Chapter 3 - THE WOMAN IN THE PHOTOGRAPH
The Moretti estate didn't look like the home of a criminal empire.
That was the first thing that surprised me.
There were no armed men standing beneath giant stone lions.
No gold gates.
No ridiculous statues.
The house sat behind walls in Lake Forest, surrounded by old trees and gardens that looked almost too peaceful.
Toby had been discharged shortly before dawn with medication, two new inhalers, and strict instructions.
He slept against my shoulder during the drive.
Lorenzo sat across from us.
He barely spoke.
But his men did.
Quietly.
Into phones.
The threatening message had changed everything.
By the time we reached the estate, security had doubled.
A woman in her sixties named Rosa showed us upstairs.
“Toby can stay in this room,” she said.
The bedroom was bigger than our entire apartment.
Toby woke enough to stare at the television built into the wall.
“Sophie.”
“What?”
“Are we kidnapped?”
Rosa nearly choked.
I closed my eyes.
“No.”
Lorenzo, standing in the doorway, said, “Not technically.”
I glared at him.
Toby grinned.
That was the first time I realized my little brother liked Lorenzo.
Which felt like a personal betrayal.
After Toby went back to sleep, I found Isabella downstairs in a sunroom.
She was wearing a blue robe and drinking tea.
“You should be resting,” I said.
“So should you.”
I sat across from her.
Morning light filled the room.
Without the gala, without the velvet dress and terrified crowd, Isabella looked smaller.
Fragile.
But her eyes were intelligent.
Sharper than before.
“Do you remember what happened last night?”
Her hands tightened slightly around the cup.
“Most of it.”
“You said the floor moved.”
“It does sometimes.”
“Vertigo?”
“Perhaps.”
Something in the way she answered bothered me.
“You've seen doctors?”
“Many.”
“And?”
“They say I'm getting old.”
“That isn't a diagnosis.”
Isabella smiled.
“No. It isn't.”
Footsteps entered behind me.
Lorenzo.
“Mama.”
“I know that tone.”
“You were supposed to stay upstairs.”
“I have spent seventy-two years disappointing controlling men. I see no reason to stop.”
I hid a smile.
Lorenzo noticed.
“Something funny?”
“Nothing.”
“Good.”
Isabella reached for my hand.
“Sophie, would you have breakfast with me?”
Lorenzo sighed.
“She has been awake all night.”
“So have you.”
“I work well without sleep.”
“You become unbearable without sleep.”
I looked away before he caught me smiling again.
Breakfast became two hours.
Isabella told me about immigrating to Chicago as a child.
About her late husband.
About Lorenzo refusing piano lessons at age nine.
“I broke one piano,” Lorenzo said from across the room.
“You pushed it down the stairs.”
“It was a terrible piano.”
I laughed.
Lorenzo stared at me.
Not angrily.
Almost curiously.
Then a man entered.
Early forties.
Expensive gray suit.
Dark hair slicked back.
He carried himself like someone used to being obeyed.
“Lorenzo.”
Lorenzo’s expression cooled.
“Victor.”
Victor Moretti.
Lorenzo's cousin and second-in-command.
His gaze moved toward me.
“So this is the waitress.”
I hated the way he said it.
I stood.
“Sophie Clark.”
“I know.”
Lorenzo looked at him.
Victor smiled faintly.
“Everyone knows.”
He placed a newspaper on the table.
My picture was on the front page.
WAITRESS CONFRONTS SENATOR’S WIFE AT MORETTI GALA.
My stomach dropped.
There was a photograph of Beatrice pointing at me.
Another of Lorenzo standing beside Isabella.
The article described me as “the mystery woman suddenly embraced by Chicago’s controversial Moretti family.”
Mystery woman.
I was twenty-six, broke, and owned three pairs of jeans.
There was nothing mysterious about me.
“This is bad,” I said.
Victor looked amused.
“You have no idea.”
Lorenzo picked up the paper.
“Who leaked her name?”
“Working on it.”
“Work faster.”
Victor’s gaze returned to me.
“She should leave.”
I stiffened.
Lorenzo did too.
“Excuse me?”
“She’s a liability.”
“She's a civilian.”
“Exactly.”
Victor stepped closer.
