PART 2.
“You asked me to play your girlfriend, Mr.
Moretti.”
His eyes locked onto mine.
“You never said everyone else had to believe I belonged to you.”
For three long seconds, Luca said nothing.
Around us, champagne glasses chimed, an orchestra warmed beneath the chandeliers, and Manhattan’s most powerful people pretended not to watch us.
Then Luca stepped closer.
“No,” he said quietly.
“I didn’t.”
There was something strange in his voice.
Not anger exactly.
Something more dangerous.
Regret.
I lifted my glass to my lips.
“Good.
Then we understand each other.”
His gaze dropped briefly to my mouth before returning to my eyes.
“I’m beginning to think I understood very little when I brought you here.”
Before I could ask what that meant, the lights dimmed.
The orchestra began playing.
Couples drifted toward the dance floor.
Across the ballroom, Ethan Cole found me almost immediately.
And smiled.
Luca saw him too.
His jaw tightened.
“Oh, this should be interesting,” I murmured.
“Sophia.”
“Yes?”
“Don’t.”
I turned slowly.
“Don’t what?”
He seemed to realize the trap he had walked into.
“Nothing.”
“Excellent answer.”
I stepped away from him.
Ethan met me halfway.
“You said to ask when the music started.”
“I did.”
“So?”
He offered his hand.
“Dance with me.”
I placed my champagne on a passing tray.
Then I put my hand in his.
“Gladly.”
Behind me, silence somehow became louder than music.
Ethan led me onto the floor.
He was a good dancer.
Not overly impressive.
Not showy.
Just confident enough that I didn’t have to think about where to place my feet.
“You seem different tonight,” he said.
“Different from what?”
“The woman who spent twenty minutes at the Boston conference arguing with a hotel manager because they overcharged her company for conference rooms.”
I laughed.
“I was right.”
“You were terrifying.”
“That invoice was wrong by four thousand dollars.”
“I know.
I checked afterward.”
I looked at him.
“You checked?”
“I was impressed.”
“That’s a strange hobby.”
“I have worse ones.”
The song carried us slowly around the room.
I became aware of people watching again.
Not because of Ethan.
Because of Luca.
He had remained exactly where I left him.
One hand in his pocket.
A glass untouched in the other.
His expression unreadable.
Except I knew him.
I had spent four years sitting outside his office.
I knew the microscopic signs nobody else noticed.
The slight narrowing of his eyes when negotiations turned unfavorable.
The stillness that came before he destroyed someone in a boardroom.
The way his thumb moved once over the side of a glass when he was forcing himself not to react.
His thumb moved now.
Ethan followed my gaze.
“So,” he said.
“So what?”
“Is this real?”
I looked back at him.
“Is what real?”
“You and Moretti.”
“That depends who’s asking.”
“A man who would like to take you to dinner.”
I almost missed a step.
Ethan smiled.
“No reporters.
No chandeliers.
No billionaire glaring at me like he knows where to hide a body.”
Despite myself, I laughed.
“You think Luca is glaring?”
“I think if his eyes were weapons, I’d already be dead.”
“That’s dramatic.”
“Am I wrong?”
I glanced over again.
Luca was still watching.
“No,” I admitted.
“Probably not.”
Ethan’s smile softened.
“So dinner?”
I hesitated.
Not because of Luca.
At least that was what I told myself.
Ethan was handsome, intelligent, charming without being exhausting.
The kind of man my friends would call sensible.
The kind I should have dated years ago instead of spending half my life organizing another man’s empire.
“Dinner sounds nice,” I said.
Across the ballroom, Luca’s glass stopped halfway to his mouth.
Ethan grinned.
“Tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow’s ambitious.”
“Wednesday?”
“Wednesday works.”
“Seven?”
“Seven.”
“Done.”
The song ended.
Ethan bowed jokingly.
I curtsied back.
Then I turned.
Luca was gone.
I found him ten minutes later on the hotel terrace.
He stood alone beneath stone arches overlooking Manhattan, the city glittering below him.
He didn’t turn when I stepped outside.
“You disappeared,” I said.
“I’m allowed.”
“So am I.”
“I didn’t say otherwise.”
I leaned against the railing beside him.
For a while, neither of us spoke.
Then Luca asked, “Wednesday?”
I looked over.
“Were you listening?”
“He wasn’t exactly whispering.”
