Chapter 1 - The Girl Who Saved the Wrong Life
When I opened my eyes, Alessandro was sitting beside my hospital bed with dried blood on his white shirt.
Mine.
At first, I didn’t understand where I was.
There was a ceiling above me.
White.
Flat.
Too bright.
Then came the sound.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
My heart.
Still beating.
I tried to move.
Pain traveled through my chest.
“Don’t.”
Alessandro was on his feet instantly.
His voice sounded rough.
Not commanding.
Not cold.
Afraid.
That frightened me more than the machines.
“How long?”
My throat burned.
“Three days.”
I stared at him.
“Three?”
“You were sedated.”
Memories returned in broken flashes.
Chocolate.
A shattered glass.
My body falling.
Alessandro shouting.
Then nothing.
I touched my chest.
“What happened?”
His jaw tightened.
“You died.”
I thought I had misheard him.
“What?”
“Forty-one seconds.”
He looked away.
“Your heart stopped for forty-one seconds.”
Silence filled the room.
I watched the cardiac monitor.
Somewhere beneath all those wires and medication, my heart continued doing the ordinary work it had nearly stopped doing forever.
“The cake.”
Alessandro closed his eyes.
“Yes.”
“You switched them.”
He went completely still.
That was when I understood.
He had already been living inside those few seconds for three days.
“I switched them.”
His voice was barely audible.
“Because Emma said yours was poisoned.”
“Who?”
“The girl.”
Then I remembered.
Security moving.
The service corridor.
Alessandro telling me a child had wanted to be heard.
“Emma.”
He nodded.
I looked at him.
“She was right.”
“Yes.”
“The poison was meant for you.”
“Yes.”
“And I ate it because you switched the plates.”
He looked as though I had struck him.
“Yes.”
I reached for his hand.
He almost pulled away.
“Alessandro.”
“I put it in front of you.”
“You didn’t poison me.”
“I moved the plate.”
“You believed someone was trying to kill you.”
“I should have thrown both desserts away.”
“Yes.”
He looked surprised by the answer.
I squeezed his fingers.
“You should have.”
His throat moved.
“But whoever did this wanted you suspicious.”
I continued.
“If you reacted immediately, they would know the warning reached you.”
“That was my reasoning.”
“And it nearly killed me.”
“Yes.”
“Both things can be true.”
He stared at me.
For perhaps the first time since I had known him, Alessandro Moretti had no defense.
No command.
No solution.
Only guilt.
“Where is Emma?”
His expression changed.
“Safe.”
“Where?”
“In this building.”
I frowned.
“Why?”
“Because someone tried to take her six hours after you collapsed.”
Cold spread through me.
“Who?”
“A woman claiming to be from Child Services.”
“Real?”
“No.”
“What happened?”
“Marco checked.”
Of course he did.
“What about Emma’s family?”
Alessandro sat again.
“We don’t know yet.”
“She wouldn’t give a last name at first.”
“At first?”
“She eventually said Bellini.”
The name meant nothing to me.
Apparently it meant something to Alessandro.
His eyes hardened.
“What?”
“Lucia Bellini worked for my mother.”
I waited.
“As what?”
“Seamstress.”
“You mean clothing?”
“My mother hated department stores.”
Even while speaking about attempted murder, a trace of warmth entered his face.
“She had half her formal clothes altered by Lucia.”
“Where is she?”
“Missing.”
“For how long?”
“Eleven months.”
My skin prickled.
“And Emma?”
“Was living with her.”
“Until?”
“Emma won’t say.”
I looked toward the closed door.
“Has anyone talked to her?”
“A pediatric specialist.”
“Police?”
“Not directly.”
“Why?”
His eyes met mine.
“Because whoever did this knew where my mother’s funeral invitations came from.”
My pulse shifted.
The tattoo.
I remembered fragments from what I had apparently watched later on surveillance footage.
Black funeral lily.
“Tell me.”
Alessandro leaned forward.
“My mother’s funeral was private.”
“I know.”
“Family mausoleum.”
“Twelve invitations.”
I nodded.
“I was there.”
“You weren’t invited.”
I gave him a weak smile.
“We had been dating four months.”
“My mother liked you.”
“She tolerated me.”
“She tolerated no one.”
Fair.
He continued.
“The invitation design was commissioned by Caterina.”
“Your aunt.”
“My mother’s older sister.”
Aunt Caterina Moretti.
Elegant.
Seventy.
Silver hair.
A woman who could silence an entire charity board by raising one eyebrow.
She had always treated me politely.
Which in the Moretti family could mean affection or preparation for murder.
“The funeral lily was her design?”
“Yes.”
“Who knew that?”
“The twelve recipients.”
“And the printer.”
“Dead.”
I blinked.
“When?”
“Two years ago.”
“Natural?”
