Chapter 2 - THE PHOTOGRAPH IN THE STUDYBefore he turned to leave, Vincenzo gave me a new directive. When I finished the windows, I was to clean his private upstairs office—a room the rest of the staff whispered about in hushed tones.
Every survival instinct screamed at me to pack my bucket and walk out the door. But walking away meant losing the paycheck that kept Mateo alive.
Vincenzo’s private office looked more like a dim, solemn chapel than a place of business. Floor-to-ceiling shelves held heavy leather-bound books, a massive mahogany desk sat in the center, an expensive crystal bottle of bourbon caught the gray light, and there were no family photographs anywhere in sight.
Except for one.
Half-hidden behind a stack of ledgers, a black-and-white photograph lay facedown on a lower shelf. I knew I shouldn't touch it. But a strange, magnetic pull—something deeper than good judgment—made me reach out and turn it over.
My breath caught in my throat.
My grandmother, Rosa, stood in the photograph beside a stunning, dark-haired woman and a solemn little boy. The boy had Vincenzo’s unmistakable, sharp eyes, even though he couldn't have been older than nine. Standing right behind them was a young man with a crooked, gentle smile and a faint scar carved beneath his chin.
I knew that face better than my own. I had spent eighteen years looking at faded polaroids of it, trying to remember a man who had vanished like smoke.
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It was my father, Antonio Marino.
My mother always told me he abandoned us when I was six. My grandmother refused to ever speak his name. Yet here he was, staring back at me from the private, locked office of the most feared criminal in Chicago.