“You were fifteen feet away.”
“I have excellent hearing.”
“You have terrible boundaries.”
“That too.”
I should have been annoyed.
Instead, I smiled.
Luca noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Sophia.”
“You’re jealous.”
He turned toward me.
“No.”
“You are.”
“I’m not.”
“You look like you want to purchase Ethan’s company and shut it down.”
“That would be financially irresponsible.”
“But you considered it.”
A pause.
“Briefly.”
I laughed.
Actually laughed.
Luca Moretti—the man who could make senior executives sweat by glancing at his watch—looked almost offended.
“This is amusing to you?”
“Extremely.”
“I brought you here as my date.”
“Fake date.”
“Everyone in that room thinks you’re with me.”
“You told me it was supposed to be gossip.”
“Not this much gossip.”
“What did you expect?”
He finally looked at me fully.
Something in his expression changed.
“I expected them to see you.”
The amusement disappeared from my face.
He continued.
“I didn’t expect them to notice you.”
I stared at him.
“That sounded terrible.”
“I know.”
“Very terrible.”
“I know.”
“You brought me because you thought I was invisible.”
His silence answered me.
That hurt more than I expected.
I stepped away from the railing.
“Sophia.”
“No.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“You did.”
I walked toward the ballroom doors.
He caught my wrist.
Not hard.
The instant I stopped, he released me.
“I was wrong,” he said.
I turned.
Luca almost never admitted mistakes.
Not to executives.
Not to lawyers.
Certainly not to me.
He looked toward the ballroom, where silhouettes moved behind the glass.
“For four years, people walked past your desk and treated you like part of the furniture because they wanted something from me.”
His eyes returned to mine.
“I let myself believe that meant they didn’t see you.”
“And now?”
“Now I know they were idiots.”
Something shifted beneath my ribs.
I crossed my arms.
“You don’t get points for discovering your secretary is a woman.”
“I’m not asking for points.”
“What are you asking for?”
His answer came quietly.
“A chance not to be one of the idiots.”
Before I could respond, the terrace doors opened.
An older man stepped outside.
Tall.
Silver-haired.
Expensive tuxedo.
His smile vanished when he saw me.
Then returned too quickly.
“Luca.”
Luca changed instantly.
His posture became colder.
Controlled.
“Bellamy.”
Richard Bellamy.
Founder of the Bellamy Foundation.
Host of the gala.
One of the wealthiest men in New York.
He shook Luca’s hand.
Then looked at me.
And froze.
Not subtly.
Not politely.
He stared as though he had seen a ghost.
My skin prickled.
“Have we met?”
I asked.
Bellamy blinked.
“No.”
But the word came too fast.
Luca noticed.
Of course he noticed.
Bellamy recovered.
“My apologies.
You resemble someone I knew a long time ago.”
“Who?”
Bellamy smiled.
“No one important.”
Luca’s voice hardened.
“Richard.”
Something passed between the two men.
Bellamy looked away first.
“The auction is beginning,” he said.
“You should both come inside.”
He left.
I waited until the doors closed.
“What was that?”
Luca said nothing.
“Luca.”
“We should go inside.”
“You know something.”
“No.”
“That was a lie.”
He gave me a sharp look.
“You’re very confident tonight.”
“I’m always confident.
You just usually have me holding a calendar when you notice.”
His mouth almost twitched.
But whatever amusement he felt vanished when I said, “Who did Bellamy think I was?”
“I don’t know.”
“Another lie.”
“Sophia.”
“What?”
“This isn’t the place.”
The cold unease in his expression stopped me.
For the first time all evening, Luca didn’t look jealous.
He looked worried.
And Luca Moretti never worried.
The charity auction began fifteen minutes later.
Paintings.
Vacations.
Jewelry.
Private dinners with famous chefs.
A week aboard somebody’s yacht.
I sat beside Luca at a table near the stage.
Bellamy was across the ballroom.
He kept looking at me.
Every time I caught him, he looked away.
Finally, an assistant brought a small framed photograph to the stage.
“Lot seventeen,” the auctioneer announced.
“A private collection photograph of New York’s financial district from 1998, donated anonymously.”
My water glass slipped from my fingers.
Not because of the photograph.
Because behind the auctioneer, on the enormous digital screen, a scanned image appeared showing the donor card.
