Chapter 6: The Brother Who Never Died
Victor answered the call without speaking.
For three seconds, there was only silence.
Then a man's voice emerged from the speaker.
"Hello, little brother.""
Victor's knees nearly buckled.
He knew that voice.
He had heard it in childhood bedrooms, at business dinners, and in the final voicemail Anthony had left him six years earlier.
It was the voice of the brother he had buried.
"Anthony?""
A quiet laugh came through the phone.
"Still dramatic, Victor. You always were.""
Victor gripped the edge of the desk.
"Where is my son?""
"Safe. For now.""
"If you've touched him—"
"Don't threaten me. You haven't even figured out what happened six years ago.""
Victor's mouth went dry.
"You're dead.""
"That's what you were told.""
"I saw your coffin.""
"You saw a closed coffin. You never saw my face.""
Victor remembered the funeral. The heavy rain. The priest's trembling voice. Martin standing beside him with a hand on his shoulder.
He remembered signing documents authorizing the release of Anthony's personal effects.
He remembered the insurance settlement that followed.
His brother had been declared dead, and Victor had accepted it because grief had made him desperate for certainty.
Now the voice on the phone was tearing that certainty apart.
"Where is Adrian?"" Victor demanded.
"Somewhere Eleanor can't reach him.""
"You're working with her.""
"Working with her? No. She's been working for me.""
Victor's stomach twisted.
"Why?""
"Because you took everything, Victor. The company. The house.
Father's shares. Even the family trust.""
"You abandoned the company.""
"I was pushed out.""
"You were stealing from it!""
Anthony's laughter disappeared.
For the first time, his voice carried genuine anger.
"You think you know what happened? You think Martin told you the truth?""
Victor stared at the empty bedroom.
"Then tell me.""
"Not over the phone.""
"Tell me where my son is.""
"Bring the original trust documents to the boathouse tomorrow night. Come alone.""
"No.""
"Then you'll never see Adrian again.""
Victor closed his eyes.
"Anthony, he's a child.""
"So was I, once. But nobody cared what happened to me.""
"That's a lie.""
"Is it?""
The call ended.
Victor stood in the silence, holding the phone against his ear long after the connection had disappeared.
Behind him, Margaret began to cry.
"Mr. Romano, what are we going to do?""
Victor turned toward her.
His expression had changed.
The grief was still there, but something harder had emerged beneath it.
"We're bringing my son home.""
Within twenty minutes, the mansion was surrounded by police.
Detective Sarah Mitchell arrived shortly before midnight, accompanied by two uniformed officers and a forensic technician. She was in her early forties, with sharp eyes and the kind of calm that came from having heard every possible version of a terrible story.
She listened while Victor explained the missing child, the forged documents, and the recording hidden inside the silver cart.
When he finished, she opened her notebook.
"Mr. Romano, I need you to understand something. We cannot assume the person who called you is your brother until we establish his identity.""
"I know his voice.""
"Voice recognition isn't enough. We need evidence.""
"He has my son.""
"Then we need to find your son before we pursue every other question.""
Victor paced across the study.
"He's using a dead man's identity to terrorize my family.""
Detective Mitchell watched him carefully.
"Do you have any reason to believe your brother survived the accident?""
Victor hesitated.
"Not until tonight.""
"Did he have enemies?""
"Plenty.""
"Did he ever threaten you?""
Victor looked down.
"Yes.""
The detective waited.
Victor continued.
"Six months before the crash, Anthony accused me of taking money from a family investment account. He said the money belonged to him. We argued, and I told him to leave the company.""
"Was he right?""
"I thought he was trying to manipulate me. Martin said Anthony had become paranoid.""
"And you believed Martin.""
Victor's silence answered her.
Detective Mitchell closed her notebook.
"Then Martin Shaw is a person of interest. We need his current location, his financial records, and every communication he has had with Eleanor.""
She turned toward Daniel.
"Can you provide the original security logs?""
"Yes.""
"Preserve them. Don't modify anything. We'll need the chain of custody documented.""
Daniel nodded.
The detective then looked at Victor.
"One more question. Has anyone else had access to your son?""
Victor thought about the photograph, the boathouse, and the man's watch.
"Yes. Martin. Eleanor. And possibly my brother.""
"Possibly?""
"He may be alive.""
Detective Mitchell held his gaze.
"Then we treat that as an allegation until we can prove it.""
She stood.
"We're issuing an alert for Adrian. No one leaves this estate without being interviewed. And I want officers at every property you own.""
Victor followed her into the corridor.
"What about the boathouse?""
"We'll search it tonight.""
"No. Anthony specifically asked me to come alone tomorrow.""
The detective stopped.
"Which means he expects you to arrive without protection. That makes it a trap.""
"Then we'll prepare for a trap.""
"Mr. Romano, your son needs his father alive.""
The words stopped him.
For a moment, Victor looked toward the staircase, remembering Adrian's small hand wrapped around his jacket.
Then he nodded.
"Tell me what you need.""
At 2:30 a.m., the search team reached the old boathouse.
It stood at the edge of the Romano property, separated from the mansion by a narrow road and a stretch of woodland. The building had once been used by Victor and Anthony when they were boys, but it had fallen into disrepair after their father's death.
A police officer forced the rusted side door open.
Inside, the air smelled of damp wood, gasoline, and old rope.
There were no ducks.
No boats.
Only a folding chair, a portable heater, and a metal table covered in documents.
Detective Mitchell entered first.
"Clear the building.""
Officers searched the adjoining rooms.
One called from the rear storage area.
"Detective, you need to see this.""
A wall panel had been removed behind a stack of wooden crates. Inside the cavity sat several plastic storage boxes.
The first contained old family photographs.
