CHAPTER 2 – THE SCARS OF THE PAST
The room went silent.
Enzo DeLuca had seen gunshot wounds.
Knife wounds.
Burns.
Bodies left in alleys as warnings.
But he had never seen anything like this.
The scars covering Harper Whitcomb's back weren't random.
They were systematic.
Repeated.
Years old.
Some thin and white.
Some thick and twisted.
Some crossing over others in cruel patterns.
The kind of scars that didn't come from accidents.
The kind that came from someone who believed pain was discipline.
Harper remained curled on the floor, trembling.
She wasn't crying loudly.
She wasn't begging anymore.
She simply waited.
As if she expected punishment.
As if punishment was inevitable.
Enzo felt something unfamiliar.
Confusion.
His hatred had always been simple.
Preston Whitcomb murdered Nathan.
Harper was Preston's daughter.
End of story.
Except the woman on the floor didn't look like a privileged heiress.
She looked like a survivor.
Slowly, Enzo crouched.
Harper immediately flinched.
The reaction was automatic.
Instinctive.
Years of conditioning compressed into a single movement.
"Who did this?"
She froze.
Silence.
"Harper."
"No one."
The answer came too quickly.
Too rehearsed.
Enzo stood.
"Don't lie to me."
She stared at the floor.
Still silent.
Then the bedroom door opened.
Marco DeLuca entered.
Nathan's former best friend.
Enzo's right-hand man.
The moment Marco saw Harper's back, his expression changed.
"What the hell..."
Enzo didn't answer.
Marco stepped closer.
The older man had spent fifteen years investigating people for the organization.
His eyes immediately narrowed.
"Those aren't recent."
"No."
"They go back years."
Harper looked terrified.
Like a witness who accidentally found herself in the wrong courtroom.
Marco slowly looked at Enzo.
"Boss."
Enzo already knew.
Someone had lied.
The question was who.
Three hours later, Enzo sat alone in his office.
A fire burned in the stone fireplace.
Outside, snow continued falling.
Inside, dozens of files covered the desk.
Everything they had collected on Preston Whitcomb.
Financial records.
Business records.
Federal investigations.
Property holdings.
Political donations.
There should have been something.
Anything.
Yet nowhere in twenty years of reports was there a single mention of abuse.
Not one.
Which bothered Enzo.
Because men like Preston rarely had only one victim.
His phone buzzed.
Marco.
"I found something."
Enzo sat upright.
"What?"
"A former housekeeper."
"Talk."
Marco's voice lowered.
"She disappeared twelve years ago."
That got Enzo's attention.
"Why?"
"According to neighbors, she left after calling police."
The room grew colder.
"What happened when police arrived?"
Marco hesitated.
Then answered.
"They left without filing a report."
Enzo slowly leaned back.
Money.
Influence.
Connections.
The same tools powerful men always used.
"Keep digging."
"I'm already on it."
The line disconnected.
Enzo stared at Nathan's photograph sitting on the bookshelf.
His younger brother smiled back.
Alive.
Happy.
Unaware.
For the first time since Nathan died, Enzo wondered if Preston Whitcomb had committed more than one crime.
Across the mansion, Harper sat alone inside a guest room.
Not a prison.
Not locked.
Yet she remained near the corner.
Habit.
The room was larger than her entire childhood bedroom.
But she barely noticed.
Her mind remained trapped elsewhere.
A knock interrupted her thoughts.
She immediately stood.
Fear flashing across her face.
The door opened.
An older woman entered carrying a tray.
Silver hair.
Kind eyes.
A warm smile.
"Good evening."
Harper blinked.
The woman placed tea on the table.
"My name is Rosa."
Harper nodded cautiously.
Rosa studied her for a moment.
Then quietly said:
"You don't have to be afraid of us."
The statement almost made Harper laugh.
Almost.
Instead she whispered:
"You don't know who I am."
Rosa's expression softened.
"No."
She looked directly at Harper.
"I think I do."
Something inside Harper cracked.
Not completely.
Just enough.
Because Rosa was the first person in years who looked at her without expectation.
Without judgment.
Without ownership.
The next morning, everything changed.
A package arrived.
No return address.
No fingerprints.
No note.
Only a flash drive.
Marco delivered it personally.
Enzo inserted it into his computer.
A video appeared.
Security footage.
Old footage.
Date stamp:
April 14th.
Seven years earlier.
The Whitcomb estate.
The camera overlooked a rear courtyard.
For several seconds nothing happened.
Then a young girl appeared.
Harper.
Much younger.
Maybe nineteen.
She carried books against her chest.
The footage had no sound.
Yet Enzo didn't need sound.
Because seconds later Preston Whitcomb entered the frame.
And struck her.
Hard.
The books scattered.
Harper fell.
Preston continued screaming.
His face red with rage.
Even without audio, the violence was unmistakable.
The video ended.
Nobody spoke.
Marco stared.
Enzo stared.
The room felt frozen.
Finally Marco broke the silence.
"Jesus Christ."
Enzo replayed it.
Again.
Then again.
Each viewing chipped away another piece of certainty.
Harper wasn't part of Preston's cruelty.
She had been living inside it.
For years.
Maybe her entire life.
Marco folded his arms.
"Boss."
Enzo looked up.
"We may have married the wrong Whitcomb."
Those words stayed with him long after Marco left.
Because deep down, Enzo feared they were true.
And if they were true...
Then his revenge had been aimed at the wrong person.
Meanwhile, miles away in downtown Chicago, Preston Whitcomb sat inside a penthouse office overlooking the city.
A glass of whiskey rested in his hand.
The television displayed wedding photos.
Enzo.
Harper.
Smiling for cameras.
Preston watched quietly.
Then his phone rang.
A hidden number.
He answered.
"Yes?"
A voice replied.
"She hasn't told him."
Preston smiled.
Cold.
Satisfied.
"Good."
The caller hesitated.
"What if she does?"
Preston's smile widened.
"She won't."
He took a slow sip of whiskey.
Because buried beneath decades of secrets was one truth more dangerous than all the others.
A truth capable of destroying Enzo.
Destroying Harper.
And exposing why Nathan DeLuca was really murdered.
The secret wasn't in the past.
It was alive.
May you like
And it was coming for both of them.
TO BE CONTINUED...