“Charles Vane has spent ten years waiting for something he can use against you. Now his wife humiliates Aunt Isabella, some waitress becomes a hero, and suddenly every news outlet in Chicago is asking why Lorenzo Moretti cares about Sophie Clark.”
“I care because she did what everyone else was too cowardly to do.”
Victor shrugged.
“That isn't how newspapers sell stories.”
Isabella set down her tea.
“Enough.”
Victor softened.
“Aunt Isabella—”
“I said enough.”
He nodded.
Then looked at me once more.
“I hope you understand what you've walked into.”
“I didn't walk into anything.”
His smile was unsettling.
“No. You were pulled.”
After he left, I turned to Lorenzo.
“I want to go home.”
“No.”
“There are reporters outside my building. Fine. I'll stay somewhere else.”
“No.”
“You cannot keep saying no.”
“I can.”
“You're not my boss.”
“Correct.”
“Then stop acting like you own me.”
The room went quiet.
Even Isabella looked interested.
Lorenzo stepped closer.
“I don't own people.”
“Could've fooled me.”
His jaw tightened.
“I am trying to keep you alive.”
“From who?”
“When I know, you will.”
“That isn't good enough.”
“It's what I have.”
I turned away.
And that was when I saw the photograph.
It was sitting on a shelf near the window.
Old.
Faded.
A younger Isabella stood beside another woman.
A woman with blonde hair.
A woman whose face made the room spin.
I picked up the frame.
“Who is this?”
Isabella looked over.
Her expression changed instantly.
“Sophie?”
My mouth went dry.
The woman in the photograph was younger.
But I knew those eyes.
That smile.
I had seen them every day of my childhood.
“That’s my mother.”
Lorenzo went completely still.
“What?”
I pointed.
“This woman. Her name was Margaret Clark.”
Isabella’s cup slipped from her fingers.
It shattered on the floor.
Rosa rushed in.
Nobody moved.
Isabella stared at me as if she'd seen a ghost.
“No,” she whispered.
I felt suddenly cold.
“What?”
She stood too quickly.
Lorenzo caught her elbow.
“Mama.”
But Isabella was staring at me.
“Your mother was Margaret?”
“Yes.”
“Margaret Clark?”
“Yes.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-six.”
Tears appeared in Isabella’s eyes.
Lorenzo looked between us.
“What is going on?”
Isabella pressed one hand against her mouth.
Then she crossed the space between us and touched my face.
Her fingers trembled.
“I thought she was dead.”
“She is.”
“No.”
Isabella shook her head.
“I mean before.”
I couldn't breathe.
“What are you talking about?”
She looked at Lorenzo.
Something passed between them.
Fear.
History.
A secret.
“Tell her,” I demanded.
Isabella sank into the chair.
“Twenty-seven years ago, your mother worked for our family.”
My pulse raced.
“She never told me that.”
“She wasn't a servant.”
Isabella looked at the photograph.
“She was an accountant.”
Lorenzo frowned.
“For my father?”
“Yes.”
“Why have I never heard of her?”
Isabella’s face crumpled.
“Because your father ordered her name erased.”
The air left the room.
I stared at her.
“Why?”
She looked at me.
“Because Margaret discovered something she wasn't supposed to discover.”
Lorenzo’s voice turned deadly calm.
“What?”
Isabella hesitated.
Then whispered, “The Vane family.”
I felt my stomach twist.
“What about them?”
Before Isabella could answer, glass exploded behind us.
Lorenzo moved faster than I thought possible.
He grabbed me and threw us both to the floor.
A second gunshot ripped through the window.
Rosa screamed.
Security men flooded the hallway.
Lorenzo covered me with his body.
Another shot struck the wall.
Then silence.
His breath was against my ear.
“Stay down.”
I couldn't move.
Across the floor, broken glass glittered around the old photograph.
One bullet had passed directly through Margaret Clark's face.
Lorenzo saw it.
So did Isabella.
And suddenly the threatening message from the night before made sense.
This wasn't about a spilled glass of wine.
It had never been about Beatrice's dress.
Someone had recognized me.
May you like
Someone knew who my mother was.
And they were terrified that I might discover why she had spent most of her life running from the Moretti family.