A handwritten note.
In blue ink.
For R.B.
May the city remember what we buried.
—E.M.
I stopped breathing.
E.M.
My mother’s initials.
Elena Marlowe.
The woman who had died when I was nine.
Beside me, Luca went completely still.
I turned.
“You know that handwriting.”
His face gave me my answer.
“Luca.”
“Sophia—”
“You know it.”
The auctioneer continued speaking.
I barely heard him.
“Ten thousand dollars,” someone called.
Another bidder raised twelve.
Bellamy didn’t move.
He looked pale.
“Twenty-five thousand,” Luca said.
My head snapped toward him.
The room stirred.
“Thirty,” another voice called.
“Fifty,” Luca replied.
“Luca, what are you doing?”
He ignored me.
The bidding climbed.
Seventy-five.
Ninety.
One hundred thousand.
People began murmuring.
For a photograph worth perhaps five thousand dollars.
Bellamy stood.
“Two hundred thousand.”
The ballroom erupted.
Luca stared across the room at him.
“Five hundred.”
I grabbed Luca’s sleeve.
“Stop.”
His eyes remained on Bellamy.
“One million,” Bellamy said.
The entire room fell silent.
The auctioneer looked stunned.
Luca leaned forward.
“Two million.”
My stomach dropped.
“Are you insane?”
“Possibly.”
Bellamy’s face hardened.
For several seconds, the two men stared at each other.
Then Bellamy slowly lowered his paddle.
“Sold,” the auctioneer said shakily.
“Two million dollars to Mr.
Moretti.”
Applause exploded.
Luca didn’t clap.
Neither did I.
The photograph was delivered to our table after the auction.
Luca took it immediately.
“Where are we going?”
I asked.
“Home.”
“The gala isn’t over.”
“It is for us.”
He took my hand.
This time I let him.
We passed photographers, executives, politicians, and three men who tried to stop Luca.
He ignored all of them.
Bellamy blocked our path near the ballroom doors.
“You shouldn’t have bought that,” he said.
Luca stepped between us.
“It was an auction.”
“You know what I mean.”
“No,” Luca said.
“But I suspect Sophia deserves to.”
Bellamy looked at me.
For the first time, his polished expression cracked.
“How much did your mother tell you?”
I felt the world tilt.
“About what?”
Bellamy’s face changed.
He looked genuinely surprised.
Then afraid.
“Nothing,” he said.
He walked away.
I followed.
Luca caught my hand.
“Don’t.”
“He knew my mother.”
“Yes.”
The word hit me harder than any lie could have.
I turned slowly.
“You knew?”
Luca stared at me.
“Yes.”
I slapped him.
The sound cracked through the marble lobby.
Everyone nearby stopped talking.
My palm burned.
Luca didn’t move.
Didn’t touch his face.
Didn’t look angry.
He simply stood there.
“You knew my mother?”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
His silence was unbearable.
“How long, Luca?”
“Before you started working for me.”
My chest tightened.
Four years.
Every coffee.
Every flight.
Every late-night board meeting.
Every time he told me to reorganize his calendar.
Every time I defended him to people who called him ruthless.
He had known something about my mother the entire time.
I stepped backward.
“You hired me because of her.”
“No.”
“How stupid do you think I am?”
“I hired you because you were the only candidate who told me my interview schedule was inefficient.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It is the truth.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me?”
His eyes darkened.
“Because your mother’s name appears in documents connected to my father.”
My anger vanished.
“What?”
The lobby seemed to disappear.
“My father?”
“No.
Mine.”
Luca’s father.
Vittorio Moretti.
A man people in Manhattan still spoke about carefully, even though he had been dead nearly a decade.
Officially, Vittorio had been an industrialist.
Unofficially, rumor connected him to politicians, private intelligence companies, international money transfers, and enough scandals to fill newspapers for years.
“What kind of documents?”
Luca looked toward the hotel entrance.
“Not here.”
“You keep saying that.”
“And I keep being right.”
I hated that he was.
The ride back to Manhattan felt endless.
I sat on one side of the sedan.
Luca sat on the other.
The two-million-dollar photograph rested between us like a weapon.
Finally, I reached for it.
Luca stopped me.
“There may be something inside the frame.”
“Then open it.”
“At the apartment.”
“Your apartment?”
“It has better security.”
“Of course it does.”
