Three Gunshots Silenced the Broadcast—Then the Mafia Boss Learned His Daughter’s Plan (Part 4)

The third gunshot echoed through the hospital television.

Then the screen went black.

For the first time in my life, I couldn’t move.

I had survived ambushes, betrayals, prison threats, and wars that swallowed entire neighborhoods.

But hearing those shots while my daughter was standing beside my father broke something inside me.

“Find the studio,” I told Marco.

“We’ve traced the signal.”

“Where?”

“The old Wexler Broadcasting Building. West Loop.”

I was already moving.

Chicago had disappeared beneath snow.

The streets were nearly empty.

Our vehicles cut through the storm while Marco coordinated with the police.

I didn’t care who arrested my father.

I only cared that Elena was alive when we arrived.

Twenty minutes later, we reached the building.

Police cars surrounded the entrance.

Paramedics were carrying someone toward an ambulance.

Sofia.

She was bleeding from her shoulder.

I ran to her.

She looked at me.

For seventeen years, I had imagined what I would say if I ever saw her again.

I had rehearsed accusations.

Apologies.

Questions.

But when I reached her, only one word came out.

“Elena?”

Sofia grabbed my coat.

“She’s inside.”

“Where?”

“Third floor.”

I started toward the entrance.

“Luca!”

I stopped.

Sofia’s eyes filled with tears.

“She’s not your daughter.”

The words struck harder than any bullet.

I stared at her.

“What?”

“Elena isn’t biologically yours.”

I couldn’t speak.

Sofia continued.

“I was pregnant when I left you. But I lost our baby seven months later.”

The street seemed to disappear.

“Then who is Elena?”

Sofia closed her eyes.

“She’s the daughter of the woman your father tried to erase.”

Before she could explain, a police officer called for assistance.

I turned toward the building.

And saw Elena standing at a third-floor window.

Alive.

She pressed her hand against the glass.

Behind her, Vittorio appeared.

His gun was against her back.

I ran inside.

The third floor smelled of smoke and burned electrical wiring.

Vittorio stood in the center of the studio.

Elena sat on the floor beside him.

“Hello, son,” my father said.

I stopped.

“Let her go.”

He laughed softly.

“You always were sentimental.”

“She’s a child.”

“She’s a problem.”

I looked at Elena.

Her eyes were steady.

Far too steady for someone who had nearly died hours earlier.

Then she spoke.

“Mr. Mancini, don’t listen to him.”

Vittorio pressed the gun harder against her shoulder.

“Quiet.”

But Elena kept talking.

“Your father lied about everything.”

“I know.”

“No,” she whispered. “You don’t.”

Vittorio’s expression changed.

Elena looked directly at me.

“My mother was named Isabella Romano.”

The name struck me.

Isabella Romano had been my father’s accountant.

She had disappeared eighteen years earlier after allegedly stealing millions.

My father had told me she betrayed the family.

“She didn’t steal anything,” Elena said.

“She found the money your father was hiding. She found the names of the people he had destroyed.”

Vittorio raised his gun.

“Enough.”

Elena continued.

“And when she tried to expose him, he ordered her disappearance.”

I took a step forward.

“Where is Isabella?”

Elena’s face crumpled.

“She died when I was four.”

I looked at my father.

“You knew?”

He smiled.

“Of course.”

Then Elena said something unexpected.

“But Isabella wasn’t just my mother.”

She looked at Vittorio.

“She was your daughter.”

Silence.

I felt the floor shift beneath me.

My father stared at Elena.

For the first time, he looked afraid.

Elena turned toward me.

“Isabella Romano was your older sister, Luca.”

I couldn’t breathe.

A sister.

A sister my father had hidden from me.

A sister whose existence had been erased.

And Elena was her daughter.

My niece.

Vittorio’s gun trembled.

“You have no proof.”

Elena smiled through her tears.

“Actually, Grandfather, I do.”

She reached into her pocket.

And pulled out an old silver locket.

Vittorio went white.

Inside was a photograph of a young woman holding a newborn boy.

On the back were three words.

ISABELLA AND LUCA.

My father stepped backward.

Then Elena whispered the final piece.

“And there’s something else.”

She looked toward the studio door.

“The person who gave me that locket is standing right behind you.”

Vittorio turned.

A woman stood in the doorway.

She was older.

Her face bore the marks of years spent hiding.

But she was alive.

Elena began to cry.

“Mom?”

The woman looked straight at Vittorio.

“Hello, Father.”

Isabella Romano had returned.