Chapter 7 - THE SECRET BEHIND HIS SCARS
Gabriel's father had been dead for six years.
His name was Dominic Marino.
He controlled shipping contracts, warehouses, and dozens of businesses along the waterfront.
He also controlled people.
Gabriel had spent most of his childhood believing that power meant never admitting fear.
Elena hadn't.
She was seventeen, outspoken, and determined to leave the family business behind.
She wanted to become a journalist.
According to Gabriel, she had been collecting information about the shipping companies before her death.
“She found records showing my father was moving money through fake vendors,” he told me.
We were sitting in his study.
He had finally agreed to show Laura the private files he'd kept for years.
“Elena wanted to expose him.”
“What happened?”
Gabriel looked at the photograph on his desk.
“She confronted him.”
“And?”
“He told her she didn't understand how the world worked.”
My chest tightened.
“She said she understood enough to know he was hurting people.”
Gabriel's voice broke.
“Three days later, she died.”
I swallowed.
“Do you think your father arranged it?”
“I spent ten years refusing to believe that.”
“And now?”
He looked at me.
“Now I think he may have known the attack was coming and failed to stop it.”
---
We examined the old files with Laura.
Paul's name appeared repeatedly.
So did Crown Harbor.
The documents suggested that the shipping fire had occurred shortly before an audit that might have exposed fraudulent transactions.
But the identity of whoever ordered the explosion remained uncertain.
Then Laura found something strange.
A handwritten receipt.
It recorded a payment to a private medical contractor.
The date was the day Gabriel escaped captivity.
The amount was unusually large.
Beneath it were two initials.
R.B.
I stared.
“My mother?”
Laura examined the document.
“Possibly. But initials alone don't prove identity.”
Gabriel shook his head.
“Ruth refused money.”
I looked at him.
“What if someone paid her clinic?”
He went still.
We searched further.
The payment had indeed gone to the community clinic where my mother volunteered.
But another record showed the clinic had returned the funds.
A note explained why.
Payment refused. No services rendered under the requested confidentiality agreement.
I smiled through tears.
“That sounds like Mom.”
Gabriel looked at the paper.
Then laughed softly.
“She told my father he couldn't buy her silence.”
I stared at him.
“You knew?”
“She told me later.”
“What happened?”
“My father threatened to close the clinic.”
My stomach tightened.
“And?”
“She threatened to report him.”
For a moment, I could almost hear my mother's voice.
Calm.
Steady.
Unimpressed by expensive suits.
---
That night, Gabriel showed me the scars across his back.
He didn't ask me to touch them.
He simply stood with his shirt removed, allowing me to see what the warehouse had done.
The scars were old.
Some thin.
Some uneven.
All reminders of pain no one should have experienced.
I felt tears gathering.
“Gabriel.”
He looked away.
“Ugly, aren't they?”
I shook my head.
“They're evidence that someone hurt you.”
His jaw tightened.
“I hate looking at them.”
“Then don't look at them tonight.”
He turned.
I stood beside him.
“You don't have to make them beautiful. You don't have to pretend they made you stronger. You only have to remember that what happened wasn't your fault.”
His breathing changed.
For several seconds, he looked as though he might cry.
Then he whispered, “My father said I was weak.”
I looked into his eyes.
“He was wrong.”
Gabriel closed his eyes.
And for the first time, he allowed himself to believe me.
---
Near midnight, Laura called.
“We found the source of the threatening messages sent to Maya.”
I sat up.
“Who?”
“The phone was registered using a false identity, but its payment trail connects to Crown Harbor.”
Gabriel's expression hardened.
“Paul.”
“Possibly,” Laura replied. “But there's something else.”
She paused.
“Someone from your own security department accessed Maya's address before the first message was sent.”
Gabriel went still.
“Who?”
Laura took a breath.
May you like
“Victor.”
---
