.
“The man with the face.”
I couldn't breathe.
“What did he tell you?”
Emma whispered:
“He said he was my father.”
A sound came from behind me.
A gun being loaded.
I turned.
A man stood in the doorway.
He looked exactly like me.
Same eyes.
Same jaw.
Same scar.
But older.
He smiled.
“Hello, Luca.”
I pushed Emma behind me.
The man raised his hands.
“Relax.”
“Who are you?”
“You know.”
“I don't.”
He smiled.
“Your father never told you about me.”
“Julian.”
His smile disappeared.
“That's not my name.”
I stared.
“Then who are you?”
He looked at Emma.
Then back at me.
“I'm the reason your father taught you never to trust your own blood.”
A second gunshot exploded below.
The lighthouse shook.
The man looked toward the stairs.
“They found us.”
“Who?”
He looked at me.
“Sokolov.”
I stared.
“You brought him here?”
“No.”
“Then who?”
He smiled bitterly.
“Your mother.”
I felt my heart stumble.
“What?”
“She wanted you to find me.”
“Why?”
“Because she knows what your father did.”
“What did he do?”
The man's expression hardened.
“He didn't abandon you.”
I stared.
“He imprisoned me.”
Silence.
“He erased my identity.”
“Why?”
“Because I was the firstborn.”
My breath caught.
“He stole the inheritance.”
“Yes.”
“And your name?”
“Julian Bellini.”
I looked at him.
“But you died.”
“No.”
He smiled.
“My father made sure everyone believed I did.”
Then another sound came from below.
Footsteps.
Multiple.
The man looked at Emma.
Then at me.
“You have two minutes.”
“For what?”
“To decide whether you trust me.”
“I don't.”
“You shouldn't.”
He looked toward the stairs.
“That's the point.”
I held Emma closer.
“Then why save us?”
His expression changed.
“Because you're my brother.”
He stepped backward.
“And because she is my niece.”
The door behind him opened.
A woman appeared.
Isabella.
My mother.
Alive.
She looked at me.
Then Emma.
Then Julian.
Her face broke.
“Luca.”
I stared at her.
“You took my daughter.”
“No.”
She shook her head.
“I brought her here because I knew they were coming.”
“Who?”
She looked toward the stairs.
“Your father.”
My blood ran cold.
“My father is dead.”
She looked at me.
“No.”
The room went silent.
“He isn't.”
I couldn't speak.
Then the footsteps stopped below us.
A man's voice echoed through the lighthouse.
“Luca.”
I knew that voice.
I had heard it in the recording.
My father's voice.
Calm.
Cold.
Alive.
“Come upstairs, son.”
Emma buried her face against my chest.
My mother closed her eyes.
Julian raised his gun.
And Sokolov's final warning suddenly made sense.
He had never been warning me about himself.
He had been warning me about the man I had spent my entire life believing was dead.
My father was alive.
And he was coming for his family.
For the first time, I understood the real danger.
May you like
It wasn't that someone wanted to kill me.
It was that someone wanted me alive long enough to choose which member of my family would die first.
