Chapter 13 - THREE CHILDREN
The House had exchanged three infants thirty-seven years ago.
Not randomly.
Not to hide one child.
To bind three families through blood no one understood.
Hale raised a child not born Hale.
Bellandi raised another.
Caruso raised the third.
Every future marriage could unknowingly reconnect bloodlines the House had separated.
A living network.
Not loyalty.
Biology as leverage.
Salvatore felt sick.
Eleanor sat beside Sebastian.
He did not touch her.
She did not try.
“Who was born to you?” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
“You held me.”
“Yes.”
“Did you know I wasn’t yours?”
“No.”
“When did you suspect?”
“When you were six.”
“Why?”
“Richard received a message.”
“What message?”
Eleanor closed her eyes.
“Three sons. Three houses. One returns when the fourth is born.”
Clara touched her stomach.
“The fourth.”
Eleanor nodded.
Sebastian laughed without humor.
“So my entire life was waiting for Clara to get pregnant.”
“No.”
“You just said—”
“I didn’t know what it meant.”
“You knew enough to terrorize her.”
Eleanor looked toward Clara.
“Yes.”
No excuse this time.
That mattered.
Clara said nothing.
Forgiveness was not owed because someone finally stopped lying.
Salvatore looked at Anthony.
“We find the Bellandi child.”
Anthony frowned.
“The Bellandis had three boys that year.”
“One marked.”
“We need access.”
“No.”
Salvatore’s eyes hardened.
“We need memory.”
The Bellandi family had been enemies, allies, and enemies again depending on the decade.
Its current head was Marco Bellandi.
Fifty-eight.
Old enough to remember.
Salvatore called him.
No pleasantries.
“I need to see you.”
Marco laughed.
“Midnight invitations from Caruso usually end badly.”
“Bring nobody you don’t trust.”
“That eliminates half my family.”
“Then bring the half you hate less.”
They met at an old restaurant closed for the night.
Marco arrived with one nephew.
Salvatore brought Anthony and Sebastian.
Marco looked at Sebastian.
“Hale.”
“Maybe.”
Marco frowned.
Salvatore placed the crescent scar photograph on the table.
Marco stopped smiling.
“You know it.”
Marco sat slowly.
“My brother had one.”
“Which brother?”
“Dominic.”
“Where is he?”
“Dead.”
Salvatore stared.
Marco sighed.
“Yes. I saw the body.”
Finally.
“How?”
“Cancer.”
No mystery.
At least not every death belonged to the House.
“Did Dominic know?”
Marco looked at Sebastian.
“He knew he wasn’t Bellandi.”
Sebastian’s jaw tightened.
“How?”
“Our mother told him.”
“Who was he?”
“She never knew.”
Salvatore leaned forward.
“Did he have children?”
Marco shook his head.
“Couldn’t.”
The House’s Bellandi branch ended.
“Anything else?”
Marco looked toward Anthony.
“The mark was not a burn.”
Sebastian frowned.
“What?”
“It was made with acid at birth.”
Same purpose.
Different method.
Marco continued.
“Dominic spent years looking for the other two.”
“Why?”
“He thought if he found them, he’d understand why they were exchanged.”
“Did he?”
“One.”
Sebastian went still.
“Who?”
Marco looked at him.
“You.”
Silence.
“He found you when you were twenty-two.”
Sebastian stared.
“I never met him.”
“You did.”
“No.”
Marco smiled sadly.
“Boston. Hotel bar. A man bought you whiskey after your engagement ended.”
Sebastian’s face changed.
Memory.
“He said his name was David.”
“Dominic.”
Sebastian sat.
“What did he tell you?”
“Nothing. He just asked about your childhood.”
“Why?”
“He wanted to see if you remembered.”
“Remembered what?”
Marco looked at Salvatore.
“The Keeper.”
Sebastian’s hand went to his shoulder.
“He remembered a lullaby.”
Everyone waited.
Sebastian frowned.
“My mother never sang.”
Eleanor had said that herself many times.
Sebastian continued.
“But I remember someone singing when I was very young.”
“Words?” Marco asked.
Sebastian shook his head.
“Tune.”
He hummed three notes.
Eleanor froze.
The same three notes Richard used before House meetings.
Salvatore felt the room darken.
Not a lullaby.
A signal.
Conditioning.
The House had taught children its sound before they could speak.
Marco continued.
“Dominic believed the third child—the one sent to Caruso—became the next Keeper.”
Salvatore’s eyes narrowed.
“Nicholas.”
“Maybe.”
“Why?”
“Because someone had to grow up inside the family closest to the fourth bloodline.”
Clara’s pregnancy.
The fourth born.
A cycle reopening.
Sebastian looked at Salvatore.
“If Nicholas is alive, he may be the one behind all this.”
“Maybe.”
Salvatore had learned not to mistake elegant theories for truth.
Marco leaned back.
“Dominic left something before he died.”
“What?”
“A name.”
Salvatore waited.
Marco said:
“Samuel.”
Sebastian’s face changed.
“No.”
Salvatore looked at him.
“Who is Samuel?”
May you like
Sebastian whispered:
“My middle name.”