His jaw flexed.
“You’re angry.”
“That’s a brilliant observation.”
“I should have told you.”
“Yes.”
“I thought whatever happened ended twenty years ago.”
“My mother died seventeen years ago.”
Silence.
I looked at him.
He looked away.
My heart started pounding.
“What aren’t you telling me?”
“Sophia.”
“Say it.”
He rubbed a hand over his face.
Then spoke.
“Your mother didn’t die in the accident the newspapers reported.”
The city lights blurred outside my window.
I couldn’t understand the words.
“My mother died in a car crash.”
“No.”
“She did.”
“The crash happened.”
“Then what are you saying?”
Luca met my eyes.
“She survived.”
Everything inside me stopped.
“No.”
“She was taken to Saint Vincent’s under another name.”
“No.”
“She died three days later.”
“You’re lying.”
“I wish I were.”
“You don’t get to tell me this.”
My voice broke.
I hated that it broke.
“My father told me she died instantly.”
“He may not have known.”
“He identified her.”
Luca said nothing.
My hands started shaking.
“Who was with her?”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to determine for years.”
I stared at him.
“For years?”
“The documents I found after my father died included medical records, payments, and one photograph of Elena.”
My mother’s first name sounded wrong coming from his mouth.
Too intimate.
Too familiar.
“Why were you investigating her?”
“Because three days before the crash, she met my father.”
My breath caught.
“And Richard Bellamy.”
The sedan slowed beneath Luca’s building.
I didn’t move.
“What did they meet about?”
“I don’t know.”
“But you think tonight’s photograph is connected.”
“Yes.”
“Then open it.”
We went upstairs.
Luca’s penthouse was nothing like I expected.
Less cold.
Books everywhere.
Records.
An old chessboard near enormous windows.
No photographs.
Of course.
He locked the apartment behind us and placed the frame on his kitchen island.
Using a small knife, he removed the backing.
Nothing.
Just cardboard.
I exhaled.
Then Luca touched the edge.
“Wait.”
He peeled away a narrow strip of black paper.
Something fell onto the marble.
A key.
Small.
Silver.
Taped to it was a piece of yellowed paper.
I recognized my mother’s handwriting instantly.
My knees nearly gave out.
Luca caught my elbow.
I pulled away.
Not because I didn’t need him.
Because I did.
Too much.
The note contained only seven words.
Richard knows where Vittorio hid the ledger.
Luca read it twice.
“What ledger?”
I asked.
He didn’t answer.
I looked at him.
His face had gone white.
“What ledger?”
He slowly placed both hands on the counter.
“My father kept records.”
“Of what?”
“Everything.”
“What does everything mean?”
“Politicians he paid.
Judges he compromised.
Companies he controlled through shell corporations.
People who owed him favors.”
I stared.
“That sounds like evidence.”
“It was insurance.”
“Against who?”
“Everyone.”
The room suddenly felt colder.
“And Bellamy knows where it is?”
“According to your mother.”
“Then we ask him.”
“No.”
I laughed once.
Sharp and humorless.
“You lost the right to tell me no about five secrets ago.”
“Sophia, if this ledger exists, people have killed for less.”
“My mother may have killed for less.”
His eyes narrowed.
“What?”
I had said it without thinking.
But the thought wouldn’t leave.
My mother.
Bellamy.
Vittorio Moretti.
A crash she survived.
Secret hospital records.
A hidden key.
“Maybe she wasn’t innocent.”
Luca studied me.
“I never said she was.”
That stopped me.
“What do you know?”
He hesitated.
Then walked toward a locked cabinet beside his study.
He entered a code.
Inside were several folders.
He removed one.
My name was written across it.
SOPHIA MARLOWE.
I stared at the folder.
Then at him.
“You have a file on me.”
“Yes.”
“You have a file on your secretary.”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“Since before I hired you.”
The betrayal was so complete I almost laughed.
“Unbelievable.”
“Sophia—”
“Don’t.”
I grabbed the folder.
Inside were background reports.
School records.
Employment history.
Photographs.
My father.
My childhood home.
My college graduation.
My first job.
My stomach turned.
“You investigated me.”
“I needed to know if your application to my company was accidental.”
“What does that mean?”
“You applied two weeks after I found your mother’s name in my father’s records.”
I remembered.
I had been unemployed.
Desperate.
