Chapter 174: Rose

Chapter 174: Rose
Catherine moved through the soft gloom of Chiara's bedroom, her touch feather-light. She managed to slip off the small, sticky shoes and gently coax the glittery tiara from her daughter’s tangled hair without waking her. Chiara was deeply asleep, a triumphant smile plastered on her cake-smeared face. She had played hard, eaten too much cake, and was now sleeping like a rock. Catherine didn't have the heart to wake her for a shower; she chose her battles and decided this one could wait. Chiara deserved the rest.

As she closed the door with a quiet click, she heard an unexpected noise—a muffled sound from the living room, a soft thud. Every nerve ending went instantly on high alert.

“Kieran?” she called out softly from the hallway, her voice tight, but no one responded.

She knew Kieran was supposed to be up on the terrace, supervising the last of the cleanup after the neighborhood children had left. A cold knot formed in her stomach. She moved to the small table by the front door, drew her concealed pistol, and checked the chamber with practiced ease. Calmly, silently, she moved towards the source of the noise, her steps soundless on the wooden floor.

She reached the kitchen entrance, the gun held steady, and pointed it toward the shadowy figure standing by the sink.

The figure flinched violently, dropping a glass bottle cap onto the floor. It was Solomon. He was standing with the refrigerator door slightly ajar, looking distinctly sheepish and slightly distraught.

“Hey… sorry,” he stammered, raising his hands slightly. “I just wanted some water.”

Catherine lowered the gun slightly, though she didn’t fully relax. “Solomon? What the fuck are you doing? You disappeared right after we cut the cake, you said you were going to help us clean… I was worried.”

Solomon closed the fridge door. “Yeah… I’m sorry, Catherine. It’s just that, well, I needed a minute. Where is Kieran?”

“He’s at the terrace,” she confirmed, watching him closely.

“Right. Look, Catherine,” he said, his usual polished demeanor fractured by a barely contained urgency. “Something came up. Something important. I can’t really say anything right now.”

The secrecy and his genuine distress unnerved her. “Solomon, you’re scaring me. What is it?”

“Don’t be,” he assured her, forcing a tired smile. “Everything is fine, really. This is… this is about my father. I need to see him.”

Catherine frowned. “Is something wrong with him?”

“Many things,” Solomon replied dryly, a flash of his old cynicism returning. “But I need him to confirm something for me. Something important. Family stuff.”

Catherine took a deep, steadying breath. She owed him more than just suspicion. “Solomon, I think that you, more than anyone, deserve to take your time and do whatever you want… But we are very close to getting everything back. We need you. Kieran and I, we can’t do this without you.”

Solomon stepped forward and put his hands gently on her shoulders, his eyes intensely focused on hers. “You won’t. It’s just a couple of days, I promise. But this… this can’t wait.”

“Be careful,” she murmured, finally holstering her gun.

“I will,” he promised.

“Tell your father I said hi. I know you don’t like him, but he was always very nice to me, so…”

Solomon nodded stiffly. “Sure. I’ll tell him. Give Chiara a kiss for me.” He paused, his expression serious. “And tell Kieran to lay low until I come back, okay?”

“Okay,” Catherine agreed, sensing the veiled warning in his tone.

Solomon pressed a quick, cool kiss to her cheek and then, without another word, turned and was gone, leaving Catherine alone with a growing sense of unease in the quiet apartment.



Ernest Vance sat in the opulent drawing-room of his Genoa estate, the Mediterranean sun streaming through the tall windows. He was nursing a glass of amber liquid when the peace was shattered.

"Mr. Vance," the maid announced in broken English, her Italian accent heavy, "your son is here to see you."

Ernest set his glass down and rose slowly from the couch, watching Solomon walk a few steps behind the maid, his presence radiating tense purpose.

“Solomon, my boy,” Ernest greeted him, a theatrical air of surprise in his voice. “What do I owe the honor of your sudden visit? For the second time in as many years, you grace me with your presence.”

Solomon turned to the maid, his tone dismissive and final. “Please, leave us.”

The maid bowed quickly and retreated. Solomon then turned back to his father, his eyes cold. “We need to talk.”

“Join me for a drink?” Ernest offered, gesturing to the crystal decanter.

Solomon ignored him. He watched his father refill his glass with smooth, expensive whiskey.

“Did you know a woman named Rose Karakatsanis?” Solomon asked, the name cutting through the room's quiet luxury.

Ernest chuckled, taking a sip of his drink. “Karakatsanis? Like your friend, The Ghost? No. Should I?”

“Three decades ago, she worked at one of Cesare Santoro’s clubs, The Red Feather,” Solomon continued, his voice precise and accusatory. “You had money in that place, didn’t you?”

“Did you fly all the way here to ask me if I remember some stripper from three decades ago?” Ernest scoffed, waving a hand dismissively. “Please…”

“She wasn’t a stripper, she was a waitress.”

Solomon saw it then—a subtle, fleeting change in his father’s practiced indifference, a tiny wrinkle of memory across his brow.

“What was her name again?” Ernest asked, tilting his head.

“Rose.”

“Yeah…” Ernest murmured, his gaze distant. “There was a waitress named Rose at The Red Feather thirty years ago. Beautiful woman, long dark hair. I didn’t know her name was Karakatsanis, though. Is she related to your boss?”

“She’s his mother,” Solomon stated flatly. “Killed by Cesare Santoro years ago, before Kieran took over the Valentes.”

“Such a shame,” Ernest said, shaking his head. “She was a beautiful woman back in the day. May she rest in peace.”

“Do you even understand what I am saying?” Solomon demanded, stepping closer.

Ernest drew himself up, adopting an air of injured innocence. “You seem to be insinuating something, Solomon.”

Solomon looked his father dead in the eye, the question hanging heavy between them. “Are you Kieran’s father?”

Ernest stopped, his hand still gripping the whiskey glass. “How the fuck am I supposed to know? I never knew the Red Feather waitress from thirty-something years ago was his mother, you’re telling me this now!”

“You did sleep with her,” Solomon insisted, his tone hardening. “Kieran and I were born less than a year apart. He is my brother, isn't he?”

Ernest sighed, the facade of ignorance cracking completely. “I told Rose to get rid of that baby. I gave her the money, she told me she did… And then she was gone. Never heard of her again.”

“You never checked?” Solomon asked, incredulous.

“Why should I?” Ernest exploded, throwing his hands up. “I had more important things to care about!”

“Like what?” Solomon countered, his voice rising in fury. “Like my mother? Your wife, sinking in misery and despair because you couldn’t stop cheating on her and burning through her inheritance money!”

“Oh, this again?” Ernest sneered, setting his glass down with a clatter. “Your mother was sick, Solomon! I couldn’t help her!”

“Of course, you couldn’t!” Solomon shot back. “You were busy out there getting other women pregnant!”

Ernest threw his hands up in exasperation. “What the fuck do you want me to do? To go to The Ghost and say, ‘Hello, I’m your papa’? Last time I checked, he died and then he was alive again, and now he’s in jail. I want nothing to do with him, and I certainly don't want to get caught in the crossfire of his war with Gabo Valente. I don't need that kind of trouble.”

“You’re a fucking coward,” Solomon spat.

Ernest flinched, then quickly composed himself. “Does he know?”

Solomon hesitated. “Maybe.”

“Does he know?” Ernest pressed again, his voice cracking with sudden, genuine fear.

“He will.”