Chapter 51
Aldo
Layla was late, per usual. I supposed I couldn’t complain, considering I was the one who’d offered her a ride while her car was in the shop. And considering she was late because she was literally saving people’s lives.
Still, perching on the hard plastic chairs in the hospital waiting room made me uncomfortable—and not just because of the terrible furniture. The smells were wrong, too clean and starched. The colors were too white.
And the whole place felt like sadness.
But at long last, the door on the far end of the room opened, and Layla walked out.
She wasn’t alone.
A dark-haired man walked beside her, and my first thought was that he was far too tall and broad-shouldered to be walking that close to her.
They paused just inside the doorway, chatting. Friendly. Something stirred inside me, something I didn’t want to give a name to.
But suddenly, the man turned. Giving me my first clear look at his face.
I froze. Every thought vanished from my head, whited out. Lost behind a muted buzz in my ears.
The rest of the world disappeared, too—the hospital’s smells, the bright lights, the faded hum of city traffic in the distance. My own body vanished from my awareness … Was I still sitting? Had I stood up? Was my heart beating?
Was I breathing?
Didn’t know. Didn’t care. It didn’t matter.
The man’s eyes found mine from halfway across the room, and for a moment, time froze.
Because that face … It couldn’t be.
No, the man that face belonged to had died eight years ago. And his death had made me heir to the Marcello family legacy.
His death had brought me here.
So there was no possible way that face could belong to my brother, Matteo Marcello.
The man turned back towards Layla, shattering that frozen instant in time. He murmured something and she laughed and he laughed and I stared. Transfixed.
The last time I’d heard that laugh was over ten years ago, before I’d left the family to start my own business, to make my way in the world. It was before I’d met Layla.
It was long before they’d found the bloody wreck of that car in the river, hundreds of feet below the bridge. Long before that so-called accident had left both me and Carlo brotherless.
Or, so I’d thought. But could someone look like that, laugh like that, and not be Matteo?
A sudden thought struck me: Why was he here, with Layla?
I realized that at some point, I had stood up. And that Layla was now looking at me, walking towards me. Her face creased with confusion.
Or maybe that was worry lining her face. “Aldo?”
She couldn’t know who he was—I’d never told her about my brother. I’d never told her anything about my family. So … Why was he here? Why was she with him?
“Are you all right?” Layla asked, a little louder. The man stayed by the door—watching her and not me. My teeth gritted together. What was he doing here?
Coincidence … or something far more deliberate?
“I’m here to give you a ride, remember?” I forced my gaze back to her. Forced myself to smile. My words sound clipped and hard even to my own ears.
“I know why you’re here.” She cocked her head slightly. “Why do you look so … pale? Are you feeling okay?”
I let my gaze slide back towards the doors on the far side of the room—but the man was gone. Vanished, like the ghost he was. “Who was that man with you?”
Layla turned halfway, following my gaze. “Who? Ethan? He’s a police officer who got himself stabbed on the job.”
“A … police officer?” I asked, my words slow as my brain struggled to put them together. “NYPD?”
“Yes.” Layla nodded. “And possibly a new friend. He’s nice.”
Nice. Right. And he looks just like me, did you happen to notice that? But I held those thoughts back.
“And his name is Ethan?”
Layla’s brows furrowed. “Why are you acting so odd? Is making friends with a police officer a problem for you, Mr. Marcello?”
My molars scraped together again. “No. Of course not.”
“Good. Then let’s go home.”
Back at the manor, I paced the length of my office. I couldn’t stop seeing his goddamned face, over and over. The way he’d met my gaze across the room. And it’d been like seeing a ghost.
Like looking back through time.
And his laugh …
“You’re gonna wear a hole in the floor,” Carlo muttered from the leather couch. He’d polished off his whiskey and was eyeing mine. “And you’re making me anxious.”
I forced myself to sit before Carlo could make a move for my glass. “I saw Matteo.”
“What?” Carlo froze, bent halfway towards the bottle on the coffee table. “Don’t joke about shit like that.”
“I’m not.” I leaned my head back against the sofa. “It was him. Except he goes by the name Ethan, and he’s a cop for the NYPD.”
“You think maybe it wasn’t him him?” Carlo’s voice softened. “Like, maybe it was a guy who looked like him, and you just wanted—”
“It was him,” I repeated, firmly, like that would make it more believable, that I’d suddenly started imagining the dead walking around, wearing police uniforms.
“All right.” Carlo straightened. “Tell me everything.”
I quickly relayed the brief interaction at the hospital. Face serious, Carlo merely nodded.
“I don’t know it’s him,” I finished. “But what are the odds …”
“He didn’t react to you at all, right?” Carlo asked. “Like if he’d been hiding out all these years, seeing you would’ve been like a rabbit with a coyote.”
He had a point. Ethan hadn’t reacted to my presence at all—like he hadn’t even recognized me. “We need answers.”
“More information,” Carlo agreed. “But we need to be careful. He’s a cop.”
Carlo was right. If we mishandled any part of this situation, it could rain hell down on my family. “We can be discreet.”
Carlo leaned back, rubbing his temples with one hand. “What do you want to do?”
“Start digging,” I said, my mind made up. I needed answers, and that was final. “Find out everything you can about this guy. Where he’s been, where he lives, who he associates with. And keep it quiet. No one can know yet—not Layla, not the family. And certainly not my mother.”
“Smart,” Carlo agreed. “I’ll start first thing tomorrow.”
I nodded, let my eyes fall closed. The weight of this new mystery pressed down on me. The sight of Matteo’s face …
Shit, it stirred memories I thought I’d left behind. Boxed up and shuffled into the attic of my mind, to gather dust and be forgotten.
But with that face suddenly in front of me, I was thinking about the days we truly were just innocent kids—digging in mud, catching frogs, knocking over mailboxes and tipping cows. Stealing drinks from Father’s liquor cabinet, sneaking out late.
A bond only brothers could share.
Pain twisted around my ribs, like my broken, scarred heart tugged on the muscles around it. Could that man in the waiting room really be my brother? Could he be alive—or was my mind seeing ghosts out of desperation?
