Chapter 4 - The Brother Who Was Supposed to Be DeadThe first photograph arrived before sunrise.
Chelsea sleeping inside Vincent’s guest room.
Taken through the window.
The second showed her sitting beside Rosa in the kitchen.
The third showed Vincent touching Chelsea’s shoulder after the shooting.
Each image carried the same handwritten message.
SHE LOOKS LIKE HER WHEN SHE’S AFRAID.
Vincent ordered every curtain closed.
Security doubled.
Nobody entered or left without being searched.
Chelsea watched the mansion transform from home to fortress.
Vincent transformed too.
Whatever softness she had briefly seen disappeared beneath command.
“Change every guard rotation.”
“Lock down the eastern gate.”
“Trace every vehicle within two miles.”
He barely slept.
By midday, Chelsea found him studying old files in his office.
“You’re going to collapse.”
“I’ve survived worse.”
“Very masculine. Very stupid.”
He looked up.
“You should be resting.”
“I’m not the one running a small country from a desk.”
He ignored her.
Chelsea crossed the room.
On the desk was a photograph of Isabella.
Chelsea stopped.
The resemblance was not exact.
Isabella had dark hair.
Chelsea was blonde.
Their features were different.
But their eyes…
Same shape.
Same expression when smiling.
Chelsea understood the message.
“You think Gabriel chose me because I remind him of her.”
Vincent closed the folder.
“I think Gabriel is insane.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Yes.”
Chelsea sat down.
“Then the kiss didn’t start this.”
“No.”
“He was already watching you.”
“Probably.”
“And me?”
Vincent’s silence answered.
Chelsea felt sick.
“How long?”
“We found photographs from three weeks ago.”
“Three weeks?”
“You were in several.”
“I had never met you.”
“You worked somewhere I visited.”
Chelsea remembered Vincent occasionally sitting alone at Bellini’s.
She had served him twice before without conversation.
“So Gabriel saw me before you did.”
Vincent’s jaw hardened.
“That seems likely.”
A knock came.
Marco entered.
“We found something.”
He placed an old passport on the desk.
The photograph showed Gabriel Moretti.
Same dark eyes as Vincent.
Younger.
More reckless.
“When was this issued?” Vincent asked.
“Five years ago. Argentina.”
“So he survived.”
“Yes.”
Marco placed additional records down.
“He entered the U.S. under another identity eleven months ago.”
“Where has he been?”
“We’re tracing it.”
Chelsea asked, “Why return now?”
Marco looked at Vincent.
Vincent answered.
“Because my uncle Gianni is dying.”
Chelsea frowned.
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“Gianni controls a trust created by my father. If Gabriel is alive, he may have a claim.”
“How much?”
Vincent looked almost embarrassed.
“Approximately $400 million.”
Chelsea blinked.
“I withdraw every complaint I have ever made about my rent.”
Marco almost laughed.
Vincent did not.
“It isn’t the money,” Vincent said.
“What is it?”
“Control.”
A phone rang.
Marco answered.
His expression turned grim.
“Hospital.”
Vincent stood.
“Gianni?”
Marco nodded.
“He’s awake.”
Gianni Moretti occupied a private hospital floor guarded by armed men.
Chelsea insisted on coming.
Vincent argued.
Chelsea won by getting into the SUV and refusing to get out.
“You are impossible,” he said.
“You’ve mentioned that.”
Inside the hospital room, Gianni looked smaller than Chelsea expected.
Oxygen tubing beneath his nose.
Gray skin.
Hands thin beneath blankets.
But his eyes remained sharp.
They moved immediately to Chelsea.
“Isabella?”
Vincent froze.
Chelsea stepped back.
“No. My name is Chelsea.”
Gianni blinked.
Recognition returned.
Then fear.
“You brought her here?”
“She insisted.”
Gianni looked at Vincent.
“You never could control women.”
Chelsea muttered, “Finally, a man who understands.”
Vincent gave her a look.
Gianni coughed.
“Gabriel is alive.”
Vincent moved closer.
