Chapter 3 - THE BLACK CARD WAS NEVER AN ACCIDENT
I woke inside a room I had never seen before.
For three terrifying seconds, I forgot where I was.
Then pain brought everything back.
My arm.
The bathroom.
My husband.
Vincent.
The hospital.
The photograph.
I sat up.
My left arm was immobilized.
A woman sleeping in a chair beside the window opened her eyes.
“Easy.”
I stared at her.
She was perhaps fifty.
Dark hair threaded with silver.
“Who are you?”
“Maria.”
“Where am I?”
“A safe place.”
“That is not an address.”
She smiled.
“I like you already.”
I did not smile back.
“Where is Vincent?”
“Downstairs.”
I pushed the blanket away.
Maria stood.
“You just had surgery.”
“I need to leave.”
“Where?”
I stopped.
She had me there.
Maria poured water.
“Mr. Moretti said you could leave whenever you wanted.”
“He did?”
“Yes.”
“He also said if you tried before the anesthesia wore off, I should explain that falling down a staircase would make him extremely unpleasant.”
Despite myself, I laughed.
It hurt my ribs.
Maria smiled.
“Drink.”
I did.
The house was not what I expected.
No marble palace.
No gold statues.
No men standing around polishing guns.
It was an old brownstone in Brooklyn.
Beautiful, but quiet.
Warm.
Books everywhere.
Family photographs on the walls.
I found Vincent in the kitchen making coffee.
That shocked me more than anything.
“You make your own coffee?”
He looked over his shoulder.
“I’ve been known to perform several basic human functions.”
“You don’t look like you do.”
“Good morning to you too.”
He poured me a cup.
Then stopped.
“Medication?”
“What?”
“Can you drink coffee with it?”
“I think so.”
He frowned.
“You think?”
“I’ve survived twenty-nine years without medical supervision at breakfast.”
“Recent evidence suggests your survival instincts need work.”
I stared at him.
Then he almost smiled.
Almost.
I sat.
“Where’s my husband?”
“His name is Eric.”
“I know his name.”
“You keep calling him your husband.”
My fingers tightened around the mug.
“He is.”
“For now.”
Something about the words felt strange.
Not possessive.
Certain.
Like Vincent could already see a future I could not.
“Where is Eric?”
“Missing.”
I stared at him.
“What did you do?”
“Nothing.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“Yes.”
“You’re Vincent Moretti.”
“I’m aware.”
“People are afraid of you.”
“I’m aware of that too.”
“And Eric disappeared hours after threatening me.”
Vincent sat opposite me.
“If I had taken your husband, Lena, I would not insult you by pretending otherwise.”
That answer should not have reassured me.
It did.
“Then where is he?”
“I’m trying to find out.”
“Why?”
“Because whoever got him out of jail wanted him available.”
“For what?”
Vincent’s eyes remained on mine.
“To get to me.”
I slowly set down the mug.
“Through me?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Neither did I.”
He reached into a folder.
Inside was a photograph of Eric.
Older.
Maybe twenty-two.
Standing beside three men outside a nightclub.
One was Vincent.
I stared.
“You know him.”
“I met him once.”
“You said—”
“I didn’t recognize him at your apartment.”
“How?”
“It was eleven years ago.”
He tapped another man in the photograph.
“Anthony Carbone.”
“Who is he?”
“Dead.”
“Useful.”
Vincent ignored that.
“His brother, Salvatore, currently controls most of what remains of the Carbone organization.”
The word organization sounded deliberately vague.
I looked at Vincent.
“Say mafia.”
His eyebrows rose.
“What?”
“If we’re doing this, don’t talk to me like I’m stupid.”
Something changed in his expression.
“Fair.”
He leaned back.
“The Carbones and my family have been enemies for twenty years.”
I swallowed.
“And Eric?”
“Worked for Anthony.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“He’s an accountant.”
“He launders money.”
I stood so quickly the room tilted.
Vincent caught my good arm.
I jerked away.
“Don’t.”
He released me instantly.
That mattered.
“I’m sorry.”
I steadied myself against the table.
“You’re wrong.”
“I wish I were.”
“He goes to an office.”
“Yes.”
“He has clients.”
“Yes.”
“He has business cards.”
Vincent almost looked sympathetic.
“Criminals have excellent printers.”
I glared at him.
He pushed another document toward me.
Bank transfers.
Companies I didn’t recognize.
Then I saw my name.
LENA HART.
My married name.
“What is this?”
“An account opened eighteen months ago.”
“I didn’t open it.”
“I know.”
