The Shatterproof Heart

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The Shatterproof Heart Page 7

by Loretta Lost


  “I really need to see her—” I begin to explain, but Luciana interrupts me.

  “We’re here on official business,” she says from my side, reaching into the pocket of her blazer and pulling out a badge. “It’s really important that you cooperate with us.”

  “How do I know if that’s a real badge and not just a prop from a dollar store?” the man asks.

  Luciana sighs and reaches down to her hip for her gun. “Does this look like a prop? I guess we could find out. I could put a bullet in your footlong.”

  “Okay, okay, fine,” the hotel clerk says, putting his sandwich down protectively. “I’ll just pull it up right here. Looks like she’s in room 312. Please don’t shoot up the place! I need this job.”

  “Thank you,” Luciana says, slapping her hand on the desk before walking over to the elevator. She jabs the elevator button repeatedly.

  “I appreciate this,” I tell her, following close behind.

  She shrugs as we step into the elevator. “Look, I don’t even know why I’m helping you. You’re a pathetic loser. But you held me at gunpoint to try to get your girl back, and that’s kind of romantic. Passionate, even.” She crosses her arms and leans against the elevator glumly. “Wish someone cared about me that much.”

  “Don’t you have a boyfriend or husband back home?” I ask her.

  “No. I work too much,” she explains. “And I’m kind of scary.”

  “I get that. You know, Rodriguez liked you, back in California.”

  “Guys always like girls who are far away from home. It’s easy. It means I’ll be leaving soon and they won’t have to go through with a real relationship. They just get the fun of a one-night stand without any of the responsibilities of actually caring about someone.”

  “That’s not always true,” I tell her, as we step off the elevator. “But I do think that love seems more exciting because of obstacles, like distance or other lovers. It’s a challenge, like a fight against a worthy opponent.” I chew on my lip thoughtfully. “Love only really counts if it’s stronger than something else that’s trying to destroy it. Otherwise, how can you be sure the love even exists?”

  “Damn,” Luciana says, with a sideways glance at me. “Didn’t know you were a philosopher. A regular Descartes. Or is it Sartre?”

  I stop walking. “Something’s wrong,” I say suddenly.

  “What?” she asks, reaching for her gun.

  “Blood,” I say, pointing at the carpet in the middle of the hallway. Rushing over to door 312, I make a fist and knock loudly. “Sophie? Are you in there?”

  Luciana crouches down to the carpet and puts her finger into the bloodstains, then puts it to her nose. “Wine,” she says softly. “Not blood. She was at a winery, remember? I’m sure everything is—”

  Stepping back from the hotel room door, I place my hand against the wall behind me for support. It’s a little more difficult to do this while standing on my prosthetic leg, but I am determined. I set up my balance and kick the door near the handle, causing it to fly open on its hinges.

  “Zack!” Luciana says in annoyance.

  I ignore her, marching forward into the room. My heart sinks. I place a hand on my forehead and turn away from the sight angrily. “Fuck!” I curse out.

  Luciana’s eyes are wide as she steps forward cautiously. “Sophie?” she says quietly, before she is able to see the contents of the room. I suppose, from my reaction, she is worried that she will find a dead body if she takes another step.

  Upon moving inside far enough to see the scene of a smashed wine bottle, which was obviously used as a weapon, and the giant wine stain on the floor, she exhales. “There could be blood on the glass. Her purse is gone, along with her suitcase. But it looks like she left a few things behind. Her cell phone is here, so she can’t be traced.” Carefully stepping around the glass shards, Luciana retrieves a phone from a neatly folded pile of clothes on the bed. She stares down at it with frustration.

  I recognize the way those clothes are folded. Sophie worked in retail when she was younger, and picked up an impressive method of folding clothes that makes them look like they are on display in a boutique. She didn’t always do it that way, and often left things lying around haphazardly, but when she was stressed out, or organizing drawers, she could fold with military precision.

