Chapter 2 - THE HOUSE SHE REFUSED TO LEAVE
“You’re not leaving this house while you’re carrying my son.”
Claire looked at Vincent for several seconds.
Then she glanced down at the wedding ring sitting beside his espresso.
“You keep saying ‘my son’ as if that makes him your property.”
Vincent’s expression hardened.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“It’s exactly what you meant.”
She turned toward the door.
Vincent moved in front of it.
Not aggressively.
Not yet.
But deliberately.
Claire stopped.
“Move.”
“Claire, you’re eight months pregnant.”
“Thirty-five weeks.”
“I know.”
“Then you know I can walk.”
His eyes narrowed.
“You’re emotional.”
She almost laughed.
“No. I’m finally clear.”
For four years, Claire had learned to read Vincent Moretti better than anyone alive.
She knew the slight movement of his jaw meant anger.
She knew the quietness in his voice meant he was trying not to lose control.
And she knew the way he was standing now meant he was afraid.
Not of losing her.
Of losing control of her.
Claire looked past him toward the hallway.
“I’m going upstairs.”
“You’re staying here.”
“No.”
“Claire.”
She reached for the doorknob.
Vincent caught her wrist.
The movement was quick.
Claire looked down at his hand.
Then up at his face.
He released her immediately.
Something changed in his eyes.
For the first time that night, he seemed to realize how far he had gone.
Claire rubbed her wrist.
“You should never touch me like that again.”
“I’m sorry.”
The apology came quickly.
Too quickly.
Claire nodded.
“Good.”
She opened the door.
Then stopped.
On the hallway table sat a small cream-colored box.
She recognized it.
The box had belonged to her mother.
Claire walked toward it.
“Where did this come from?”
Vincent went still.
“That?”
“Yes.”
“I don't know.”
Claire picked it up.
The lid was slightly open.
Inside was an old silver watch.
Her mother's watch.
Claire hadn't seen it since the funeral six years earlier.
She looked at Vincent.
“How did this get here?”
He didn't answer.
“Vincent.”
“I found it in storage.”
“You knew this was mine.”
“Yes.”
“And you didn't give it to me?”
“I was going to.”
“When?”
He looked away.
Claire opened the watch.
A tiny photograph was tucked behind the clock face.
She pulled it out.
Her mother stood outside a hospital.
Beside her was a young man Claire didn't recognize.
On the back was a date.
October 14, 1991.
And one sentence.
Trust no one who tells you the Moretti family saved you.
Claire stared at the words.
“What is this?”
Vincent's expression changed.
“Give me that.”
She stepped backward.
“No.”
“Claire.”
“Who is this man?”
Vincent didn't answer.
She looked closer at the photograph.
The man wore a dark coat.
There was a small scar beneath his left eye.
She had seen that face before.
In one of Vincent's old family albums.
His father.
Giovanni Moretti.
Claire's stomach tightened.
“Why was my mother photographed with your father?”
Vincent's silence was answer enough.
She closed the watch.
“I’m taking this.”
“Fine.”
She turned.
Then the baby moved sharply.
Claire stopped and placed a hand over her stomach.
Vincent's eyes softened instinctively.
“He’s moving.”
“Yes.”
“Let me—”
“No.”
The softness disappeared.
Claire walked away.
Behind her, Vincent said quietly,
“You don't understand what that photograph means.”
She stopped.
“Then explain it.”
“I can't.”
“Why?”
“Because if you know what happened in 1991, you’ll understand why Vanessa was never the real problem.”
Claire turned slowly.
“What did you just say?”
Vincent looked at her.
“Vanessa was a mistake.”
“An expensive one.”
“Yes.”
“But the necklace?”
His jaw tightened.
“That was business.”
Claire stared.
“Business?”
“Vanessa is connected to someone I needed access to.”
“You slept with someone for business?”
Vincent didn't answer.
Claire felt sick.
But beneath the disgust was something worse.
Fear.
“What are you involved in?”
Vincent looked toward the windows.
The East River glittered beneath Manhattan's lights.
“Things I kept away from you.”
“I’m your wife.”
“I know.”
“You don't get to decide what I can survive knowing.”
He looked at her.
“I was trying to protect you.”
“From what?”
Before he could answer, footsteps sounded in the hallway.
An older man appeared.
Salvatore Moretti.
Vincent's uncle.
He looked at Claire.
Then at the watch in her hand.
His face changed.
“Where did you get that?”
Claire raised it.
“It belonged to my mother.”
Salvatore's eyes narrowed.
“Who gave it to you?”
“It was in Vincent's office.”
Salvatore looked at Vincent.
“You told me she didn't know.”
Claire's heart stopped.
“Didn't know what?”
Neither man answered.
Salvatore cursed under his breath.
Then he looked directly at Claire.
“Your mother wasn't a stranger to this family.”
Claire felt cold.
“What was she?”
Salvatore's voice lowered.
“She was the reason your father died.”
Silence.
Claire's hand moved instinctively to her belly.
Vincent stepped toward her.
“Uncle.”
But Salvatore continued.
“And if Claire has that photograph, someone has already started looking for what your mother hid.”
Claire looked at the watch.
“What did she hide?”
Salvatore's eyes met hers.
“The evidence that could destroy the Moretti empire.”
Then, from somewhere downstairs, a glass shattered.
Everyone froze.
Vincent reached inside his jacket.
Claire stared at him.
May you like
And Salvatore whispered,
“They found you.”
