Chapter 2 - The Woman He Was Supposed to Marry Knew My Father's Secret—and Someone Wanted Me to Pay for It
Adriana Vitali looked at the invoice in my hand as though it were a live wire.
"My father worked for yours?" I repeated.
She stopped three steps below us. "I said I believe he did."
"That's an interesting distinction."
Her gaze lifted to mine. She had the polished composure of someone who had practiced difficult conversations in front of a mirror. "Our families did business with hundreds of vendors. Flowers, catering, transportation. Your father's shop was one of them."
"Then why do you know his name?"
A tiny silence followed.
Massimo noticed it too. "Answer her, Adriana."
She turned toward him. "You don't get to interrogate me in front of a stranger."
"She's not a stranger," he said.
I almost laughed. Twelve hours earlier, I had been exactly that. Now the most intimidating man in Chicago was using me to win an argument with the woman his family expected him to marry.
"I'm standing right here," I said. "And I would appreciate it if everyone stopped discussing me like a centerpiece."
Adriana's smile sharpened. "A florist. How appropriate."
"An accountant would have been more useful this morning, but here we are."
For the first time, Massimo's mouth twitched.
Adriana saw it. Whatever amusement she had brought into the house vanished. "Massimo, we need to talk about the announcement."
"There won't be one."
"My father has already invited the press."
"Then he can uninvite them."
She took another step, lowering her voice. "You know what happens if you embarrass him."
Massimo's face went still. "He should have considered that before promising him something I never agreed to give."
I glanced between them. An engagement was apparently not a romantic decision but a transaction with a dress code.
"Can we return to my dead father?" I asked.
Adriana looked at me, and for one second I saw something that resembled regret.
"Ask Massimo about the warehouse," she said quietly.
Then she turned and walked downstairs.
I moved after her, but Massimo caught my attention with a single word.
"Sophie."
"Don't tell me to stay."
"I wasn't going to."
"Good."
"I was going to tell you the stairs are slippery."
I looked down. My shoes were still damp from the night before. Annoyingly, he was right.
Adriana disappeared through the foyer before I reached the bottom. The front door shut with a weighty thud, and a man in a dark suit stepped away from the window. Luca, Massimo's head of security, watched me without pretending not to.
"Did you hear her?" I demanded.
"Every word," Luca replied.
"Then someone should explain why a florist's delivery from twelve years ago has everyone acting as though I found a body."
Massimo came down behind me. "We should speak somewhere private."
"That's what everyone keeps saying. Private conversations are beginning to feel like a family hobby."
He led us into a library with dark wooden shelves, enormous windows, and a fire that was already burning despite the pale morning sunlight. I stayed near the door. Luca remained in the hall.
Massimo placed the invoice on a desk and opened a locked drawer. From it he removed a thin folder.
"R. Vitali Holdings leased the South Side warehouse for six years," he said. "Officially, it stored imported stone and restaurant equipment. Unofficially, it was used to move cash between businesses."
"Money laundering?"
"Among other things."
I thought of my father in his old green apron, carefully trimming roses with hands scarred from decades of work. He used to complain that customers who ordered white lilies in January had no respect for seasons. I could not fit him into this conversation.
"Are you saying he was involved?"
"I'm saying his signature appears on a delivery invoice. That doesn't prove he knew what was happening inside."
"Why do you have a folder about it?"
"Because the Vitalis want a merger between our shipping companies. I investigate people before I sign away control of my business."
"Business," I echoed. "Is that what you call it?"
"Some of it is legitimate. Some of it should have been shut down years ago. I'm working on separating the two."
"That sounds convenient."
"It would be convenient if it were easy."
He pushed the folder toward me. There were photographs of the warehouse, copies of lease records, and a diagram of companies connected by arrows. I recognized none of the names except Vitali.
At the bottom of one page, someone had circled a date.
April 18.
My father's birthday.
"That was the night of a fire," Massimo said. "An electrical fault, according to the official report. Three workers were injured. The warehouse closed temporarily."