“There’s three million dollars in it.”
“Three-point-four.”
My mouth went dry.
“Eric used my name?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“If authorities discovered it, you became the owner.”
I stared at the page.
“He was setting me up.”
“Possibly.”
Five years.
Five years of marriage.
I had believed the worst thing Eric could do was hit me.
I had been wrong.
“When did you learn this?”
“Last night.”
“After the hospital?”
“Yes.”
“Why did you give me your card months ago?”
Vincent became silent.
There it was.
The question I had been avoiding.
He looked toward the window.
“Because I saw your wrist.”
I remembered that night.
I had worn long sleeves.
“He left bruises.”
“I know.”
“You saw them?”
“When you reached for my coffee.”
I looked down.
“So you gave every bruised waitress your number?”
“No.”
“Then why me?”
Vincent’s jaw tightened.
“Because your name was familiar.”
My heart slowed.
“From Eric?”
“No.”
“Then from where?”
He reached into the folder again.
This time the photograph was older.
A woman stood beside a much younger Vincent.
She had my eyes.
My mouth.
My hair.
I stopped breathing.
“That’s my mother.”
Vincent nodded.
My mother had died when I was twelve.
At least that was what I had been told.
“What are you doing with a picture of my mother?”
Vincent’s answer came quietly.
“Her name wasn’t Rebecca Brooks.”
I stared at him.
“Yes, it was.”
“No.”
“Who the hell are you to tell me my mother’s name?”
“Her name was Rebecca Moretti.”
Everything inside me stopped.
I laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because the alternative was screaming.
“No.”
“Lena.”
“No.”
“She was my sister.”
The kitchen disappeared around me.
Vincent Moretti.
The black card.
The diner.
The strange way he had remembered my name.
My mother.
“No.”
“She left New York when you were six.”
“My mother had no brother.”
“She had two.”
I stepped backward.
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re saying you’re my…”
“Uncle.”
The word hit harder than Eric ever had.
I stared at him.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I wasn’t certain when I first saw you.”
“But you became certain.”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Two weeks after I gave you the card.”
“Months ago.”
“Yes.”
My eyes filled.
“You knew for months.”
“Yes.”
“And you said nothing.”
“I didn’t know whether you wanted anything to do with this family.”
“You never gave me the choice!”
My voice echoed through the kitchen.
Vincent accepted it.
“You’re right.”
“You watched me keep going home to him.”
“I didn’t know how bad it was.”
“You saw the bruises!”
“I saw one bruise.”
“That should have been enough!”
His face tightened.
“You’re right.”
I hated how easily he said it.
No excuse.
No argument.
It gave my anger nowhere to go.
“Why did my mother leave?”
Vincent looked toward the photograph.
“Because of me.”
I froze.
“She wanted out. I wouldn’t let her go cleanly.”
“What does that mean?”
“I told her if she left, she was dead to the family.”
My throat tightened.
“She chose you.”
“Me?”
“You.”
He looked at me.
“She chose giving you a normal childhood over being a Moretti.”
I sat down because my knees would no longer hold me.
“Did my father know?”
“Yes.”
“Is he really dead?”
“Yes.”
“And Mom?”
Vincent hesitated.
That hesitation terrified me.
“Vincent.”
He looked at me.
“Your mother didn’t die in the car accident you were told about.”
My fingers went cold.
“What?”
“She was killed.”
I could barely speak.
“By who?”
“We never proved it.”
“Carbone?”
“That’s what I believed.”
“Believed?”
Vincent’s phone rang.
He ignored it.
Then mine rang upstairs.
Maria appeared in the doorway holding it.
“Lena.”
She looked worried.
“It’s the police.”
I answered.
Detective Walsh introduced himself.
“Mrs. Hart, we found your husband.”
My stomach tightened.
“Where?”
“Queens.”
“Is he alive?”
“Yes.”
Relief came automatically.
I hated myself for it.
“He walked into a precinct about twenty minutes ago.”
“Why?”
“He says Vincent Moretti kidnapped you.”
I looked at Vincent.
Walsh continued.
“And he says you’re being held against your will.”
I almost laughed.
Of course.
Of course Eric had found a way to turn himself into the victim.
“I’m not.”
“We need to hear that from you in person.”
“I’ll come.”
Vincent shook his head.
I ignored him.
Then Detective Walsh said something else.
“Mrs. Hart, there’s another issue.”
“What?”
“Your husband claims Moretti killed your mother.”
I stared at Vincent.
He became completely still.
“What?”
May you like
Walsh continued.
“He says he can prove it.”
