Beneath the Surface
Michael
Five years ago, on this very day, my sanity came within inches of shattering. But what I lost was far worse—my wife and daughter swallowed by the sea, vanishing without a trace. Today, I made the solemn pilgrimage to their graves, a secluded corner of Bryerton cemetery, nestled beside Cora’s mother’s resting place. I’d made sure the flowers were changed daily, the gravestones polished, the whole area pristine. Yet none of it filled the hollow ache gnawing at me. No bodies lay beneath those stones—just empty caskets, etched with their photographs, a cruel reminder of what was missing. The not-knowing tore at my soul.
But there was one image I couldn’t shake—the way Cora cupped my cheek that day, her touch so gentle yet heavy with knowing. Like she sensed it was the end, before stepping onto that raft with Bella. I replayed that look endlessly—the flicker in her eyes, the unspoken secret she carried. Part of me refused to face the truth: that my wife might have faked her death. She wasn’t clever enough for such a scheme, I told myself. But what if… what if she was alive?
I saw Cora’s face again in my mind, the subtle tension in her gaze as she climbed onto that raft. She wasn’t just scared—she was holding her breath, waiting for whatever came next. I should have watched them more closely. Fuck, I still missed her—the sharp curve of her cheek, the softness of her lips. If there was even a sliver of hope she was alive, I could lean into it. Maybe she did fake it. Maybe Bella was out there somewhere, my flesh and blood, still breathing.
Tears slipped down my face—grief tangled with a raw, bitter anger. What if Cora, that bitch, took her from me? Did she really believe I was a danger to our child? These were just suspicions, born from pain. But I was rarely wrong. Something about the timing, the absence of their bodies, the way she left me stranded on that damn boat—it all felt too calculated.
Fuck it. I was leaning into the suspicion now. It was time to search. My daughter could be alive. And if I found out she was… oh, I had plans for Cora. I wouldn’t hurt her physically, no. I had something far worse in mind—ways to make her pay by taking everything she loved from her. I could counter her move.
I knelt, laying down fresh roses and lilies, the fragrance sharp and sweet in the cold air. I wiped away my tears, swallowing the lump in my throat. Rising, I turned away, sliding into the family SUV where Peanut waited behind the wheel. I chose the back seat, craving solitude.
As we pulled away, my phone buzzed. The call was from Uncle’s correctional facility. Some rat had finally snitched, linking him to Lance’s murder. Beeno was locked up, but no one needed to know I was guilty too. Uncle always shielded my reputation, even when I wanted to show my true colors.
I answered, the automated voice guiding me through the prompts until his familiar voice broke through.
“Mikey?”
“Hey, Uncle.”
“My boy. How’s it going?”
“Just left the gravesite. Anniversary of Cora and Bella going missing.”
“Yeah, I remember. Always sendin’ my condolences.”
Those words hit harder than I expected. Made it feel like it happened yesterday.
“Uncle, I’ve got a question. What if… what if Cora and Bella are alive?”
“Alive? Like she faked her death?”
“That’s exactly it. Is there a way to find out?”
“Why now, Mikey? Five years gone. What made you start thinking this?”
“Because I never faced the truth. My wife wanted to escape me—wanted out of my empire. Faking her death? That’s damn smart. She knew who she was dealing with. I think we should look into it.”
“Hold back for now. Don’t get your hands dirty yet. I’ll be out on bail soon. No judge or cop can keep me locked up.”
I exhaled, relief flooding me. “Thanks.”
“Of course. What will you do if they’re alive?”
“That’s a conversation for when I see you.”
He chuckled. “If Cora pulled that stunt, I’ll give her credit. But we’ll find her. If you’re right.”
—
Maybe it was all just wishful thinking. Insanity, even, to cling to the hope they were alive. Because the truth was brutal—they were gone, claimed by the sea, attacked by some beast beneath the waves. The headlines screamed it for months: Coraline Valentino and Bella Valentino assumed dead. I threw millions at the search, but even the police hit their limits. They wanted realism. “We’ve searched for months, Mr. Valentino. There’s nothing.”
I wanted to tear that cop apart. If it were his family, he’d never stop searching. But no amount of money could change their minds.
Now, I was alone. My bachelor pad was a hollow shell—a place to sleep and fuck, nothing more. Cora used to cook for me. Breakfast, dinner. Now it was takeout and wild nights chasing something to fill the void. At least I had James, Kate, and little Liam. My sweet nephew, five years old now, who somehow sensed my loneliness and wrapped me in his tiny arms.
Tonight, though, I had other plans. I was at Bellavista, my club on Seaport. The place was packed. I worked the room, charming guests, playing the part. But Vienna, my new GM, was something else. Dressed in a tight, bra-less dress that hugged her curves, nipples pressing through the fabric. The dress was scandalously short, dangerously revealing. I told myself I wouldn’t sleep with my staff. But she made me break that rule. More than once.
I was waiting for the perfect moment to touch her—to claim her. But she was busy, all poise and confidence, strutting past me like she owned my shit. That smirk—God, that smirk—made me want to bend her over the host station, right then and there. She was bold, ambitious, working hard to prove herself. I had to retreat, at least for now.
I slipped upstairs to my office, poured a whiskey, and sank back into my chair. The day’s weight settled on me—the day I lost everything. It replayed in my mind, over and over. Cora’s touch on my cheek, those eyes that didn’t say goodbye to the ocean—they said goodbye forever. The cycle never ended. Anniversary their death or not, the ache was constant. I clung to the hope she was alive. But Uncle told me to wait. So I would. For now.
Whiskey blurred the edges of my pain. I scrolled through my contacts—all women, all distractions. Solutions to dull the ache of a heart shattered.