“Apparently.”
That word carried enormous weight in Alessandro’s world.
I leaned back.
“What else aren’t you telling me?”
He hesitated.
“Six months before the first attempt on my life, Caterina asked the family undertaker to prepare another coffin.”
“For whom?”
“Me.”
I stared.
“She said it was part of reorganizing the family crypt.”
“And you believed that?”
“I didn’t know until last night.”
“Who found out?”
“Marco.”
“How?”
“The undertaker kept records.”
“Why would Caterina choose your coffin before anyone had tried to kill you?”
“That is the question.”
I looked toward the hospital door again.
“Does Emma know Caterina?”
“We showed her photographs.”
“And?”
“She didn’t identify her.”
“Who did she identify?”
Alessandro became silent.
That was never a good sign.
“Who?”
“Bianca.”
I knew the name.
Everyone connected to the Morettis knew the name.
Bianca Moretti was Caterina’s daughter.
Alessandro’s cousin.
Thirty-four.
Beautiful.
Educated in Paris.
Operated a luxury costume atelier that dressed opera singers, actresses, and women wealthy enough to believe clothing should require an appointment.
Bianca had been at Isabella Moretti’s funeral.
So had I.
I remembered her standing beside the black coffin.
Black dress.
Black veil.
White gloves.
“She has the tattoo?”
“We don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“I’ve never examined my cousin’s wrists.”
“Fair.”
“What did Emma say?”
“That Bianca looks like the woman she saw near the kitchen.”
My pulse accelerated.
“Looks like?”
“Emma says the woman’s hair was different.”
“She was wearing a wig.”
“Probably.”
“And my coat.”
“Yes.”
“My shoes.”
“Yes.”
I stared at him.
“Where are they?”
“What?”
“My red heels.”
He didn’t answer.
“Alessandro.”
“Missing.”
My skin went cold.
“The coat?”
“Also missing.”
I tried to sit straighter.
Pain stopped me.
“When?”
“We checked your apartment.”
“You mean someone entered my home.”
“Yes.”
“Before dinner.”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“No forced entry.”
I stared at him.
“You have the access code.”
“So does your housekeeper.”
“Maria has worked for me nine years.”
“I know.”
“My sister.”
“Out of the country.”
“Who else?”
His expression told me.
“No.”
“Elena.”
“No.”
“Who else?”
He spoke carefully.
“Your anniversary gift dealer had your building address.”
“The Palermo dealer?”
“He shipped the score.”
“He didn’t have the code.”
“No.”
“What are you thinking?”
“That someone knew exactly what you planned to wear.”
I suddenly remembered.
Three days before dinner, Bianca had called me.
Not unusual.
She claimed she wanted advice on a charity gala.
Halfway through the conversation, she laughed and asked what I was wearing for the anniversary dinner.
I had told her.
Red heels.
Black coat.
Emerald dress.
The room seemed colder.
“She asked.”
Alessandro’s face changed.
“Who?”
“Bianca.”
“When?”
“Three days before dinner.”
He stood.
“Alessandro.”
He reached for his phone.
“Don’t.”
He looked at me.
“If you send men to her house and she’s involved, she’ll know Emma identified something.”
He stopped.
I could almost see him forcing rage back into strategy.
“You’re right.”
“That must hurt.”
“It does.”
I closed my eyes.
Then remembered something else.
“The gift.”
“What?”
“The score.”
“What about it?”
“I left it at the restaurant.”
“It’s secure.”
“Open it.”
His brow furrowed.
“Why?”
“Because Bianca knew about it too.”
“How?”
“She introduced me to the dealer.”
Silence.
Alessandro slowly lowered his phone.
The anniversary gift I had spent two months finding suddenly felt like another piece on someone else’s board.
Twenty minutes later, Marco entered carrying the dark green box.
He wore the same expression he always wore.
Calm.
Unreadable.
But his right hand remained near his jacket.
Even inside a hospital.
He placed the box on a table.
Alessandro opened it.
Inside lay the handwritten musical score.
Cream paper.
Faded ink.
Elegant notes.
A piece Alessandro’s mother had loved.
He lifted the first page.
Nothing.
Second page.
Nothing.
Third.
Then Marco said:
“Stop.”
He pointed.
Along the binding was a tiny slit.
Alessandro carefully opened it with a sterile instrument from the medical tray.
A narrow strip of photographic film slid out.
Nobody spoke.
Marco held it toward the light.
Twelve tiny images.
Faces.
The funeral.
Isabella Moretti’s coffin.
Caterina.
Bianca.
Marco.
Alessandro.
Me.
And one photograph that had never been publicly released.
Isabella Moretti lying dead in her bedroom.
On the back of the film strip, someone had written four words in Italian.
May you like
Alessandro translated them aloud.
“Your mother was murdered.”
