Chapter Eight
984 Words
“No.” Sloane’s voice was firm. “We’re not walking into another trap.”
Mateo was already dialing. “Diana, give me a location.” He listened, nodded, then hung up. “She’s sending an address. But she says we have fifteen minutes before Rossi’s men get there first.”
“How do we know this isn’t another setup?”
“We don’t.” He grabbed his jacket. “But if there’s a chance your mother is alive and in danger, I’m not ignoring it.”
Sloane followed him to the garage. “Then I’m coming.”
“I wouldn’t dream of leaving you behind.”
They took a different car—a dark sedan, unremarkable, untraceable. Mateo drove, his eyes scanning the road, his jaw set.
“Tell me about your mother,” he said. “Before she disappeared. What was she like?”
Sloane stared out the window. “She was… warm. She used to sing in the morning while she made breakfast. Terrible voice, but she didn’t care. She laughed a lot. And she loved my father. Even with his gambling, even with the fights. She loved him.”
“What changed?”
“I don’t know. One day she was there. The next, she was gone. No note. No explanation. Just… empty drawers and a cold house.”
Mateo’s hands tightened on the wheel. “She left to protect you.”
“That’s what everyone says. But protect me from what? From who?”
“From my father.” His voice was quiet. “From the world he built. Your mother worked for him. She saw things she shouldn’t have. When he was killed, she took evidence that could destroy Rossi. But Rossi had spies everywhere. If he found out she had a daughter…”
“He would have used me.”
“Yes.”
Sloane closed her eyes. Fourteen years of anger, of grief, of wondering why she wasn’t enough to make her mother stay. And now she knew: it wasn’t about love. It was about survival.
“She should have told me,” Sloane whispered.
“She couldn’t. If you had known, you might have tried to find her. And Rossi would have followed.”
“So she sacrificed herself. And my father drank himself into debt.”
“Guilt does terrible things to people.”
They drove in silence for a while. The city gave way to empty streets, then to warehouses, then to a stretch of coast that smelled of salt and rust.
“The address is Pier 3,” Mateo said. “Same area as before, different building.”
“Another warehouse.”
“Diana says your mother has been hiding in the basement. There’s a room, hidden behind a false wall. She’s been there for weeks, waiting.”
“Waiting for what?”
“For you.”
The car stopped. Sloane looked at the building—dark, abandoned, windows like empty eyes.
“If this is a trap,” she said, “promise me something.”
“Anything.”
“Promise me you’ll run. Don’t try to save me. Don’t be a hero. Just run.”
Mateo turned to her, his eyes fierce. “I’m not leaving you.”
“You might have to.”
“Then we both run. Together. That’s the deal.”
He got out of the car. She followed.
The warehouse door was unlocked. They slipped inside, flashlights cutting through the darkness. The air was cold, damp, smelling of mold and forgotten things.
“Basement,” Mateo whispered. “This way.”
They found stairs, rusted and creaking. Each step groaned under their weight. Sloane’s heart pounded so loud she was sure someone would hear.
The basement was larger than she expected—a maze of crumbling walls and old machinery. Mateo consulted his phone, following Diana’s instructions.
“False wall should be on the north side.”
They found it: a section of concrete that looked different, newer. Mateo pressed against it, and it shifted, revealing a narrow passage.
Beyond the passage, a room. Small, cramped, lit by a single battery‑operated lamp.
And in the corner, huddled under a blanket, a woman.
Sloane’s breath caught. “Mom?”
The woman looked up. Her face was thinner than the photograph, her hair grayer, her eyes hollow. But Sloane would have known her anywhere.
“Sloane?” Sarah Mitchell’s voice cracked. “Oh, God. Sloane.”
She scrambled to her feet, and they collided in the middle of the room, holding each other, sobbing.
“I’m sorry,” Sarah whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
“I know.” Sloane held her tighter. “I know.”
Mateo stood at the entrance, watching, his face unreadable. But Sloane saw the way his hands shook.
After a long moment, Sarah pulled back, looking at Mateo. “You’re him. You’re the son.”
“Mateo Rivas.”
“Your father was a bastard.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“But you’re not him.” Sarah studied his face. “You have your mother’s eyes.”
Mateo flinched. “You knew my mother?”
“Everyone knew your mother. She was the only good thing about that family.” Sarah wiped her eyes. “She died because she tried to expose Rossi. I have the proof. Documents, recordings, everything. I’ve been hiding it for fourteen years.”
“Where is it?”
“Safe. Somewhere only I know.” Sarah looked at Sloane. “I’ll give it to you. All of it. But first, we need to get out of here. Rossi’s men will be coming.”
As if on cue, a sound echoed from above. Footsteps. Many footsteps.
Mateo pulled out his gun. “We’re out of time.”
The passage behind them filled with shadows. A voice called out: “Come out, come out, wherever you are.”
- Writer
