Chapter 2 - The Woman in My Mother’s Photographs
Vivian made it as far as the east driveway.
She was sitting inside a black Mercedes when security stopped her from leaving.
Vincent didn’t have them drag her back.
He didn’t need to.
He walked outside himself.
I stayed in the library.
At least, I intended to.
Then I heard Vivian scream.
“You don’t get to imprison me!”
I stepped into the entrance hall.
Vincent stood beneath the chandelier with the front doors open behind him.
Sleet blew across the marble.
“You’re not imprisoned,” he said.
“Then tell them to move.”
“You may leave.”
Vivian blinked.
“But?”
“You leave your phone.”
Her hand immediately went to her clutch.
There it was again.
Fear.
“My phone is private.”
“So was the photograph of Nora.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Vincent held up Marco’s tablet.
Vivian stared at the frozen security frame.
The color disappeared from her face.
“I can explain.”
“Good.”
He stepped aside.
“Explain.”
Her eyes moved toward me.
Hatred replaced fear.
“She was supposed to be nobody.”
The room went silent.
Vincent’s voice became dangerously low.
“What did you say?”
Vivian realized too late what she had admitted.
She recovered.
“I mean—she’s catering staff.”
“That isn’t what you meant.”
She crossed her arms.
“I want my lawyer.”
“Then call one.”
“You just asked for my phone.”
Marco looked as if he was trying not to smile.
Vincent didn’t.
“Use mine.”
Vivian stared at him.
Then she turned toward me.
“You have no idea what you walked into.”
“Neither do you,” I said.
Her expression sharpened.
For one second, I saw something beyond arrogance.
Panic.
Then Marco’s phone rang.
He answered.
Listened.
Looked at Vincent.
“We found the man from the footage.”
“Who?”
“Not a guest.”
Marco hesitated.
“Temporary driver.”
“Name?”
“Fake.”
Vincent’s jaw shifted.
“Vehicle?”
“Abandoned two blocks away.”
Vivian looked toward the door.
Too quickly.
Vincent saw it.
“So your driver vanished.”
“He wasn’t my driver.”
“He handed you Nora’s photograph.”
“I don’t know him.”
“Then why did you take it?”
Vivian said nothing.
My phone buzzed.
Another text.
LEAVE BELLADONNA HOUSE. NOW.
Then another.
YOUR MOTHER SURVIVED BECAUSE SHE RAN.
I felt sick.
Vincent approached.
“Show me.”
“No.”
“If someone is threatening you—”
“You don’t get automatic access to my life because we might share DNA.”
He stopped.
To his credit, he didn’t argue.
Instead, he said,
“You’re right.”
Vivian laughed bitterly.
“Look at this.”
Everyone turned.
She pointed toward Vincent.
“Five minutes with a sob story and suddenly he’s pretending to be civilized.”
Vincent ignored her.
She wasn’t finished.
“You think because he speaks quietly he isn’t what people say?”
I looked at Vincent.
Something unreadable passed across his face.
Vivian smiled.
“You know what they call him?”
“Vivian.”
“No.”
She stepped toward me.
“You deserve to know your new uncle.”
“I said enough.”
“The newspapers call him a businessman.”
Her smile widened.
“Men who know better call him the Black Prince.”
Vincent’s expression didn’t change.
“Finished?”
“Not remotely.”
Marco interrupted.
“Vincent.”
The security chief held up his tablet again.
“This may matter more.”
He had pulled footage from the service entrance.
A woman had delivered flowers at 4:11 p.m.
Nothing unusual.
Except she never entered.
She placed a long white box outside the door and left.
The box was addressed to Vivian.
Security had moved it to the gift room.
Vincent looked at Marco.
“Get it.”
Vivian’s entire posture changed.
“No.”
Everyone looked at her.
She realized her mistake.
“That’s private.”
Vincent almost smiled.
“Everything is private tonight.”
The box arrived two minutes later.
Marco placed it on the library table.
White cardboard.
Gold ribbon.
No return address.
Vincent did not touch it.
He looked at Vivian.
“Open it.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know what’s inside.”
“Neither do I.”
I suddenly understood.
“You were expecting it.”
Vivian looked at me.
“Stay out of this.”
“You beat me with a riding crop.”
I folded my arms.
“I think I’m already in it.”
Marco opened the box after checking it.
Inside was a bouquet of black roses.
And an envelope.
Vincent removed the card.
Three words were printed inside.
SHE HAS IT.
Nobody needed to ask what it meant.
My fingers closed around the locket.
Vivian backed away.
Vincent looked at her.
“Who sent this?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who?”
“I said I don’t know!”
The panic in her voice was real now.
I believed her.
That might have been worse.
Vincent turned toward Marco.
“Find Carlo.”
Vivian’s head snapped up.
“Leave my father out of this.”
“He’s already in it.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know he skipped our engagement party.”
“He was sick.”
“You said business.”
She froze.
Vincent’s eyes hardened.
“Which lie would you like to keep?”
Before Vivian could answer, a woman appeared in the doorway.
She was elderly.
Small.
Wearing the black dress and white collar of Belladonna House’s senior household staff.
I had seen her twice that evening.
Rosa Alvarez.
She had worked for the Moretti family for decades.
She looked at the open album.
Then at me.
The tray in her hands slipped.
It hit the floor.
“Madre de Dios.”
Vincent turned.
“Rosa?”
She didn’t look at him.
She stared at me.
Tears filled her eyes.
Then she crossed the room faster than I thought a woman her age could move.
She stopped inches away.
Her hand rose toward my cheek.
She didn’t touch me.
“Elena?”
My throat closed.
“My name is Nora.”
Rosa began crying.
Not politely.
Not quietly.
She covered her mouth.
Vincent stepped closer.
“You recognize her?”
Rosa looked at him.
“Of course I recognize her.”
“She’s Elena’s daughter.”
Rosa stared at him.
Then at me.
And something in her expression changed.
Not surprise.
Guilt.
“You knew,” Vincent said.
Rosa shook her head.
“You knew Elena survived.”
“I promised.”
“Promised whom?”
Rosa looked at me.
“Your mother.”
My heart stopped.
Vincent’s face went hard.
“How long?”
Rosa closed her eyes.
“Seventeen years.”
Vincent stepped backward as if she had struck him.
“You knew my sister was alive for seventeen years?”
“She made me swear.”
“I buried an empty coffin.”
“I know.”
“My father died believing his daughter was dead.”
Rosa’s tears continued falling.
“No.”
That single word changed everything.
Vincent stared at her.
“What?”
“Your father knew.”
The room became perfectly still.
Rosa wiped her face.
“He knew Elena survived.”
Vincent’s voice dropped.
“When?”
“Three days after the funeral.”
“Why didn’t he tell me?”
“Because Elena begged him not to.”
“Why?”
Rosa looked toward the windows.
Toward the dark grounds outside.
“Because the man who tried to kill her was still alive.”
I whispered,
“Renato?”
Rosa looked at me sharply.
“Who told you that name?”
“Someone called me.”
She went pale.
Vincent stepped closer.
“Rosa.”
The old woman closed her eyes.
May you like
Then said the words that changed the entire night.
“Renato Moretti never died.”
