Chapter 3 - THE WOMAN IN THE PHOTOGRAPH
I spent the next hour searching for the woman in the photograph.
Her name was Isabella Moretti.
She had been thirty-one when she died.
The newspapers described her as a financial consultant, a philanthropist, and the daughter of a respected Brooklyn businessman.
They also described her as Vincent DeLuca's former fiancée.
Four years earlier, Isabella had died in a car explosion outside a Manhattan parking garage.
The police investigation had never resulted in a conviction.
One article suggested organized crime involvement.
Another implied Vincent's enemies had targeted her.
A third suggested she had been connected to financial wrongdoing.
None agreed on what happened.
I stared at the screen until the words blurred.
My mother came into the room carrying fresh tea.
"What's wrong?"
I showed her.
She read the message slowly.
Then sat beside me.
"Do you think Vincent sent this?"
"No."
"Then why would you trust whoever did?"
I looked at her.
"Because sometimes strangers tell the truth."
"Sometimes," she agreed. "And sometimes they know exactly which truth will frighten you."
I didn't have an answer.
At noon, Vincent called.
I considered ignoring him.
Instead, I answered.
"Hello?"
"Emily."
His voice was unmistakable.
Low.
Careful.
"Did the flowers arrive?"
"Yes."
A pause.
"Was that inappropriate?"
"No. The flowers were fine."
He waited.
I swallowed.
"Who was Isabella Moretti?"
Silence.
Not the comfortable kind.
The kind that made me sit up straighter.
"Where did you hear that name?"
"Someone sent me a photograph."
His voice sharpened.
"What else?"
"A warning."
Another pause.
Then he asked, "Are you and your mother safe?"
I stared at the wall.
"Vincent, don't do that."
"Do what?"
"Answer a question about your past by making me afraid of my present."
He exhaled.
"You're right."
I waited.
"Isabella was going to marry me," he said.
"And?"
"She died four years ago."
"How?"
"A bomb was placed beneath her car."
My stomach twisted.
"Did someone want to hurt her because of you?"
"Yes."
He didn't hesitate.
That frightened me more than a denial would have.
"I've spent four years wishing I'd been the one who got into that car."
I closed my eyes.
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. You asked a fair question."
Then his voice softened.
"Emily, whoever sent you that photograph is trying to scare you away from me."
"Maybe I should be scared."
"Maybe you should."
I hadn't expected that answer.
"Then why are you calling?"
"Because you deserve the truth, even if you decide you never want to see me again."
That afternoon, I met him in the public lounge of a hotel near Columbus Circle.
I chose the location.
I told my mother where I was going.
And I made it clear that I would leave whenever I wanted.
Vincent arrived alone.
No bodyguards at the table.
No entourage.
Just a man in a charcoal sweater who looked as though he hadn't slept.
He sat across from me.
"Isabella discovered someone was using companies connected to mine to move stolen money."
I stared.
"Whose money?"
"Municipal development funds. Pension investments. Construction payments."
"Who was responsible?"
"We never proved it."
"Did you know it was happening?"
His expression tightened.
"Not at first."
"And later?"
"I knew enough to suspect. Not enough to stop it before she died."
I studied him.
"You were part of that world."
"Yes."
"Are you still?"
He looked down.
"I'm trying to leave it."
I shook my head.
"Trying isn't the same as leaving."
"No," he said. "It isn't."
For a long moment, neither of us spoke.
Then he reached into his coat and placed a folded newspaper clipping on the table.
It showed Isabella standing outside a community clinic.
"She was helping investigate the missing funds. Some of the money had been intended for hospitals and low-income housing."
I looked at the photograph.
The woman was smiling at a little boy.
"She looks kind."
"She was."
Vincent swallowed.
"And brave enough to tell me when I was wrong."
Something in his expression made me believe him.
But belief wasn't the same as trust.
I stood.
"I need time."
He nodded.
"Take it."
I started toward the exit.
Then stopped.
"Vincent?"
He looked up.
"Who sent me that photograph?"
His expression darkened.
"I don't know."
But I could tell he suspected someone.
And when I returned home that evening, another message was waiting.
HE HASN'T TOLD YOU ABOUT THE MONEY YOUR MOTHER RECEIVED.
Below it was a bank transaction.
A payment of twelve thousand dollars.
Sent four months earlier.
May you like
From a company owned by Vincent DeLuca.
To my mother.
