Chapter 6 - THE WOMAN WHO KNEW TOO MUCH
Clara woke at 3:42 in the morning.
She was terrified.
Not injured badly enough to explain why she had been abandoned unconscious outside Vale’s clinic, but drugged, confused, and certain someone was waiting to kill her.
I went to the hospital under an assumed visitor registration with Dante and a legitimate attorney.
I wanted Clara safe.
I also wanted the truth recorded properly.
The old Marco Rossi would have taken her somewhere private and demanded answers.
Elena’s voice kept repeating in my mind.
Listen before you act.
So I listened.
Clara cried before she spoke.
“I loved Isabella.”
I sat across from her hospital bed.
“Then tell me why you poisoned her.”
“I didn’t know.”
“You poured medicine into her drinks.”
“Dr. Vale told me it prevented muscle spasms.”
“It wasn’t on her chart.”
“He said you didn’t want staff questioning treatment.”
The excuse made me sick because it sounded like me.
My reputation had helped them.
People were afraid to question anything associated with my name.
Even when the thing being done was wrong.
“Who gave you the bottles?”
“Vale.”
“Who paid you?”
Her eyes lowered.
“Enzo.”
Dante shifted beside the door.
“For how long?”
“Two years.”
I forced myself not to react.
Clara started sobbing.
“He said the medication was expensive and insurance records would create attention. He paid me separately for helping.”
“How much?”
“Five hundred dollars a week.”
My daughter’s stolen childhood had cost Enzo five hundred dollars a week.
“Why did you run?”
“Yesterday, Vale called me. He said Mr. Enzo wanted me gone.”
“Gone where?”
“I thought he meant another job.”
She looked at me.
“Then someone grabbed me in the parking garage.”
“Did you see who?”
“No.”
“Did you hear anything?”
“A name.”
“What name?”
“Rosa.”
Sophia inhaled.
Clara continued.
“The man driving said, ‘This is what should’ve happened to Rosa the first time.’”
Sophia turned away.
I saw her shoulders shake.
Her mother had not died from natural causes.
Not if Clara had heard correctly.
“When they left you at the clinic,” Dante asked, “why?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did they say anything else?”
Clara closed her eyes.
“One man told the other, ‘The old man wants the girl next.’”
My entire body went cold.
“What girl?”
“I don’t know.”
But I did.
Emma.
Enzo knew Emma had the charm.
He knew Rosa had passed something to her.
And he assumed the child knew more.
We returned to the estate before sunrise.
Sophia went straight to the children.
I followed.
Emma was sleeping sideways across Isabella’s bed, one sock missing.
Isabella was awake.
“Daddy?”
“I’m here.”
“Are you angry?”
The question surprised me.
“No.”
“You look angry.”
I sat beside her.
“I’m scared.”
She studied me.
“You’re never scared.”
That almost made me smile.
“Everybody gets scared.”
“Even you?”
“Especially me.”
“Why?”
I touched her hair.
“Because I have more to lose now.”
She glanced at Emma.
“Her too?”
I looked at the three-year-old curled beside my daughter.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“What’s good?”
“You should keep them.”
My throat tightened.
“People aren’t pets, Isabella.”
“I know.”
She smiled sleepily.
“I mean keep them safe.”
I kissed her forehead.
“That I can do.”
But I wasn’t sure.
At seven, we moved Sophia and Emma into protected rooms in the central wing.
Dante doubled security.
Luca began tracing Enzo’s money.
I called the independent trustee named in Elena’s amendment.
Margaret Sloan.
She was seventy-two, retired, and furious that no one had contacted her after Elena died.
“I never received notice of her death,” she said.
“That was on every newspaper in New York.”
“I know. I mean legal notice.”
“Why would you need it?”
“Because Elena instructed her attorney to notify me if she died.”
“Did the attorney?”
“No.”
“Who was the attorney?”
“Samuel Price.”
I knew the name.
He had died in a boating accident six months after Elena.
Another convenient death.
Margaret continued.
“She also gave me a sealed copy of Isabella’s trust amendment.”
My pulse quickened.
“You still have it?”
A pause.
“No.”
“What?”
“My office was burglarized two years ago. Only one box was taken.”
Isabella’s.
“Did you keep another copy?”
“Yes.”
Hope returned.
“Where?”
“Safe deposit facility in Connecticut.”
“Can you access it?”
“I can.”
“Do it today.”
“I already tried.”
Silence.
“What happened?”
“The account was frozen this morning.”
I stood.
“By whom?”
“A court petition.”
“From?”
She sounded grim.
“Enzo Rossi.”
The old man was moving faster than I expected.
He had filed a petition claiming I was mentally unstable after years of grief and violence, unable to responsibly administer Isabella’s assets.
If he could invalidate Elena’s amendment or prove it defective, he intended to revive the old trust.
It was no longer only a family war.
He was taking it into court.
Where bullets were useless.
That afternoon, Isabella began formal evaluation with Dr. Pierce’s team.
She could move both feet.
Bend her right knee.
Slightly contract muscles in her left thigh.
Small movements.
To me, they were mountains moving.
Emma sat beside the therapy mat.
“Again.”
Isabella groaned.
“I’m tired.”
“Again.”
“You sound like my teacher.”
“I’m three.”
“That doesn’t make it better.”
Emma held out a stuffed rabbit.
“Mr. Bun says again.”
Isabella laughed.
Then tried.
Her right heel slid four inches.
The therapists clapped.
I didn’t.
I couldn’t.
I was afraid if I reacted too much, the moment would disappear.
Sophia stood beside me.
“You can smile.”
“I am.”
“No, you’re doing the face.”
“What face?”
“The terrifying one.”
I looked at her.
For the first time, she smiled at me.
It reminded me of Elena.
Not because they looked identical.
They didn’t.
Because the smile contained the same refusal to be intimidated.
Then an alarm sounded.
Dante’s voice blasted through the hallway.
“LOCK THE EAST WING.”
Sophia turned.
“Emma?”
I looked toward the therapy room.
Empty chair.
Stuffed rabbit on the floor.
Emma was gone.
Sophia screamed her name.
We searched the corridor.
The bathroom.
The adjoining rooms.
Nothing.
A security guard came running.
“Mr. Rossi!”
“What?”
“We found this at the service elevator.”
Emma’s red knitted cap.
Sophia took it with shaking hands.
Attached to the cap was a folded piece of paper.
One sentence.
BRING ME ELENA’S BOX, OR THE CHILD DOESN’T COME HOME.
Sophia collapsed against the wall.
I stared at the note.
Then Isabella spoke behind me.
“Daddy.”
I turned.
She was sitting on the edge of the therapy table.
Pale.
Terrified.
But her eyes were focused.
“Emma didn’t go in the elevator.”
Everyone stopped.
“How do you know?”
Isabella pointed toward the floor.
“She taught me a game.”
“What game?”
“Leaving clues.”
She pointed again.
Near the baseboard lay three tiny rosemary leaves.
Then another three farther down the corridor.
Emma had left us a trail.
May you like
And it led directly toward the oldest part of the mansion.
Toward a section of the house that had been sealed since my grandfather died.
