CHAPTER 2 — THE BILLIONAIRE WHO KNEW MY NAME BEFORE WE MET
I didn't get into the car.
Not immediately.
I stood there beneath the awning, staring at Vincent as if he had just told me the sky wasn't real.
"My father is dead."
Vincent said nothing.
"You heard me."
"I did."
"He died when I was seven."
"I know."
The answer came too quickly.
My stomach twisted.
"How do you know that?"
Vincent looked toward the street.
"Get inside."
"No."
His eyes returned to mine.
"Emily."
"No."
My voice shook, but I didn't care.
"You can't kiss me in front of an entire restaurant, tell me you've been looking for me for seven years, tell me my father was hiding me from people, and then expect me to get into your car like some obedient stranger."
For several seconds, he simply watched me.
Then he nodded.
"Fair."
He stepped away from the vehicle.
"Ask."
I swallowed.
"Who are you?"
"You already know."
"No. I know what people say."
"People say many things."
"They say you're dangerous."
"I am."
The honesty stunned me.
"They say you're involved with people who don't obey the law."
Vincent's expression didn't change.
"Sometimes."
"And you're admitting that?"
"I don't lie to you."
I stared at him.
"Why?"
He looked directly into my eyes.
"Because I've already lied enough by staying away."
That sentence frightened me more than any threat could have.
"How long have you known me?"
"Not personally."
"Then how?"
"From a distance."
My chest tightened.
"That's called stalking."
"Sometimes."
I stepped back.
He didn't move toward me.
That mattered.
"I saw you for the first time seven years ago."
"Where?"
"Outside a hospital."
My breath caught.
I remembered almost nothing from that period.
My father had supposedly died.
My mother had cried for months.
There had been doctors.
Police officers.
A funeral.
Then we moved.
I remembered a blue suitcase.
A long highway.
My mother's hand gripping mine.
And one strange detail.
A black car following us for several miles.
I'd always thought I'd imagined it.
"You were standing beside your mother," Vincent continued.
"You were wearing a yellow sweater."
I froze.
"What?"
"Yellow sweater. White sneakers. Your left shoelace was untied."
My heart began pounding.
I had never told anyone that.
Vincent continued.
"You kept asking your mother when your father was coming home."
I couldn't speak.
"She told you he was sleeping."
My eyes filled with tears.
"How could you know that?"
"Because I was there."
The rain suddenly sounded deafening.
"You were there?"
"Across the street."
"Why?"
"Because your father asked me to watch you."
I shook my head.
"My father didn't know you."
Vincent looked away.
"He knew me very well."
"Who was he?"
Vincent didn't answer.
"Why did he need you to watch me?"
"Because he knew someone was coming."
"Who?"
"The people who destroyed his life."
I felt dizzy.
"You keep saying things like that."
"Because they're true."
"Then prove it."
Vincent reached into his coat.
I tensed.
He slowly pulled out a photograph.
He held it toward me.
I didn't take it.
"What is that?"
"Look."
I finally reached for it.
The photograph was old.
Faded.
A little girl stood beside a tall man.
Me.
I knew the little girl immediately.
Seven years old.
Yellow sweater.
White sneakers.
Untied shoelace.
Beside me stood my father.
But there was another man in the background.
I stared at him.
Black suit.
Dark hair.
Younger.
But unmistakable.
Vincent.
My fingers began trembling.
"You were there."
"Yes."
"Why didn't I see you?"
"Because you weren't supposed to."
I looked up.
"What happened that day?"
"Your father disappeared."
"He died."
Vincent's eyes hardened.
"That's what they wanted you to believe."
The photograph slipped slightly in my fingers.
"No."
"Emily—"
"No."
I shook my head.
"My mother told me."
"Your mother told you what she needed you to believe."
I felt anger rising.
"Don't talk about my mother."
"I'm not accusing her."
"You are."
"I'm protecting her."
That stopped me.
Vincent took a slow breath.
"Your mother spent seven years keeping you alive."
