Chapter 45

Chapter 45

Vanessa wakes before the sun even thinks of rising.
Not that she slept—she just reached a point where lying still felt like drowning. She swings her legs over the side of the bed and rubs the back of her neck. Her body feels stiff, her mind worse.
The conversation with Arturo from the night before keeps replaying like a reel she can’t shut off. Every word. Every look. Every step he took toward her.
She hates how he lingers in her thoughts.
She hates even more that it brings her… steadiness.
She pushes that aside, stands, and throws on clothes: black leggings, boots, a worn grey shirt, and a jacket with hidden compartments she’s customized over the years. Not as armored as she usually dresses—but today isn’t about blood.
It’s about answers.
When she steps out into the quiet hallway, she expects to run into someone—guards, Arturo, the ghosts of her own thoughts—but the house is still. Early dawn filters through the windows, painting everything gold and muted.
Vanessa heads toward the west wing—where Arturo said she’d find an old study full of Castillo family documents. The place his father tried to bury everything under neat labels and fireproof safes.
As she walks, a voice rises behind her.
“You’re up early.”
She turns.
Arturo stands barefoot in the hallway, hair a little messy, like he’d run a hand through it one too many times. He’s wearing dark joggers and a plain shirt. Casual enough to look human. Dangerous enough to remind her he’s still him.
Vanessa crosses her arms. “Could say the same about you.”
“I wasn’t sleeping.” He steps closer, though not too close. “Thought I’d help you get started.”
She raises a brow. “Help, huh?”
He smirks. “I know, shocking. Don’t get used to it.”
She snorts, shaking her head. “Lead the way, Castellano.”

The study is tucked behind a heavy wooden door, the type that creaks like it’s holding its own memories hostage. When Arturo pushes it open, dust catches the light like drifting snow.
“This was my father’s favorite room,” he says quietly. “He did most of his planning here.”
Vanessa steps inside, taking everything in.
Old books arranged by subjects—politics, economics, Sicilian history. Boxes stacked in corners with dates scribbled on them. A pair of thick metal cabinets, one already cracked open.
And a table in the center, wide enough for maps, blueprints, and whatever secrets the previous generation scribbled at three in the morning.
It smells faintly of leather and old paper.
Vanessa’s fingers brush the edge of the table. “Looks untouched.”
“He couldn’t bring himself to change anything,” Arturo says. “After he died, nobody else wanted to either.”
She glances over her shoulder at him. “Including you?”
His jaw tightens a little. “Especially me.”
She doesn’t push it.
Not yet.
Instead, she goes for the metal cabinet. The files are packed tight, organized with almost obsessive neatness.
She pulls out one marked SANTORO DEALINGS – CONFIDENTIAL.
Her stomach twists.
Arturo notices. “You don’t have to open that first.”
“I do.” She cracks the folder open. “I need to know how deep the lies go.”
Inside is page after page of financial agreements, political favors, bribes, meeting logs. Some marked with Victor’s name. Others with aliases she immediately recognizes.
And one page near the back—stamped with the year her parents died.
Her pulse kicks up.
“Vanessa,” Arturo murmurs, stepping closer. “You don’t have to do it all at once.”
She ignores him and flips the page.
It’s a memo. A summary of a meeting between Victor Santoro and Arturo’s father.
Her eyes scan the lines.
Her stomach drops.
Victor reported that a couple—investors, small-time players with knowledge of wire transfers—had found out about a large-scale laundering operation. They’d threatened to expose everything, unaware of who they were dealing with.
Her father.
Her mother.
The note is cold. Clinical. “Loose ends” circled in red.
Vanessa closes the folder violently, stepping back as if burned.
Arturo’s expression shifts—darkening with each second he reads her face. “What did you find?”
“That.” Her voice cracks. She hates it. She clears her throat. “That my parents were never at the wrong place at the wrong time. They were targeted.”
“We already suspected that.”
“No,” she hisses. “You suspected. I hoped you were wrong.”
He takes a slow step toward her. “Vanessa—”
“Don’t.” She holds up a hand. “Not yet.”
She needs a second. One second to breathe, to stop her pulse from ripping her apart.
She moves to the window, gripping the edge of the sill. Outside, the estate looks peaceful. Birds settling on the branches. Early sunlight catching the tops of the trees.
It feels wrong.
After a long stretch of silence, she hears Arturo’s footsteps move toward her.
Not too close—just near enough that she knows he’s there.
“You know,” he says softly, “my father kept every note from every meeting. He wrote everything down. Even things he shouldn’t have.”
She doesn’t answer.
He continues. “If your parents were targeted, then they weren’t the only ones. Victor’s had loose ends for years. People who knew too much. People he wiped out to stay clean.”
Vanessa shuts her eyes. “So my whole life… my entire reason for existing… came from a lie.”
“No.” His voice hardens. “From Victor’s control. He shaped your purpose to fit his agenda. He stole your pain and used it like currency.”
She exhales shakily. “And you? What do you want?”
“To give you the truth,” he says simply. “Nothing more.”
She turns slightly, enough to see him from the corner of her eye. “Why?”
He doesn’t hesitate.
“Because lies built by men like Victor destroy everything they touch. And I’m done watching him destroy you.”
A slow, heavy silence settles between them.
Tension again. Quiet. Charged. A tug neither of them wants to name.
Finally, Vanessa pulls herself away from the window and gestures to the cabinets. “Then help me dig.”
Arturo nods once. “Anything you need.”

They work in silence at first—papers shifting, boxes opening, files spreading across the table like a web of buried sins.
Vanessa reads through reports her parents helped prepare. Notes in her mother’s handwriting. Her father’s diagrams—careful, neat, precise.
Seeing it makes her throat tighten.
Meanwhile, Arturo sorts through his father’s ledgers, hunting for connections—payments, signatures, unexplained withdrawals.
At one point, Vanessa catches him glancing at her. Not with pity. Not with condescension.
But with something steadier.
Quiet concern.
It bothers her.
And maybe comforts her.
And definitely confuses her.
After an hour, she drops into a chair, rubbing her temples. “God. There’s so much.”
“We’ll take it piece by piece,” he says. “We’re not racing.”
“You don’t understand,” she mutters. “I need answers now. The more time Victor has—”
“The more dangerous he becomes,” Arturo finishes. “I know.”
She meets his eyes.
They hold there—longer than she expects.
He steps toward her slowly, almost cautiously, like he’s approaching something with teeth.
“You don’t have to do this alone anymore,” he says quietly.
Vanessa breathes in sharply. “I shouldn’t trust you.”
“I know.”
“And yet…” She trails off.
He waits, his expression unreadable.
“And yet,” she finishes, “you’re the only one who’s not lying to me anymore.”
His voice softens. “Then start with that.”
They stand in silence—only the rustle of papers around them, the faint hum of morning.
Vanessa exhales, a slow release of tension she didn’t know she was holding. “Keep digging, Castellano. But don’t get too comfortable.”
He gives her a small, crooked grin. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
They return to the files—but the air between them is different now.
Not friends.
Not enemies.
Something in the middle.
Something dangerous and warming at the same time.
And as they uncover more layers of lies, more links tying Victor to her parents’ deaths, Vanessa realizes something else—
Arturo isn’t just helping her find answers.
He’s helping her find pieces of herself she didn’t know she lost.