The second held passports, bank statements, and identity documents bearing different names.
The third contained newspaper clippings about Anthony's accident.
Someone had circled a paragraph in red ink.
Authorities believe the driver lost control on a wet curve. No evidence of another vehicle was recovered.
Beneath the clipping lay a handwritten note.
Detective Mitchell lifted it carefully.
The body was never identified by DNA.
She looked toward the forensic technician.
"Photograph everything. Bag the note separately.""
Another officer opened a metal box.
Inside lay a collection of watches.
One of them matched the watch Adrian had described.
The same distinctive face.
The same scratched silver clasp.
The same initials engraved on the back.
A.R.
The officer looked at Detective Mitchell.
"Could this belong to Anthony Romano?""
She examined it.
"It could.""
Then she noticed a folded sheet beneath the watches.
It was a photocopy of a death certificate.
The name at the top was Anthony Romano.
But the date of death had been altered.
The document had been issued six years earlier, then amended several months later by an unknown clerk.
Detective Mitchell's expression hardened.
"Someone has been maintaining a second identity.""
She turned the page over.
On the back was a handwritten address.
Not the boathouse.
A private medical clinic two hundred miles away.
And beside the address, someone had written a date.
Six years ago.
The day after Anthony's supposed death.
Back at the mansion, Victor had not slept.
He sat in his study with the recorder, the forged trust documents, and a photograph of Isabella beside him.
The police had searched every room, but Adrian remained missing.
At 3:11 a.m., Victor received a message from an unknown number.
A photograph appeared.
Adrian sat on a narrow bed in a room with bare walls. His eyes were red, and he was holding a small stuffed rabbit that Victor had bought him after Isabella died.
Beneath the image was a message.
He keeps asking for you.
Victor immediately called the number.
It rang once.
Then a recorded voice answered.
"Leave your message after the tone.""
Victor's hands shook.
"Anthony, please. Whatever happened between us, Adrian has nothing to do with it. Tell me what you want.""
He stopped, swallowed, and continued.
"I'll bring the documents. I'll bring the money. I'll do whatever you ask. Just let me speak to my son.""
The call ended.
Victor stared at the photograph.
There was something wrong with it.
Not the room.
Not Adrian.
The window.
Behind the boy, reflected faintly in the glass, was a streetlamp with a distinctive red stripe painted around its base.
Victor had seen it before.
He opened a map of the properties owned by Romano Holdings and searched for streetlights near abandoned buildings.
There were hundreds.
Then he remembered something Anthony had once told him.
When they were teenagers, their father had kept a private apartment above an old furniture warehouse near the river. The apartment had been used for discreet meetings and never appeared on the family's property records.
Victor searched the archived documents.
The building had been sold five years earlier to a shell company.
The company had no public office.
Its registered director was Martin Shaw.
Victor immediately called Detective Mitchell.
When she answered, he spoke quickly.
"I think I know where Adrian is.""
She listened as he described the warehouse.
"Don't go there alone," she warned.
"I'm not going anywhere without your team.""
"Good. Send me the address and stay where you are.""
Victor forwarded the information.
Then he enlarged the photograph on his screen.
The reflection in the window showed another detail.
A second figure standing behind Adrian.
Tall.
Broad-shouldered.
Wearing a dark jacket.
The man's face was partly obscured by the curtain, but his left hand rested on the back of the chair.
On his wrist was a silver watch.
Victor zoomed in.
The engraving was too small to read, but the shape of the clasp was unmistakable.
Anthony's watch.
The man holding it had been standing beside his son.
Victor sat back, his breathing uneven.
Then a new message arrived.
This time, there was no photograph.
Only a sentence.
*Ask Martin why your brother needed a body that wasn't his.*
Victor read it twice.
A knock sounded at the study door.
Daniel entered, carrying a sealed evidence bag.
"Mr. Romano, Detective Mitchell found something at the boathouse.""
Victor looked at the bag.
Inside was a small photograph of two men standing outside a private medical clinic.
One was Martin Shaw.
The other was Anthony Romano.
Both were smiling.
The date printed on the photograph was six years earlier.
The day after Anthony's supposed death.
Daniel placed a second document on the desk.
It was a hospital admission record.
The patient's name had been concealed, but the date and location matched the clinic in the photograph.
At the bottom of the page, a doctor had written a single sentence.
Patient arrived with severe injuries. Identity unconfirmed.
Victor stared at the document.
Then Daniel turned over the photograph.
On the back, in Martin's handwriting, were the words:
Once Victor believes his brother is dead, the company will be ours.
Victor's phone rang again.
He answered.
This time, the voice was unmistakably Anthony's.
"Now you understand, little brother.""
Victor closed his eyes.
"Why did you do it?""
"Because you left me with nothing.""
"You had everything.""
"No," Anthony replied.
"I had a body in a hospital bed, a friend who wanted my money, and a brother who believed a piece of paper more than he believed me.""
Victor's voice broke.
"Where is my son?""
"Tomorrow night. The boathouse. Bring the original trust documents.""
"And if I don't?""
Anthony was silent for a moment.
Then he said, "Ask yourself why Martin has spent six years making sure you never learn what happened on the night I died.""
The call ended.
Victor looked down at the photograph.
Two men smiling outside a clinic.
One had spent six years pretending to be his friend.
The other had spent six years pretending to be dead.
And somewhere between them was Adrian, a frightened ten-year-old boy who had done nothing except be born into the Romano family.
Victor gathered the documents and placed them in a folder.
He would go to the boathouse.
He would bring the truth into the open.
But first, he needed to understand one thing.
May you like
If Anthony had survived the accident, whose body had been buried in the Romano family cemetery?
And why had Martin Shaw been willing to kill a man to keep that answer hidden?