My roommate had sent me the listing.
“That was coincidence.”
“I know that now.”
“But you didn’t then.”
“No.”
A photograph slipped from the folder.
I bent to pick it up.
Then froze.
It showed my mother standing beside Vittorio Moretti outside a restaurant.
Richard Bellamy stood nearby.
And beside my mother—
My father.
I stared.
“No.”
The date in the corner read June 2008.
Six weeks before my mother’s crash.
“My father said he never met Vittorio Moretti.”
“He lied.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
I turned the photograph over.
There was handwriting on the back.
Four words.
The daughters must never know.
I read it again.
“The daughters?”
Luca took the photograph.
His expression changed.
“Daughters,” I whispered.
“I was an only child.”
“That’s what your records say.”
“My mother only had me.”
Luca moved rapidly toward the folders.
He pulled out documents, spreading them across the desk.
I watched him search.
Then stop.
“What?”
He handed me a hospital form.
Patient: Elena Marlowe.
Emergency contact: Thomas Marlowe.
Number of dependents: 2.
I stared until the words blurred.
“That’s wrong.”
“Maybe.”
“No.
I don’t have a sister.”
Luca looked at the key in my hand.
“Then either the form is wrong—”
His phone rang.
Unknown number.
He answered.
“Moretti.”
Silence.
Then Luca’s face went cold.
“Who is this?”
I couldn’t hear the voice.
But Luca looked at me.
Not beside me.
At me.
“Put her on.”
My pulse accelerated.
A moment later, he held out the phone.
“For you.”
“Who is it?”
“I don’t know.”
I took it.
“Hello?”
For a few seconds, there was only breathing.
Then a woman spoke.
Her voice was low.
Shaking.
And strangely familiar.
“Sophia?”
“Yes.”
She made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob.
“Oh my God.”
“Who is this?”
Silence.
Then:
“My name is Isabel.”
I gripped the phone tighter.
“Do I know you?”
“No.”
“What do you want?”
“I need you to listen carefully.”
Luca moved closer.
I switched the call to speaker.
Isabel inhaled slowly.
“Richard Bellamy knows you have the key.”
“How?”
“He had someone inside the auction staff.”
“What does the key open?”
“I can’t tell you over the phone.”
“Then why call me?”
“Because if Luca Moretti is standing beside you, you need to get away from him.”
Luca’s eyes hardened.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
Isabel went silent.
Then she whispered:
“You sound like Vittorio.”
Luca froze.
“Who are you?”
“I knew your father.”
“So did half of New York.”
“Not the way I did.”
My heart hammered.
“Isabel,” I said, “what does this have to do with me?”
Her breathing became unsteady.
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For waiting so long.”
“Waiting for what?”
“To tell you the truth.”
“What truth?”
Another silence.
Then she said the words that split my life cleanly in two.
“Elena Marlowe was my mother too.”
The phone nearly fell from my hand.
Luca caught it.
“No,” I whispered.
“I know what you were told.”
“No.”
“Sophia—”
“My mother had one child.”
“She had two.”
I backed into the counter.
“How old are you?”
“Thirty-three.”
Eight years older than me.
Impossible.
It had to be impossible.
“Why have I never heard of you?”
“Because they paid everyone to make sure you didn’t.”
“Who is they?”
“Bellamy.
Vittorio.
Your father.”
My father.
The room spun.
“What did they do?”
“I can’t explain on the phone.”
“You’re doing a terrible job convincing me to meet you.”
“I’m not asking you to meet me.”
Her voice changed.
Fear.
Real fear.
“I’m asking you to run.”
A noise sounded in the background.
A door.
Isabel gasped.
Then whispered, “They found me.”
The call cut out.
“Isabel?”
Nothing.
I stared at the screen.
Call ended.
Luca was already dialing someone.
“Get security downstairs.
Lock the building.
Trace the number.”
He listened.
Then cursed.
“What?”
“The call bounced through multiple relays.”
I looked at the key.
“What do we do?”
Luca looked at me.
For once, neither of us cared about the gala.
Or Ethan.
Or jealousy.
Or fake dating.
Or anything that had seemed important three hours earlier.
“We find what this opens.”
His phone rang again.
He answered immediately.
“What?”
A voice spoke rapidly.
Luca’s expression darkened.
“When?”
Another pause.