I stared at him.
"From what?"
"From a man who believed your father left something behind."
"What?"
Vincent's eyes moved to the photograph.
"A file."
"What file?"
"The blue file."
The phrase sounded absurd.
Almost childish.
"What is inside it?"
"I don't know everything."
"You expect me to believe that?"
"I expect you to understand that whoever finds it first controls what happens next."
My pulse quickened.
"Where is it?"
Vincent looked at me.
"I don't know."
"Then why are you looking for me?"
"Because you may be the only person who can find it."
I laughed bitterly.
"I don't know anything about a file."
"I believe you."
"Then what do you want from me?"
"Nothing."
"Everyone wants something."
Vincent's voice softened.
"I want you alive."
I looked away.
The words should have comforted me.
Instead, they terrified me.
Because nobody had ever spoken about my life as if it were something valuable enough to protect.
Not Tyler.
Not the people I worked for.
Not even me.
My phone buzzed.
I looked down.
One new message.
Unknown number.
YOU SHOULD HAVE STAYED INVISIBLE.
My blood ran cold.
Vincent saw my face.
"Show me."
I handed him the phone.
He read the message.
His expression became unreadable.
Then another message arrived.
This one contained a photograph.
I opened it.
My hands went numb.
It was a picture of my apartment.
Taken from across the street.
Taken tonight.
Someone had been watching my home.
Vincent's security man immediately moved closer.
"Sir."
Vincent didn't answer.
He was staring at the photograph.
"How long?" he asked.
"Possibly forty minutes."
"Before or after the restaurant?"
"After."
Vincent looked at me.
"Do you live alone?"
"My mother lives with me."
His face hardened.
"We're going there."
"No."
"Emily."
"My mother is there."
"Exactly."
I realized what he meant.
If someone had been watching my apartment, they weren't necessarily waiting for me.
They might be waiting for her.
I stepped into the SUV.
Vincent followed.
The door closed.
The city disappeared behind dark tinted glass.
For several minutes, neither of us spoke.
Then I noticed something.
On the seat beside Vincent was a thin black folder.
A small handwritten label was visible on the edge.
My name.
EMILY.
I stared at it.
"You had a file on me."
Vincent didn't deny it.
"How long?"
"Seven years."
My heart sank.
"Everything?"
"Not everything."
"What did you record?"
"Your addresses."
"Why?"
"Protection."
"My jobs?"
"Protection."
"My mother's medical appointments?"
"Protection."
"My college?"
"Protection."
I looked at him.
"My favorite coffee?"
He paused.
I knew.
"You know that too."
His jaw tightened.
"Yes."
I laughed once, but there was no humor in it.
"That's insane."
"Probably."
"You watched me for seven years."
"Yes."
"And you never approached me."
"No."
"Why?"
His answer came quietly.
"Because the first rule of protecting you was making sure you never knew I existed."
I stared at him.
"Then why kiss me tonight?"
For the first time, Vincent looked vulnerable.
"Because Tyler made the mistake of touching something he didn't understand."
"What?"
Vincent leaned back.
"You."
My breath caught.
He looked out the window.
"I could tolerate being a stranger."
His eyes returned to mine.
"I could tolerate watching you walk past me every Thursday without knowing my name."
His voice lowered.
"But I couldn't stand there while another man convinced you that you were unworthy of being loved."
Silence filled the car.
I looked away before he could see what his words were doing to me.
Then the SUV suddenly slowed.
Vincent's security man touched his earpiece.
"Sir."
"What?"
"We have a problem."
Vincent sat forward.
"What kind?"
"The apartment building."
My stomach dropped.
"What about it?"
The man looked at me.
"Someone just entered your mother's apartment."
Vincent's face became ice.
Then he reached for the weapon hidden beneath his jacket.
And for the first time, I understood something terrifying.
Vincent DeLuca hadn't been exaggerating.
Someone really had found me.
May you like
And whoever they were...
They had already reached my mother.
