30. Cathy
30
CATHY
M y fingers skim the surface of Ivan's desk, barely making a sound. The drawer slides open, revealing stacks of files neatly organized, each label precise and deliberate.
I pull out the folder marked with my name, and ease it open, afraid of what I might find inside.
I heard him leaving. Hopefully he won’t be back for some time. This is my best chance to find out the truth.
The first page is filled with a legal analysis, detailing an inheritance from my biological father, someone I never knew.
Robert Mancini.
The document coldly outlines the exact monetary value, the properties, the shares in companies—all assets waiting for me, his unknown daughter. Millions upon millions.
The numbers blur in front of my eyes, almost surreal in their enormity, yet I can’t shake the feeling that this isn’t just a fortune. It’s a trap that had been lying in wait long before I ever entered Ivan’s life.
I turn the page, swallowing hard as I see a timeline—dates and locations that seem far too familiar. Each entry notes my whereabouts with a precision that sends a chill through me.
Brooklyn, March 17th. Working, July 21st. Shift 7am to 9pm. It’s me, tracked without my knowledge, my life mapped out as if it were a project he was tasked to manage.
The next page is even worse: photographs. They’re candid, taken when I wasn’t looking. One photo shows me sitting at Tony’s bar, my hair swept up, a book open in front of me.
Another captures me laughing, the bright summer sun on my face. I recognize the clothes, the locations—all scenes from my life before Ivan. I feel a wave of nausea as I realize these weren’t taken by chance. They were observed, cataloged, kept.
I turn the page slowly, my fingers trembling. More photos, this time from times I remember well. There’s one of me at the park near my old apartment, walking with a coffee in hand. In another, I’m in the background, oblivious, while Jimmy stands in the foreground, his face turned away.
Further into the file, I find a document with notes written in a brisk, decisive hand. It outlines Jimmy’s financial troubles, his deepening debts, and his dangerous connections to the Bianchi mafia family.
Lines of text jump out at me: Likely to act out of desperation. Owes significant debts to numerous underworld creditors. High probability of risk to target once wedding completed. The realization sinks in, a cold, sick weight in my stomach. Ivan’s world had touched mine long before I ever met him.
The final pages are worse still—reports that detail my family, the people closest to me, the places I frequented. Ivan’s notes mention my mother, the small house we used to live in, the neighborhood I grew up in.
He’d known everything about me, even before I was aware of his existence. I turn the last page, seeing a photo of my mother in the morgue after her overdose. The violation of seeing my life pieced together like this, makes my skin crawl. How did he even get hold of this photo?
A shuffling sound behind me freezes me in place. I turn, my fingers gripping the folder, every page laid out before me like evidence of a life I thought was private, untouched. “Forgot my gun,” Ivan calls to someone, shoving the office door open an instant later.
He stands in the doorway, his eyes fixed on me, dark and unreadable, as if he’s trying to assess the weight of this betrayal.
His expression is hard, jaw tight, as he takes in the sight of me, clutching his secrets in my trembling hands. He’s caught me in the act, but I can’t tell who’s more at fault—him for compiling my life in pages, or me for uncovering it.
“So now you know the truth,” he says, closing the door behind him.