Then he looked at me.
“We have a problem.”
“What now?”
“The driver who brought us home is missing.”
Cold crept over my skin.
“He dropped us off ten minutes ago.”
“I know.”
The security phone rang on the wall.
Luca crossed the room and answered.
“Yes?”
The color left his face.
I had never seen fear on Luca Moretti before.
Not until that moment.
He slowly lowered the phone.
“What happened?”
He looked toward the private elevator.
“The lobby received a package.”
“For who?”
“You.”
My throat tightened.
“What’s inside?”
“They don’t know.”
“You told them not to open it?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
His eyes held mine.
“It’s already open.”
We rode the elevator down with two security men.
The lobby had been cleared.
On the marble reception desk sat a long black box.
No return address.
No label except my name.
SOPHIA MARLOWE.
Inside was a single red rose.
And a photograph.
I picked it up.
A little girl stood beside my mother.
She was perhaps eight years old.
Dark hair.
Dark eyes.
My mother’s smile.
On the back, someone had written:
ISABEL MARLOWE.
Below it was a second message.
BRING THE KEY TO PIER 17 AT MIDNIGHT.
COME ALONE.
OR YOUR SISTER DIES THE WAY YOUR MOTHER DID.
My hands shook.
Luca read over my shoulder.
“No.”
“I didn’t ask.”
“You’re not going.”
“Someone has her.”
“Which means they’ll have you too.”
“She may be my sister.”
“She may be bait.”
“What would you do if it were your family?”
His silence gave me the answer.
I tucked the photograph into my bag.
“It’s 11:18.”
“Sophia.”
“I’m going.”
“Then I’m coming.”
“It says alone.”
“I don’t care.”
“I do.”
“You think I’m going to let you walk onto a pier by yourself because a stranger wrote instructions on stationery?”
“You don’t let me do anything, remember?”
His jaw tightened.
“This is different.”
“No.
It isn’t.”
I stepped closer.
“You brought me into this without telling me.
You knew about my mother.
You investigated me.
You had a file on me before you ever hired me.”
Each sentence hit him.
He didn’t defend himself.
“So now,” I said, “you’re going to do something you’re apparently terrible at.”
“What?”
“Trust me.”
For a long moment, Luca said nothing.
Then his eyes dropped to my hand.
The silver key rested in my palm.
Finally he nodded.
“One condition.”
I almost laughed.
“You really cannot help yourself.”
“One.”
“What?”
“You wear a wire.”
“No.”
“Sophia.”
“Absolutely not.”
“A transmitter.”
“No.”
“Tracking device.”
“Still no.”
He stared.
I stared back.
Then I sighed.
“Fine.
Tracking device.”
“Two.”
“You said one condition.”
“I lied.”
“I noticed.”
“A tracker and I stay nearby.”
“How nearby?”
“Near enough.”
“Define near enough.”
“No.”
“That isn’t how negotiations work.”
“It is tonight.”
Despite everything, something almost like a smile passed between us.
Then vanished.
At 11:56 p.m., I stood alone at Pier 17.
Wind rushed off the East River.
My midnight-blue dress looked absurd beneath my borrowed coat.
The key was in my pocket.
A tiny tracker was hidden beneath the strap of my heel.
Luca was somewhere nearby.
I didn’t know where.
He had promised I wouldn’t see him.
I had not made him promise he wouldn’t be armed.
Some questions were better left unanswered.
The pier appeared deserted.
Then footsteps approached.
A woman emerged from the darkness.
Tall.
Dark hair.
Black coat.
My heart stopped.
I knew her.
Not from life.
From the photograph.
Isabel.
She was older now.
But unmistakable.
She stopped ten feet away.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then her eyes filled with tears.
“You have her eyes,” she whispered.
My throat tightened.
“So do you.”
A broken laugh escaped her.
“I wondered if you’d come.”
“You threatened your own life.”
“I didn’t send the package.”
Cold spread through me.
“What?”
Her expression changed.
“I told you to run.”
Footsteps sounded behind me.
I turned.
Three men stepped from the shadows.
Then two more appeared behind Isabel.
She raised her hands.
“I’m sorry.”
A man’s voice came from the darkness.
“So am I.”
Richard Bellamy stepped into the light.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
“You.”
He smiled sadly.
“I had hoped we could avoid this.”
“You knew my mother.”
