Chapter 3: What Teresa Left Behind
Vincent guided me out of the ballroom with one hand at my back, not touching, just close enough that the crowd parted without a word.
The guests watched us go.
Nobody moved.
Nobody spoke.
He led me down a long corridor lined with dark wood paneling and into a private study at the far end of Belladonna House.
One of his guards closed the door behind us.
Another positioned himself outside.
Vincent went to the window.
He stood there a moment with his back to me.
"Sit down," he said.
"Please."
I sat on the edge of a leather chair, still in my maid's uniform, champagne drying on my apron.
My hands were folded in my lap to keep them from shaking.
He turned around.
"How old are you?"
"Twenty-three."
Something moved across his face.
He looked away briefly, then back.
"Elena d*ed twenty-eight years ago.
In February." He paused.
"You would have been born that same month."
"I was born February ninth," I said.
He sat down across from me.
For a long moment he just looked at the locket, still resting against my uniform.
"Tell me about your mother," he said.
"Teresa."
I took a breath.
"She raised me alone.
We moved a lot when I was young.
She worked cleaning jobs, mostly.
Hotels, offices.
She never talked about where she came from." I paused.
"She d*ed four years ago.
Lung cancer.
She was fifty-one."
"Did she ever mention the name Moretti?"
"No."
"Did she ever mention Elena?"
"No."
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
"Did she leave you anything?
When she passed?"
I thought of the small apartment.
The cardboard boxes.
The single envelope I had found tucked inside her winter coat, sealed with tape, with my name written on the front in her handwriting.
I hadn't opened it yet.
I still didn't know why.
"She left me an envelope," I said slowly.
"I've had it for four years.
I never opened it."
Vincent went very still.
"Where is it now?"
"At home.
In my room."
He stood up.
Then he seemed to catch himself and sat back down, like a man who had learned to be careful with how he moved around people who didn't know him yet.
"Isabella," he said.
"Can I ask you something?"
"Yes."
"Why didn't you open it?"
I looked at the locket in my hands.
"She made me promise to wait.
She said I'd know when it was time." I looked up.
"I think tonight might be the time."
He nodded once, slowly.
Then the door opened.
It was the older guard — the one who had whispered in the ballroom.
He stepped inside and closed the door carefully behind him.
"Mr.
Moretti." His voice was low.
"We have a problem."
"Vivian?"
"She's asking for her attorney.
And she's asking for the envelope."
Vincent's expression didn't change, but something behind his eyes did.
"Which envelope?"
The guard looked at me.
Then back at Vincent.
"She says she knows where it is.
She says if we don't release her in the next hour, she'll make sure it disappears."
The room was quiet for three full seconds.
"She knows about the envelope," I said.
It wasn't a question.
"She knows more than she should," Vincent said.
He stood up.
This time he didn't sit back down.
"Marco," he said to the guard.
"Nobody leaves this house tonight.
Not Vivian.
Not her attorney.
Not anyone she's called in the last two hours."
"Understood."
"And get me Caruso."
Marco nodded and left.
I looked at Vincent.
"Who is Caruso?"
"The man who handled my sister's accident," he said.
"The investigation.
The paperwork." He picked up his phone from the desk.
"He retired eight years ago.
He told me the case was closed."
"And now?"
May you like
Vincent looked at me steadily.
"Now I'm going to ask him why Vivian DeMarco knows the name on that envelope."