"Was my father there?"
"I don't know."
"Then find out."
"I intend to."
I stared at the documents. "Why are you helping me?"
Massimo leaned against the desk. "Because someone deliberately sent you into my bedroom. Elena disappeared afterward. Someone photographed your brother. And now evidence connected to a family trying to force an engagement has been delivered to your room. Those things aren't coincidences."
"You still haven't explained the four words."
"She's with me?"
"Yes. You turned a humiliating accident into a fake relationship."
His expression darkened. "My family had entered the private wing at a time they were specifically told to stay away. If they believed you were an intruder, my uncle Carlo might have called armed security before you finished explaining. I needed them to leave."
"You could have said I was lost."
"I should have. I made a decision under pressure, and it put you in a worse position. I'm sorry."
The apology surprised me more than the gun had.
"That doesn't make us a couple," I said.
"No."
"And it doesn't mean you get to decide where I go."
"No."
"And I am not marrying you to fix your family problems."
His eyes held mine. "I haven't asked."
"Let's keep it that way."
A knock interrupted us. Luca entered with his phone in hand.
"We found Elena's car," he said. "Abandoned near a train station. The plates were switched."
"Any sign of her?" Massimo asked.
"No. But we pulled footage from the back gate. Someone collected her at eleven fifty-eight. She got into the passenger seat voluntarily."
"Can you identify the driver?"
"Not yet. The car had tinted windows."
I crossed my arms. "She told me the upstairs bathroom was open. She spilled dirty water on my dress, then insisted I use the one near the private wing. It was deliberate."
"Did she seem frightened?" Massimo asked.
I replayed the moment. Elena had kept glancing over her shoulder. Her fingers had shaken when she handed me a towel. At the time I thought she was embarrassed about the spill.
"Maybe," I admitted. "But she still lied to me."
Luca nodded. "There's something else. Your shop's back door was forced overnight."
My stomach dropped. "Was anyone hurt?"
"No one was inside. The police have secured it."
I grabbed my phone. Nora had called three times. I dialed her immediately.
She answered on the first ring. "Sophie, thank God."
"Are you okay?"
"I'm fine. The shop isn't. Someone turned over your office. They didn't touch the register or the wedding deposits."
"The ledger," I whispered.
"What?"
"Did they take the blue ledger?"
"I don't know. The desk drawer is broken."
I shut my eyes. My father's handwriting was in that book. Even if it contained nothing more sinister than flower orders, it was one of the few pieces of him I had left.
"I'm coming," I said.
Massimo was already reaching for his jacket.
"No," I told him.
"I haven't said anything."
"Your face did."
"I can arrange a car and an escort. You don't have to ride with me."
"I want the police there."
"They are."
"And I want my own keys, my own phone, and the freedom to leave when I choose."
"You have all three."
His willingness to agree made it harder to argue, which I resented.
Twenty minutes later, I sat in the back of an ordinary black sedan driven by a woman named Teresa, a retired police officer who spoke to me like a human being instead of a problem to be managed. Massimo followed in another car.
Chicago slid past in bright autumn colors. People walked dogs, bought coffee, argued about parking spaces. It was absurd that the city could continue as usual while my life rearranged itself.
At the shop, the front windows were intact, but the back office looked as though a storm had passed through. Drawers lay on the floor. Paper littered the tiles. My father's framed photograph had been knocked facedown.
I picked it up first.
In the picture he stood beside me at my high school graduation, smiling proudly with his tie crooked. He had been an ordinary man. I needed him to remain ordinary.
Nora appeared in the doorway, her curly hair escaping its clip. "I didn't touch anything except the photograph."
I hugged her hard. "You did exactly right."
She stepped back and looked toward the street, where Massimo was speaking with an officer.
"Is that actually Massimo Romano?"
"Unfortunately."
"Why is he here?"
"Long story."
"Is he your boyfriend?"
"Very long story."
She glanced at my face and stopped smiling. "Sophie, what's happening?"