“Yes.”
“What happened to her?”
Bellamy looked toward Isabel.
Then back at me.
“Your mother discovered something she should never have found.”
“The ledger.”
“Yes.”
“Where is it?”
“Behind a door only that key can open.”
I touched my pocket.
“What’s inside the ledger?”
Bellamy’s smile disappeared.
“Proof that the Moretti empire was built on blood.”
A familiar voice cut through the darkness.
“Careful, Richard.”
Luca stepped out from behind a cargo building.
Bellamy’s men reached inside their jackets.
Luca stopped walking.
He was alone.
At least he looked alone.
Bellamy smiled.
“You always were your father’s son.”
“And you always talked too much.”
“Sophia,” I snapped, “you said alone.”
“I am alone.”
Five red laser dots appeared on Bellamy’s men.
Luca glanced toward the rooftops.
“My security team isn’t.”
Bellamy laughed softly.
Then raised his hands.
“Very theatrical.”
“Says the man kidnapping women at midnight.”
“No one kidnapped Isabel.”
I looked at her.
Isabel lowered her eyes.
My stomach dropped.
“What?”
Bellamy smiled.
“She works for me.”
The words landed like ice.
I stared at the woman who claimed to be my sister.
“Isabel?”
Her face twisted.
“I’m sorry.”
“Stop saying that.”
“You don’t understand.”
“Then explain.”
She looked at Luca.
And suddenly, fear entered her eyes.
Not fear of Bellamy.
Fear of him.
“Sophia, there’s something you need to know.”
Luca’s voice became deadly calm.
“Don’t.”
I turned.
“What does she know?”
Luca said nothing.
Isabel reached slowly into her coat.
The security lasers moved.
“Don’t,” I warned.
She pulled out a photograph.
Not a weapon.
She held it toward me.
“This was taken three days after our mother’s car crash.”
I took it.
At first, I didn’t understand.
Then I saw the hospital bed.
My mother.
Alive.
Weak.
Bandaged.
And beside her—
A teenage Luca Moretti.
I stared.
Luca looked about sixteen.
Maybe seventeen.
Standing next to my mother’s hospital bed.
Holding her hand.
My lungs forgot how to breathe.
“You said you found out years later.”
Luca said nothing.
“You said you learned about her after your father died.”
His face changed.
“Sophia.”
“You were there.”
“Yes.”
The photograph trembled between my fingers.
“You knew my mother.”
“Yes.”
“How?”
He looked toward Bellamy.
Then Isabel.
Then me.
And for the first time since I had known him, Luca Moretti looked like a man with nowhere left to hide.
“Because the night your mother died,” he said quietly, “I was the last person who spoke to her.”
Behind me, Bellamy laughed.
“That isn’t the worst part.”
Luca’s eyes flashed.
“Richard.”
Bellamy smiled at me.
“Ask him what Elena gave him before she died.”
I looked at Luca.
He didn’t answer.
My voice dropped to a whisper.
“What did she give you?”
His silence was answer enough.
“The ledger?”
I asked.
“No.”
“What, then?”
Bellamy stepped closer.
“The key Sophia is carrying tonight is not the original.”
I froze.
He continued.
“Your mother gave the original to Luca seventeen years ago.”
I looked at Luca.
And watched him close his eyes.
Everything became clear.
The photograph.
The file.
The secrets.
The reason he had known so much.
The reason he had reacted to the handwritten note.
He hadn’t been searching for the truth.
He had been protecting something.
From me.
“What does the key open?”
I whispered.
Luca looked at me.
“The Moretti family vault.”
“And what’s inside?”
His answer barely carried over the river.
“Something your mother died trying to keep you from finding.”
A gunshot cracked through the night.
Isabel screamed.
The lights on the pier exploded into darkness.
Someone grabbed me.
I fought.
A hand covered my mouth.
Luca shouted my name.
Another shot.
Footsteps.
Chaos.
Then a voice whispered against my ear.
A voice I recognized.
A voice I had heard nearly every day of my childhood.
Impossible.
Absolutely impossible.
“Don’t scream, sweetheart.”
My entire body went rigid.
Because the man holding me was supposed to have been dead for eleven years.
My father.
“If Luca opens that vault,” he whispered, “everyone you know is going to learn who you really are.”
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Source: Stories of Destiny · Thao Thao
