Chapter 4: Secrets In The Walls

I didn’t expect much from a house built on blood, but I also didn’t expect the silence to be this loud.

It wasn’t the kind of silence that meant peace. It was the kind that pressed against your skin like humidity. Heavy. Watching. Waiting.

After the funeral, Matteo disappeared for the rest of the day. Not a word. Not a knock. Not even the echo of his boots in the hallway. Just gone. And in his absence, the house felt like a stranger again—walls too white, floors too clean, windows that didn’t open.

I didn’t cry.

I wanted to, but I couldn’t.

Maybe because crying felt like surrender. And I wasn’t ready to lose again.

So I walked.

Not with a plan. Not even with hope. Just footsteps echoing through halls that weren’t mine, wearing shoes that didn’t belong to me, passing portraits of men with dead eyes and tighter suits.

This place was built to trap people. Not with locks. With beauty. With secrets.

And I was tired of being the only one without answers.

Down one corridor, past a wing that smelled faintly of cigars and varnish, I found a door without a name.

I almost didn’t try it. It looked like the kind of door that bit back.

But then again… so did I.

The knob turned with a soft click.

Inside, the air was colder. Dim. Like the lights had given up a long time ago. Shelves lined the walls—books, files, boxes. A record player in the corner. A desk that looked untouched for years.

I closed the door behind me.

My fingers hovered over the spines of books, not really reading, just feeling. My chest tightened when I saw one with a cracked leather cover and initials burned into the corner:

J.D.V.

My mother’s best friend. Gianna De Vera.

The one we’d just buried.

I pulled the book down. It wasn’t a novel—it was a journal. Dates ran across the top of each page, shaky handwriting below. I flipped to the back.

The last entry was dated three days ago.

They’re circling again. I saw him. The same eyes. I know he’s watching her. If anything happens to me, the truth is inside the red file. The one Elena told me to burn.

I stopped breathing.

Red file?

I scanned the shelves, then the drawers. Nothing. I opened the bottom cabinet and saw it immediately—tucked under an old plaid blanket, almost like it was hiding on purpose.

A bright red folder.

I didn’t open it right away. Just stared at it. Because part of me knew that whatever was inside wasn’t something you come back from.

But I opened it anyway.

Inside were photos. Dozens. Some of my mother. Some of me as a child. But others… others were of men I didn’t recognize, shaking hands, pointing guns, standing beside coffins that looked too fresh.

One photo hit harder than the rest.

My mother.

And Matteo.

Younger. But definitely them.

She was smiling.

He was not.

They were standing beside a man I’d never seen before—tall, broad shoulders, a scar across his lip.

On the back, in faded ink, it read:

Elena. Matteo. And…

The name was scratched out.

I stared at the photo for a long time.

They knew each other.

All this time, they knew each other.

And nobody told me.

A wave of nausea rose in my throat, but I swallowed it down. No time for that now. I slipped the folder under my shirt and left the room the same way I came in—quiet, angry, and burning.

I was halfway back to my wing when I heard voices.

Low. Male. Coming from Matteo’s office.

I pressed against the wall and leaned close.

“She’s asking questions,” one man said.

“Let her,” Matteo replied. “She needs to.”

“Boss, that’s not wise. If she finds out about—”

“She already knows more than she should.”

A pause.

Then he added, “And if she finds the journal, it’s only a matter of time before she connects the rest.”

I didn’t hear the rest. Didn’t care.

I turned and walked faster. My palms were sweating now. Heart pounding so loud it was probably echoing through the marble.

He knew about the journal. He wanted me to find it.

Why?

Why lead me toward the truth like it was some twisted breadcrumb trail?

I didn’t get it.

Not until I opened the folder again in the safety of my room, and one loose photo slipped out from between the papers.

A photo of a man.

Scar on his lip.

Same as before.

Except this time, the back had a name.

Rafael Aragon.

It was written in my mother’s handwriting.

Rafael Aragon.

I didn’t know the name. But I was about to.

Because that night, after dinner was delivered and left untouched again, Matteo finally came to me.

He didn’t knock. Of course he didn’t.

He just stepped inside like he owned the room, because technically… he did.

“I see you’ve been exploring,” he said.

I didn’t pretend otherwise. “What happened between you and my mother?”

He looked tired. Not physically. Soul tired.

“She saved my life once,” he said.

That surprised me.

I blinked. “What?”

“I was sixteen. Shot twice. Left for dead. Your mother found me behind a church and dragged me to safety.”

He walked to the window. Didn’t look at me.

“She kept me hidden for two days. Stitched my shoulder herself. Fed me. Lied to the cops.”

I sat slowly. “Why?”

“She believed in good,” he said, like it was the saddest thing in the world. “Even in someone like me.”

Silence filled the room. Not heavy this time. Just… present.

I stared at the floor. “So what changed?”

“She stopped believing,” he said quietly. “Or maybe… she started seeing the truth.”

He turned to me.

“There’s a lot your mother didn’t tell you. About who she was. Who your father really was.”

“Then tell me,” I said. “Tell me everything.”

He hesitated.

Then, for the first time since I met him, Matteo Valerio sat beside me.

Not across the room. Not towering over me.

Beside me.

And he told me a story.

About Elena Santos—the woman who once led a double life as the daughter of a crime boss and a CIA informant. About her decision to run. About her love affair with a man named Rafael Aragon.

My real father.

“He wasn’t the monster people made him out to be,” Matteo said. “But he made enemies. And those enemies wanted blood.”

I looked down at the photo again.

“Why didn’t she tell me?”

“Because she wanted you out. Away from this world.”

He leaned back, tired. “But the past doesn’t care about intentions. It always comes back.”

I swallowed hard.

“And now he’s alive?”

Matteo nodded once.

“He never died. He went underground. Changed his name. Became someone else.”

“Is that who was at the meeting?”

A pause.

Then he nodded again.

I felt sick. Cold.

“He’s watching me.”

“Yes.”

“Planning something?”

“Always.”

I covered my face with both hands, breathing slow. Careful.

“I need to meet him,” I said.

Matteo looked at me sharply. “No.”

“I need answers.”

“He’ll lie to you.”

“Maybe. But he’s still my father.”

“He’s not,” Matteo said, standing. “Not anymore.”

I looked up at him.

“What does that make you then?”

He stared at me. Hard. Unreadable.

“I’m the one who stayed,” he said.

Then he left.

And I hated how much those words echoed.

That night, I dreamed of fire.

Of my mother’s face, blurred and distant.

Of Matteo’s hands, stained red.

Of a voice in the dark saying, Pick a side, Amara.

But what if there were no sides left?

What if all the lines had already been crossed?

What if the truth was just another kind of cage?

When I woke up, the red folder was still beside me.

Still burning.

Still whispering.

And in the quiet, I finally whispered back.

“I’m not afraid of the truth.”

But I didn’t know if that was a promise or a lie.

END OF CHAPTER 4