I told her what I could without frightening her more than necessary. When I finished, she squeezed my hand and promised to take the afternoon deliveries herself.
The blue ledger was gone.
I knew before I looked. The bottom drawer was empty except for a torn strip of blue cloth caught beneath the runner. My father had wrapped the book in an old fabric cover. Someone had pulled it out in a hurry.
Massimo entered only after asking permission. He stayed by the doorway while the police photographer finished.
"Did your father keep backups?" he asked.
"He kept everything. Receipts, scraps of paper, birthday cards. He even saved the first order I ever wrote."
"Where?"
I looked around the ruined office. "In boxes. At home. Sometimes in the basement."
He nodded. "We can help you inventory them if you want."
I wanted to tell him I needed no help from a man with a private security detail. Instead I thought of Ben, and of the stranger who had photographed him.
"I'll think about it."
An officer approached with an evidence bag. Inside was a small silver key.
"Found beneath the desk," she said. "Do you recognize it?"
I did.
My father had worn that key on a chain under his shirt for years. When I was little, he told me it opened the place where he kept his most important promise. After his death, I had searched his belongings for it and found nothing.
"Where exactly?" I asked.
"Under the bottom panel. It may have been hidden there."
Massimo watched my face. "What does it open?"
"I don't know."
The officer documented my identification and kept the key for processing. I asked for the evidence number. She wrote it on a card and handed it to me.
A sharp voice came from the shop floor.
"Well, this is an unexpected reunion."
Adriana Vitali stood among the roses, wearing sunglasses and a cream coat. Two men waited behind her near the door. Nora's expression said she was considering throwing them all out.
"How did you know I was here?" I asked.
"I saw the police cars." Adriana removed her sunglasses. "My driver took the long way to my office."
"That's quite a coincidence."
"It is."
Massimo stepped beside me. "Leave."
"I came to warn her."
"About what?"
Adriana looked at the broken office, and the color drained from her face.
"Someone is searching for a book," she said. "A blue one."
I felt the floor tilt.
"How do you know that?"
"Because my father has been asking about it for twelve years."
"Why?"
Adriana's jaw tightened. "I was sixteen when I heard him arguing with your father. I was supposed to be asleep. Your father said he would go to the authorities if another shipment went through that warehouse."
My breath caught.
"Another shipment of what?"
"I didn't know then. I still don't know everything. But I remember your father saying, 'Those aren't crates. Those are people.'"
Nora made a small, horrified sound behind me.
Massimo's voice was low. "Adriana, why have you never told me this?"
"Because I was afraid of my father."
"And now?"
She looked at me. "Now I'm more afraid of what he'll do if he finds the ledger first."
I forced myself to speak. "Did he kill my father?"
"I don't know."
"Did you suspect?"
She said nothing.
That silence was an answer of its own, though not the one I needed.
I stepped toward her. "You knew my father's name this morning. You knew about the ledger. You let me stand there asking questions while you pretended this was all about an engagement."
Adriana's eyes filled with angry tears. "Do you think I wanted this engagement? My father chose Massimo because he thinks controlling the Romanos will keep his secrets buried."
"Then tell the police."
"I will. But I need proof they'll protect my younger sister."
For a moment, I saw not an elegant rival but a woman trapped inside a family she could not safely challenge.
Before I could answer, her phone vibrated.
She looked down.
All the blood seemed to leave her face.
"What is it?" Massimo asked.
Adriana turned the screen toward us.
A photograph showed a girl of about nineteen standing outside a university library. Beneath it was a message.
COME HOME ALONE. DO NOT SPEAK TO THE FLORIST AGAIN.
Adriana whispered, "That's my sister, Lucia."
Massimo took one careful step forward. "Give me the phone. We can preserve the message and call the police."
She backed away. "You don't understand. My father has people everywhere."
"Then we'll find people he doesn't control."
Adriana shook her head. She looked at me once, an apology trapped behind her eyes, and hurried toward the door.
