Chapter 3 - The Dead Wife’s Sister Came to DinnerChelsea woke to the smell of bacon and the unsettling realization that she was sleeping inside a mafia boss’s house.
For several seconds, she stared at the unfamiliar ceiling.
Then memories returned.
The photograph.
The attacker.
Vincent.
The kiss.
“Fantastic,” she whispered.
She showered, borrowed a sweatshirt that had been left outside her door and followed the smell downstairs.
Vincent sat at a long kitchen island reading something on a tablet.
No suit jacket this morning.
White shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms.
Chelsea stopped.
The criminal underworld had no business having forearms like that.
Vincent looked up.
“Good morning.”
“You cook?”
“No.”
An elderly woman placed eggs in front of Chelsea.
“I do,” she said.
Vincent introduced her as Rosa Moretti, his aunt.
Rosa ignored his attempt at formality and hugged Chelsea.
“So you’re the girl.”
Chelsea looked at Vincent.
“What girl?”
Rosa smiled.
“The one who kissed him.”
Vincent closed his eyes.
“Aunt Rosa.”
“What? Everyone knows.”
Chelsea nearly choked.
“Everyone?”
Marco walked through carrying coffee.
“Pretty much.”
Chelsea covered her face.
Rosa patted her shoulder.
“Good. He needed it.”
“Aunt Rosa.”
“What? You did.”
Vincent stood.
“I have business.”
“You always have business when someone is telling the truth.”
Vincent disappeared.
Chelsea liked Rosa immediately.
During breakfast, Rosa told her only carefully selected pieces of Vincent’s history.
His father had died when Vincent was twenty-six.
Vincent inherited more than businesses.
He inherited obligations.
Enemies.
People who depended on him.
Then Isabella entered his life.
“She made him human,” Rosa said.
“What happened to her?”
Rosa’s smile disappeared.
“Car bomb.”
Chelsea set down her fork.
“She was pregnant.”
The room seemed colder.
“How far?”
“Six months.”
Chelsea closed her eyes.
Suddenly Vincent’s grief made devastating sense.
“He never recovered,” Rosa continued. “He stopped laughing. Stopped traveling. Stopped dating.”
“Seven years?”
Rosa nodded.
“And then you kissed him in front of half his security team.”
Chelsea groaned.
“Please stop saying it.”
Rosa laughed.
A bell sounded somewhere in the house.
Marco appeared seconds later.
“Vincent wants everyone out of the south wing.”
Rosa’s expression sharpened.
“Why?”
“Elena Romano is here.”
Chelsea stood.
“She’s here?”
Marco looked at her.
“And she specifically asked to see you.”
Vincent refused.
Chelsea insisted.
Ten minutes later, she entered the library.
Elena Romano stood by a fireplace wearing a cream-colored coat.
She was striking.
Dark hair.
Elegant posture.
Cold intelligence in her eyes.
She looked at Chelsea from head to toe.
“So.”
Chelsea raised an eyebrow.
“So?”
“You’re prettier than the photograph.”
Vincent stood between them.
“This meeting is finished.”
Elena smiled.
“You still hate when you can’t control the room.”
“I don’t hate it. It simply doesn’t happen often.”
Elena looked at Chelsea again.
“Did Vincent tell you I put a bounty on you?”
“He said the post came from your account.”
“Technically true.”
Vincent stepped forward.
“Elena.”
She raised her hands.
“I created the bounty.”
Chelsea’s stomach tightened.
“But,” Elena continued, “it wasn’t real.”
Chelsea laughed once.
“Comforting distinction.”
“I needed Vincent to move you somewhere protected.”
“You could have called.”
“No. Vincent doesn’t answer my calls.”
Vincent’s expression remained stone.
“For excellent reasons.”
Elena walked toward Chelsea.
“I hired photographers to make sure the kiss reached certain people.”
Chelsea stared.
“You had people watching him?”
“For years.”
“Why?”
“Because someone inside Vincent’s organization killed my sister.”
Vincent slammed one hand onto the desk.
“Enough.”
Elena faced him.
“You buried Isabella before you buried the truth.”
“I investigated everyone.”
“Except blood.”
Vincent’s jaw tightened.
Chelsea looked between them.
“What does she mean?”
Elena reached into her handbag.
Marco immediately reached beneath his jacket.
Elena laughed bitterly.
“It’s paper, Marco.”
She placed a photograph on the desk.
It showed Isabella standing beside Vincent years earlier.
Behind them stood several men.
Chelsea recognized Marco.
A younger Vincent.
And one older man with silver hair.
Elena tapped the older man.
“Gianni Moretti.”
Vincent’s uncle.