  She even folded some of my clothes that way, when they’d get mixed in with her laundry. I find a lump forming in my throat as I stare at the pile, and this all begins to sink in. My heart, which had been fluttering in anticipation of a grand romantic gesture, is now fluttering for vastly different reasons.

  “Her purse would have contained her passport and identification, credit cards. Maybe we can trace them to look for any activity, but I doubt anyone would be foolish enough to use them.” Luciana glances up at me, her voice wavering slightly. “Zack, how did you know—”

  “I didn’t. Fuck. Fuck!” Grasping a stupid, beige-colored, ceramic lamp, I smash it against the ugly wallpapered wall of the hotel room.

  Luciana flinches and shields her eyes. “Calm down! We’ll find her. It hasn’t been too long.”

  “It’s been long enough.” Crouching down to touch the wine stain on the carpet, I determine that it is still wet. Moving back out of the hotel room, I walk purposefully through the hallway, following the droplets of wine or blood, until they disappear at a stairwell door. I am aware that my limp has become more pronounced as I move quickly through the stairwell and down the stairs. I see a few more drops of blood along the way, until I exit the hotel, out into a parking lot. There aren’t many cars. Since this hotel is near an airport, most people must take cabs here. I scan the exterior walls for cameras. There are none.

  “Fuck,” I whisper again, going back inside the hotel and slamming the door behind me. I feel suddenly tired as I begin climbing back up the three flights of stairs. Luciana greets me halfway, and there is fear on her face.

  “I am so glad you made me turn that plane around,” she tells me softly. “Now, thanks to you, we have a chance. I’ve called for a response team to assist us.”

  “I knew something was wrong,” I inform Luciana. “I had a bad feeling. Wasn’t sure why, but now I know.”

  She nods, placing a hand on my arm. “You have good instincts, Zack. More importantly, you are wise enough to listen to them.”

  “Had to learn the hard way,” I tell her, as we return to the crime scene. “If I had listened sooner, I’d still have two legs.”

  “We have to tell Cole,” Luciana says, reaching for her phone. “Maybe he can help us.”

  “I’ll do it. He’s going to be really pissed off.”

  “This is no one’s fault,” Luciana says. “Remember that. I don’t want either of you playing the blame game here. We don’t have time for your macho, possessive bullshit. We have to find her. There’s a limited window, after which it becomes nearly impossible. Statistically.”

  “Maybe we shouldn’t tell Cole,” I say to Luciana. “There isn’t much he can do, anyway. He’ll just show up and freak out, and get emotional. We have work to do.”

  “Tell him!” she nearly shouts at me. “Now!”

  She runs back up the stairs, toward Sophie’s destroyed hotel room.

  Pulling out my phone, I navigate to Cole’s contact and hesitate with my thumb over his name. Wouldn’t it be great if I could be the one to find her? If I could be her hero? Maybe that could make some sort of difference.

  Shutting my eyes tightly, I inwardly curse at myself. What is more important to me? Her being alive, or her being mine? What do I want more? To find her, and save her—or to keep her away from him?

  Maybe this situation presents a thinly-veiled opportunity…

  I put the phone away in my pocket.

  Chapter Ten

  Cole Hunter, 2016

  I find myself staring at a display of old photographs laid out on Mr. Bishop’s desk. One of the images is vaguely familiar. An old man. I feel like I may have seen his fa
ce before, but I can’t place where it was, or when.

  “That’s him,” Mr. Bishop says, holding a wavering finger near the man’s face. “Your grandfather.”

  “I’m having a hard time believing any of this,” I admit softly. “You’re absolutely sure my parents were part of the mafia?”

  “Your father was. Your mother was born into the Irish mob.”

  “Okay,” I repeat sadly. “So, I guess I’m not Jason Bourne.”

  “No, son,” Mr. Bishop responds. “You’re just Cole Hunter, a master architect.”

  Crossing my arms and studying the files inside Mr. Bishop’s vault, I frown. “This is a lot to take in. And frankly, rather disappointing. I guess I just always imagined that if someone told me everything I knew about my parents was a lie, I would end up going to wizardry school.”

