Chapter 1 - The Baby Who Was Never Found
“That baby was never found.”
For several seconds, I forgot Vivian existed.
I forgot the two hundred people staring at me.
I forgot the burning across my forearm.
I forgot that I was standing in a borrowed maid’s uniform in the middle of one of the most expensive homes in New York.
I heard only Vincent.
Twenty-eight years ago.
A newborn baby.
Elena Rossi.
His sister.
And a necklace that had belonged to his mother.
I tightened my hand around the locket.
“You’re wrong.”
Vincent didn’t argue.
That frightened me.
“You have to be wrong.”
“I hope I am.”
“My mother raised me.”
“What year were you born?”
I stared at him.
Vivian shifted near us.
“Vincent, this is insane.”
He ignored her.
“What year, Nora?”
“Nineteen ninety-eight.”
His jaw tightened.
“What month?”
“January.”
He went completely still.
I suddenly hated the expression on his face.
“Stop.”
“What day?”
“I said stop.”
“Nora.”
“January nineteenth.”
One of the four men near the ballroom doors lowered his eyes.
Vincent looked as though someone had driven a fist into his chest.
Behind us, the room erupted into whispers.
I heard my own name.
I heard Elena.
I heard someone say Moretti.
Then Vivian’s voice cut through all of them.
“This is absurd.”
Vincent turned.
She stepped closer.
“You found some woman wearing an old necklace and suddenly she’s family?”
“Some woman?”
His voice remained soft.
Vivian hesitated.
Vincent held up the riding crop.
“Five minutes ago, she was important enough for you to retrieve this from a locked cabinet.”
Vivian’s face tightened.
“That has nothing to do with this.”
“Maybe.”
He handed the crop to the oldest of the four men behind him.
“Marco.”
The man took it.
“Preserve it.”
Vivian laughed.
Actually laughed.
“For what?”
Vincent looked at her.
“Evidence.”
That word erased the last trace of color from her face.
“You cannot be serious.”
“I am.”
“You’re going to humiliate me over a temporary maid?”
I flinched before I could stop myself.
Not because the insult hurt.
Because Vivian still didn’t understand.
Vincent noticed.
“So we’re clear,” he said, “the engagement is suspended.”
The ballroom exploded.
Vivian stared at him.
“What?”
“Until I know exactly what happened here.”
“You’re ending our engagement because she spilled wine on me?”
“No.”
Vincent glanced at the crop.
“I’m reconsidering marrying a woman who believes an expensive dress gives her permission to beat someone.”
Vivian’s mouth fell open.
Her father was not at the party.
That suddenly seemed important.
Carlo DeMarco rarely missed events where power could be displayed.
Yet tonight his daughter had arrived alone.
I had noticed it earlier.
Now Vincent apparently did too.
“Where is your father?”
Vivian’s eyes changed.
It lasted less than a second.
But I saw it.
Fear.
“Why?”
“Answer me.”
“He had business.”
“What business?”
“I don’t interrogate my father.”
Vincent turned toward the security chief.
“Close the ballroom.”
I stared at him.
Several guests reacted immediately.
“What does that mean?”
“We have dinner reservations.”
“My driver is waiting.”
“Senator, I have an early flight—”
Vincent raised one hand.
“You are all free to leave.”
People relaxed.
Then he continued.
“But before you do, my attorney will take the names of everyone who witnessed what happened to Ms. Rossi.”
The relief vanished.
Vivian stepped toward him.
“You’re making a spectacle of this.”
“No.”
He looked around the ballroom.
“You already did.”
For the first time that evening, I almost smiled.
Almost.
Then my phone began ringing.
I turned toward the service corridor.
“My things.”
Vincent looked at me.
“You said she prevented you from collecting them?”
“Yes.”
“Marco.”
“I can get them myself.”
“I’m sure you can.”
Vincent’s gaze lowered briefly to my arm.
“But you shouldn’t have to.”
That annoyed me more than it should have.
I didn’t want his sympathy.
I didn’t want his protection.
I wanted my coat.
My purse.
My seventy-eight dollars in cash tips.
And the boring life I’d had twenty minutes earlier.
Marco returned with my belongings.
My phone was ringing inside my purse.
Unknown number.
I declined it.
It rang again.
Same number.
I frowned.
Vincent noticed.
“Someone persistent?”
“Spam.”
The phone rang a third time.
This time a message appeared.
DO NOT LET MORETTI OPEN THE LOCKET.
My blood went cold.
I stared at the screen.
Vincent saw my face.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Nora.”
I looked at him.
I had known the man less than twenty minutes.
Everything I knew about Vincent Moretti came from newspaper articles, whispered rumors among catering crews, and the way wealthy men suddenly lowered their voices when his name was mentioned.
Yet the anonymous message knew exactly where I was.
Exactly who stood beside me.
And exactly what hung around my neck.
I turned the phone over.
“Someone has the wrong number.”
Vincent studied me.
He knew I was lying.
He didn’t press.
Not yet.
Instead, he led me toward a library adjoining the ballroom.
I resisted.
“I’m leaving.”
“I need to show you something first.”
“No.”
His expression changed.
Not anger.
Surprise.
Perhaps people rarely said no to him.
“I have had enough strangers making decisions for me tonight.”
His gaze flicked toward Vivian.
“Fair.”
That answer surprised me.
He walked to a cabinet near the library wall.
Opened it.
Removed a leather-bound photograph album.
“I’m asking for five minutes.”
I should have refused.
Instead, I entered.
Vincent opened the album.
The first photograph showed a dark-haired woman standing beside a fountain.
She was perhaps twenty.
Beautiful.
Laughing.
The locket was around her neck.
I stopped breathing.
It wasn’t the necklace that terrified me.
It was her face.
I had that face in a box beneath my bed.
Older.
Thinner.
Tired from double shifts.
But unmistakable.
“My mother.”
Vincent looked at me.
“This was taken in 1995.”
I touched the photograph.
“My mother was twenty-five.”
“She was twenty-two here.”
“You knew her.”
He didn’t answer immediately.
Then he turned the page.
Another photograph.
The same woman.
Beside a twelve-year-old boy.
Vincent.
My knees weakened.
“No.”
“She was my sister.”
“No.”
“Nora—”
“My mother’s last name was Rossi.”
“Our mother’s maiden name was Rossi.”
I stared at him.
He continued quietly.
“Elena used it sometimes.”
The anonymous phone number called again.
This time I answered.
“Who is this?”
Silence.
Then an old man whispered,
“If Vincent knows who you are, Renato will know too.”
My eyes lifted.
Vincent saw something change in my expression.
“Who is Renato?”
The caller stopped breathing.
Then the line disconnected.
Vincent’s face hardened.
“How do you know that name?”
“I don’t.”
He slowly closed the photograph album.
Behind us, Marco appeared at the library entrance.
His expression was grim.
“Vincent.”
“What?”
“You need to see something.”
He held out a tablet.
Security footage.
The screen showed the ballroom twenty minutes before Vincent arrived.
Vivian appeared in the corridor.
She wasn’t walking toward the equestrian room alone.
A man accompanied her.
His face was hidden from the camera.
But before they separated, he handed Vivian something.
A photograph.
Vivian looked at it.
Then looked through the ballroom doorway.
Directly toward me.
Marco froze the frame.
Vincent enlarged the image.
The photograph in Vivian’s hand was blurry.
But I could see the woman pictured in it.
Me.
Vincent looked toward the ballroom.
Vivian was gone.
Marco spoke quietly.
“She didn’t hit Nora because of spilled wine.”
May you like
Vincent stared at the frozen image.
“She knew Nora was coming.”