I wanted to stop her. I wanted to ask another hundred questions. But her two escorts closed around her, and she was gone before anyone could decide what to do.
Massimo called Luca, then turned to the officer beside us. "I want that threat documented. A young woman may be in immediate danger."
The officer nodded and began making calls.
I stared at the empty doorway.
"My father tried to stop something," I said.
"Possibly."
"And someone made sure he couldn't."
"We don't know that yet."
I turned on him. "Stop protecting me from the words."
"I'm protecting the difference between suspicion and proof."
I hated that he was right. I hated more that I wanted to trust him.
A familiar voice interrupted us.
"Sophie?"
Ben stood just inside the shop, his backpack slung over one shoulder. He was twenty-three and still looked like the boy who had once tried to rescue a pigeon from our chimney. His face was pale.
"I saw the police cars," he said. "Nora said you were safe, but I had to see."
I crossed the room and hugged him. For several seconds, I couldn't speak.
Then he whispered into my hair, "I need to tell you something about Dad."
I stepped back. "What?"
He glanced toward Massimo.
"Not here."
I led him into the small greenhouse behind the shop. The glass roof had survived the break-in. Late sunlight fell across trays of seedlings, making the world briefly look gentle.
Ben shut the door.
"Last month," he began, "a man came to my apartment asking about Dad's records."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because he said he was from an insurance company. He knew Dad's date of death. He said there might be an old policy."
"Did you give him anything?"
"No. But I told him Dad used to hide papers in flower books."
I stared at him.
Ben swallowed. "I didn't think it mattered."
"What flower books?"
"The ones at the house. Remember? Those huge old catalogs in the attic. Dad used to tell me never to throw them away."
I remembered. There were four bound catalogs from a wholesaler that had gone out of business decades earlier. Dad had insisted they were useful references, although he rarely opened them in front of me.
"Did you tell the man where they were?"
"No. But I said we kept old things at home."
I gripped the edge of a planting table. Someone had searched the shop and found the ledger. Someone else might already be headed to our childhood home.
Ben caught my expression. "Sophie, I'm sorry."
"You're not the person who broke into the shop."
"I should have told you."
"Yes," I said. "You should have."
His shoulders fell.
I reached for his hand. "But you're telling me now. That's what matters."
Outside the greenhouse, a shadow crossed the glass.
Massimo appeared at the door, his face grim. He waited until I opened it.
"Luca checked the cameras at your father's house," he said. "A gray SUV has been parked across the street for forty minutes."
Ben went rigid.
"Are the police going?" I asked.
"Yes. Teresa is taking your brother somewhere safe if he agrees. You can go with him."
I looked at Ben. He nodded, too frightened to pretend otherwise.
"And you?" I asked Massimo.
"I'll meet the officers at the house."
"No."
His eyebrows lifted.
"I'm coming too."
"Sophie, there may be people inside."
"Then I stay outside with the police. But I'm not waiting for someone else to decide which parts of my father's life I'm allowed to know."
He studied me for a long moment.
"All right," he said. "You stay with the officers. No exceptions."
"That's a safety plan, not an order?"
"Yes."
"Then I can live with it."
As we crossed the shop floor, my phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
A photograph filled the screen. It showed my father standing in front of the South Side warehouse, his face turned toward the camera. Beside him was a much younger man in a dark coat.
Massimo.
I stopped so abruptly that Ben nearly collided with me.
The photograph had a date in the corner.
April 18, twelve years earlier.
Underneath were seven words.
ASK HIM WHAT HAPPENED AFTER THE FIRE.
I looked up at Massimo.
He saw the photograph and went completely still.
"You knew my father," I whispered.
Massimo didn't deny it.
For the first time since midnight, I saw genuine fear in his eyes.
"Yes," he said. "And Sophie, there's something you need to know about the night he saved my life."
May you like
The greenhouse door swung shut behind us.
And suddenly I wasn't sure which frightened me more: the enemies hunting my father's secrets, or the man who had been standing beside me all morning with a secret of his own.
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