  The old man looks puzzled. “I don’t know much about wizards, but I do know that this is serious information you shouldn’t take lightly. These are people you don’t want to mess with. The reason I never told you, is... well. I didn’t want you to destroy yourself seeking revenge.”

  “Against the mafia,” I repeat quietly, trying to process the information. I snort slightly, and have to refrain from bursting out in laughter. “Because the Italian mafia killed my parents?”

  “Yes,” Mr. Bishop explains. “I’m so sorry to tell you like this. And I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”

  Nodding slowly, I pick up a small pile of old photographs. They are family portraits I have never seen. They depict my mother, in her youth, standing with her family. Her sisters and brothers, and parents. There are also photos of my father. Most of them are in black and white.

  There are also documents for me to read—ones that are far more helpful than anything I could find in the library. There are police reports from the night of the fire. There are detailed notes from a medical examiner, and an autopsy of my mother and the unborn child she was carrying.

  Reading these details makes me sick. “Are you saying that my parents were bad people? Is that how they made the money they left for me?”

  “No!” Mr. Bishop says quickly. “Heavens, no. All they ever wanted was to get out of the life, and live honestly. With you. They were killed for snitching on your grandparents. The older mobsters disapproved of their marriage, and intended to separate them with lethal force. Your family name was never Hunter, but when your parents offered information to the FBI to help take down key members of the mafia, they were put under witness protection.”

  Studying the photos, all the pieces start to come together in my mind. I start to believe this is true. I start to remember little things about the way my parents lived that support this crazy story. “I can’t believe my grandparents would kill my parents,” I say quietly. “Their own children? They seem to care about them in these pictures.”

  “Oh, they loved their children fiercely. But the price for betrayal was always death,” Mr. Bishop explains. “They couldn’t show weakness. It was kind of a Romeo and Juliet situation. Sworn enemies who fell in love. Except they did live happily together for almost a decade, until your grandmother found them.”

  “My grandmother,” I say in surprise, pointing to a photograph of a stern-looking old Italian lady. “My father’s mother? Her. She’s the one who had my parents killed?” When Mr. Bishop nods, I frown. “Did she try to kill me too?”

  “Yes,” Mr. Bishop says. “But at the last moment, she decided to let you live. Your grandfather, on your mother’s side, was furious. Both the mob and the mafia had agreed that your family needed to die. He went to finish the job himself, but he also changed his mind. They decided you were innocent, and deserved to live. Maybe you reminded them of their own children. It was a strange moment of mercy from your grandfather, who is not known to be a merciful man.”

  I want to ask about my unborn sister. Whether she was innocent. But I suppose there is no point in pointing that out now, so I just clench my teeth together.

  “Who is my grandfather?” I ask.

  “He’s a drug kingpin in the Irish Mob. A very dangerous, very cruel man.”

  “He looks so fucking normal,” I say, pointing to a photograph of a man standing with his hand on my mother’s shoulder. The image makes my skin crawl. How could he kill his own daughter? I think about Scarlett, and everything she suffered with Benjamin, and even with the Professor before that. If this man is alive…

  “What’s his name?” I demand.

  “I can’t tell you that, Cole.”

  My eyes grow narrowed into tiny slits. “What is his name?” I ask again, reaching for an envelope and sliding it toward Mr. Bishop. “Write it down. Her name, too. The names of everyone involved.”

  “No,” he says softly. “I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

  “Fuck.” I find myself staring at Mr. Bishop with pure anger for the first time in my life. “How do you even know all this? Did you work for them?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t say, Cole.”

  I take a step toward him with a scowl. “Why didn’t you tell me this when someone tried to kill me recently? When I was poisoned and shot at? Don’t you think this would have been relevant?”

  “No. It wasn’t relevant, because your whole life, you’ve unknowingly been under the protection of the mob.”

  “What the fuck? Protection?”