“He arranged the route Isabella took the morning she died.”
Vincent said nothing.
“He also increased the insurance on one of your companies forty-eight hours before the bombing,” Elena continued.
Vincent looked at her.
“That proves nothing.”
“It proves opportunity.”
“Not murder.”
Elena removed another paper.
“A surveillance still from the garage.”
A grainy figure stood near Isabella’s car.
Chelsea leaned closer.
Vincent went pale.
“Who is that?” Chelsea asked.
No one answered.
Elena finally did.
“Vincent’s brother.”
Chelsea looked at him.
“You have a brother?”
“Half-brother.”
“Gabriel Moretti,” Elena said. “The family embarrassment. The gambler. The addict.”
Vincent snatched the photograph.
“It could be anyone.”
“You know his coat.”
Vincent did.
Chelsea could see it.
Elena continued.
“Gabriel disappeared two days after Isabella’s death.”
Vincent looked up sharply.
“He died.”
Elena smiled without warmth.
“Did you see his body?”
Vincent did not answer.
A disturbance erupted in the hallway.
Marco touched his earpiece.
“What?”
His expression changed.
“Down!”
The library window exploded.
Vincent tackled Chelsea to the floor.
Glass rained across the carpet.
Gunfire erupted outside.
Marco dragged Elena behind the desk.
A second shot struck the wall.
Security teams shouted through the house.
Vincent covered Chelsea with his body.
She could feel his heart pounding.
Not from fear for himself.
For her.
Then silence.
A guard rushed inside.
“Shooter escaped through the woods.”
Marco asked, “Vehicle?”
“Motorcycle.”
Chelsea pushed herself upright.
Her hands were shaking.
Elena stared at the shattered window.
“That wasn’t one of mine.”
Vincent turned toward her.
“Convenient.”
“I came here unarmed.”
“You came here carrying accusations.”
“And someone just tried to make sure none of us lived long enough to discuss them.”
Chelsea noticed something lying among the shattered glass.
A brass object.
She crawled toward it.
Vincent caught her shoulder.
“Don’t touch it.”
Marco used a handkerchief and picked it up.
A bullet casing.
Something had been scratched into the metal.
The letter I.
Vincent stared.
Elena whispered, “No.”
Chelsea looked at her.
“What?”
Elena’s face had lost all color.
“That was Gabriel’s signature.”
Vincent turned.
“You told me Gabriel was dead.”
“No,” Elena replied. “You told yourself that.”
That evening, Chelsea found Vincent alone in the darkened dining room.
He held a glass of whiskey but had barely touched it.
She sat opposite him.
“Tell me about Gabriel.”
“No.”
“That answer worked wonderfully last time.”
His mouth tightened.
Chelsea waited.
Eventually he spoke.
“Gabriel was ten when my father brought him home.”
“From?”
“Another woman.”
Chelsea winced.
“My mother hated him. My father ignored him. I tried not to.”
“You were close?”
“For a while.”
“What happened?”
“Gabriel believed Isabella should have chosen him.”
Chelsea stared.
“He loved your wife?”
“He thought he did.”
“And she?”
“Never.”
Vincent finally drank.
“When Isabella chose me, something inside him changed.”
“You thought he killed her.”
“For three months.”
“What changed your mind?”
“They found his car in Lake Michigan.”
“No body?”
“No.”
Chelsea leaned back.
“And everyone simply decided he drowned?”
Vincent’s voice lowered.
“I wanted it to be true.”
Chelsea understood.
A dead brother could be grieved.
A murderous brother had to be faced.
Vincent looked at her.
“You should leave Chicago.”
“Would that keep me safe?”
“No.”
“Then I’m staying.”
“That isn’t bravery.”
“I know.”
“What is it?”
Chelsea thought about overdue rent.
Her dead mother.
Years spent surviving by shrinking every dream until it could fit inside a paycheck.
Then she looked at Vincent.
“I’m tired of running from things because I’m poor, scared or alone.”
Something flickered in his expression.
“You aren’t alone now.”
Chelsea’s heart stumbled.
Before she could respond, Marco entered holding a phone.
“We found the motorcycle.”
“Where?”
“Burned near the river.”
“And?”
Marco hesitated.
“There was a body beside it.”
Vincent stood.
“Shooter?”
“No.”
Marco showed them a photograph.
Chelsea looked away immediately.
The dead man had been shot.
A message was pinned to his coat.
Vincent read it aloud.
YOU STOLE HER FROM ME ONCE.
I WON’T LET YOU DO IT AGAIN.
Chelsea looked at him.
“Isabella?”
Vincent’s face became terrifyingly still.
“No.”
May you like
His eyes moved to Chelsea.
“He means you.”
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