“You knew?”
Gianni’s eyes closed.
“For years.”
Vincent’s restraint cracked.
“You knew?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I helped him disappear.”
Vincent grabbed the bed rail.
“After he killed Isabella?”
Gianni’s eyes opened sharply.
“Gabriel didn’t kill Isabella.”
Silence.
Vincent’s face drained.
“Then who did?”
Gianni began struggling for breath.
The monitor quickened.
Chelsea reached for the nurse button.
Gianni grabbed Vincent’s wrist.
“Your father.”
Vincent stopped breathing.
“My father was dead.”
Gianni shook his head.
“Order… came before.”
Vincent stared.
Gianni forced out the words.
“Isabella found the books.”
“What books?”
“The real accounts.”
Marco stepped closer.
Gianni looked terrified now.
“She knew what your father built. Judges. Police. Contracts. Everything.”
Vincent whispered, “My father ordered her death?”
Gianni’s eyes filled with shame.
“He ordered mine too.”
The monitor screamed.
Doctors rushed in.
Vincent was pulled away.
Chelsea followed him into the hallway.
He walked ten feet.
Then punched the wall.
Once.
Twice.
Chelsea grabbed his arm.
“Stop.”
He pulled away.
“My father killed her.”
“We don’t know everything yet.”
“He killed my wife and child.”
“Vincent.”
“I spent seven years blaming Gabriel.”
His voice broke.
It was the first crack Chelsea had ever heard.
“I hated him.”
“You were given a lie.”
“I wanted him dead.”
Chelsea reached for him.
Vincent stepped back.
“Don’t.”
She stopped.
His eyes were wet, and he hated her seeing it.
Chelsea spoke quietly.
“You don’t have to be invincible every second.”
“In my world, yes, I do.”
“Then your world is terrible.”
A laugh escaped him.
Broken.
Chelsea moved closer.
This time he did not stop her.
She wrapped her arms around him.
For several seconds, Vincent remained rigid.
Then his forehead rested against her hair.
His hands closed around her back.
Not possession.
Not desire.
Need.
Marco deliberately turned away.
Chelsea whispered, “We’ll find the truth.”
Vincent closed his eyes.
“We?”
“Yes.”
“You should be running.”
“I tried that once. My shoes hurt.”
His breath shook with something almost resembling a laugh.
Then the hospital alarm sounded.
Marco touched his earpiece.
His face changed.
“Boss.”
Vincent straightened.
“What?”
“Security breach downstairs.”
A gunshot echoed from the stairwell.
Marco drew his weapon.
Another shot.
Then smoke began pouring into the corridor.
Someone screamed.
Vincent grabbed Chelsea.
“Emergency stairs. Now.”
They ran.
The fire suppression system erupted overhead.
Water drenched them.
Security guards rushed past.
Chelsea slipped.
Vincent caught her.
They reached the stairwell.
A man stepped from the shadows.
Tall.
Dark coat.
Gun pointed directly at Vincent.
Chelsea froze.
Vincent froze too.
The man slowly lowered the weapon.
His face resembled Vincent’s enough that no introduction was necessary.
Gabriel Moretti smiled sadly.
“Hello, brother.”
Vincent stared at the ghost he had mourned.
Gabriel’s eyes shifted toward Chelsea.
His expression softened in a way that terrified her.
“You found her again.”
Chelsea moved behind Vincent.
Vincent said, “Stay away from her.”
Gabriel smiled.
“You still think this story is about you.”
Then he raised the gun.
Not toward Vincent.
Toward the ceiling behind them.
He fired.
A hidden shooter collapsed from the landing above.
Chelsea gasped.
Gabriel stepped backward into the smoke.
Vincent shouted, “Gabriel!”
His brother paused.
“If you want to know who killed Isabella,” Gabriel said, “stop trusting Marco.”
Then he vanished.
Vincent slowly turned.
Marco stood at the bottom of the stairwell.
May you like
Weapon in hand.
And for the first time in twenty years, Vincent looked at his closest friend as though he might be an enemy.
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