  “Yes. How do you think you were able to build your company up so quickly, and become a millionaire at age twenty-one? As a sort of redemption for killing your parents, they watched you from afar, tried to present you with certain… opportunities.”

  “Excuse me? Opportunities? I made my money from fucking hard work! I became a millionaire when Scarlett blackmailed a real estate mogul and stole his car.”

  “Do you really think you got that contract because of Scarlett? The developer could have had her killed, to silence her. But your grandparents intervened. They wanted you to be comfortable.”

  “Comfortable? Comfortable! Are you fucking kidding me? I was alone! I lived on the streets! They could have fucking taken me in. If my grandmother felt so bad for killing my parents, she could have offered to fucking raise me!”

  “You don’t know what you’re saying, Cole. That would have been a terrible life. You would have been required to do heinous things. You would have been required to kill.”

  “I was required to kill, anyway! Don’t you remember when I went to prison for it? And don’t you dare say I got out because of my secret fairy grandparents. I got out because of Scarlett and you know that. I built my company up by hard-ass work. My hard work, and hers.”

  “Yes, but you got your scholarship to MIT because they had connections. You got dozens of contracts because they pulled strings for you. An unknown architect with a limited work history, somehow landing the best jobs in the country? Think about it. That was more than a little luck.”

  My legs suddenly feel weak, and I want to sit down. Somehow, I know he’s right. I just thought I was good. I thought I was real good, and people could see that. I didn’t know that I had any strings being pulled in my favor, and it disgusts me now that I do know.

  I didn’t care about the money. I was just trying to fill the void. I would trade every cent I’ve ever earned in a heartbeat, just to have my parents back.

  “I think,” Mr. Bishop says quietly. “That it was against the code to take you in. To call you family. You were the child of traitors. Like I said, it was an act of great mercy to let you live.”

  Reaching up to put both hands in my hair, I knead my scalp in frustration.

  “They are still alive? My grandparents?”

  “Cole, please. You promised you wouldn’t act on this information. These men—they have armies. Yes, basically armies. Organized crime is simply that—very organized. There is nothing you can do.”

  “Then why did you tell me any of this?” I ask him angrily. “I loved my parents, Mr. Bishop. They were good people. They were kind, devoted, and supportive... and all this ti
me, you knew they were murdered in cold blood? And my mother, pregnant with my little sister. You knew that I was being helped along the way by mobsters, by the same people who took everything from me. And you just stood by and watched.”

  “Cole, I did what I could to keep you safe. You’re a man now, and I’m telling you these things because I trust you. You know that I love you like my own son.” There are tears in the old man’s eyes. “If you had sought contact with your grandparents, one of two things would certainly occur: first, they might have killed you. And second, they might have accepted you, a desperate young boy, eager to please, eager to prove himself. Willing to do harm to innocent people if necessary, for the family. You would have ended up living the life your parents died trying to save you from.”

  Mr. Bishop hesitates. “And you never would have met Scarlett. Maybe things worked out for you? I think you can handle this information now, because you’re no longer an impulsive child. You have a wife. You have something to live for.”

  “Sort of,” I say, placing my hand on the forgotten velvet box in my pocket. I feel even less certain of myself now. How will Scarlett feel if she knows that everything I’ve accomplished has been a lie? I’m not a great architect. I’m worthless.

  “You’re living the life your parents wanted for you,” Mr. Bishop says. “I’m so proud of you, son. But please, do the right thing. Don’t look for your grandparents. Just stay with Scarlett, and take care of her. She’s always bent over backwards trying to take care of you. That girl would do anything for you.”

  I can’t speak to him right now. I can’t look at him. Turning away, I march out of the vault with brisk footsteps. “I’m sorry, Mr. Bishop. I need some time.”

  “Cole,” he says frantically, following me. “What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know. I need time! Please, give me some space.”

  My head throbs with anger as I walk out of the Bishops’ home.

  Mrs. Bishop calls out after me, “Cole, aren’t you staying for dinner? I ordered Chinese!”

 

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