Chương 2 - My Runaway Bride Was Missing and Her Rideshare Was Found With Blood Inside—Then I Learned She Had Been Investigating My Family for WeeksThe blood wasn't Claire's.
I learned that at 2:17 p.m.
Those four words returned oxygen to my body.
The driver, Marcus Hale, had cut his hand during what police believed was an altercation near Providence Station.
He was found at a hospital.
Alive.
Conscious.
And terrified.
Claire had never been in danger.
At least not from whatever happened inside that car.
Detective Mercer allowed me to speak with Marcus after Claire's parents arrived.
Her father, Patrick Donovan, looked at me like a man reconsidering every generous thought he'd ever had about his future son-in-law.
Fair.
Her mother, Ellen, hugged Nora.
Not me.
Also fair.
“Did Claire call you?” I asked.
Patrick stared.
“She told you not to find her.”
“I know.”
“And yet here you are.”
“Her driver's car had blood inside.”
“And now you know it wasn't hers.”
“Yes.”
“So go home.”
I deserved that too.
“Patrick—”
“No.”
His voice stayed low.
“My daughter spent eighteen months defending you.”
I said nothing.
“She defended your family.”
Nothing.
“She told us your mother was difficult but that you were different.”
That one hurt.
Patrick stepped closer.
“I don't care how much money you have. I don't care how many people answer when you call. Claire asked you for one thing.”
“I know.”
“Then why are we standing here?”
“Because Vivienne told me Claire found another will.”
His expression changed.
He knew.
“You knew?”
Patrick looked away.
“Claire told us some of it.”
“When?”
“Last week.”
“And nobody told me?”
He laughed.
“Interesting feeling, isn't it?”
That shut me up.
The hospital room door opened.
Marcus Hale, the driver, had seven stitches in his palm.
He explained.
Claire entered his car at 3:43.
She asked for Providence Station.
Halfway there, a black SUV began following them.
Claire noticed.
So did Marcus.
Near the station, the SUV blocked them.
Two men approached.
Marcus tried to drive around them.
One smashed his window.
He cut his hand.
Claire jumped out the opposite side and ran into a twenty-four-hour pharmacy.
Police were called.
The men fled.
“What happened to Claire?” I asked.
Marcus looked at Patrick.
Not me.
Patrick nodded.
“She left through another exit.”
“Where?”
“I don't know.”
That was a lie.
I could tell.
Old Luca would have pushed.
New Luca—or the man desperately trying to become him—stood.
“Thank you.”
Marcus blinked.
“That's it?”
“Yes.”
I left.
Nora caught me outside.
“You believe Patrick knows.”
“Yes.”
“You're not going to pressure him?”
“No.”
She stared.
“What?”
“I'm proud.”
“Don't.”
“Growth makes you uncomfortable?”
“Deeply.”
We returned to the estate.
The wedding flowers were being removed.
I found Vivienne in the library with my mother.
“Tell me everything.”
Teresa stiffened.
Vivienne spoke first.
Twenty-seven years earlier, my grandmother Sofia Ferraro created a trust controlling sixteen percent of Ferraro Holdings.
Not enough to control the company alone.
Enough to determine control when combined with other family shares.
The beneficiary was supposed to be the woman Sofia believed could protect the family from itself.
Everyone assumed Teresa.
Wrong.
The original beneficiary was my father's younger sister.
Aunt Alessandra.
She died at thirty-two.
Car accident.
No children.
According to the will everyone knew, her interest transferred to Teresa.
According to the second document?
It didn't.
It transferred to Alessandra's goddaughter.
“Who?”
Vivienne looked at me.
“Ellen Donovan.”
Claire's mother.
I laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because reality had become ridiculous.
“Claire's mother?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Teresa said:
“Because Ellen worked for Alessandra.”
I turned.
“What?”
Before marrying Patrick and becoming a librarian, Ellen Donovan had spent four years working as a research assistant for Alessandra Ferraro.
They were close.
Very close.
Alessandra distrusted several Ferraro men.
She believed Teresa had become too willing to protect the company at any cost.
She amended the trust.
Then died.
The amendment disappeared.
Until Claire found a copy.
“Where?”
“Boston property archive,” Vivienne said.
Of course.
Claire worked in construction project management.
She had been reviewing historical ownership records connected to a Ferraro redevelopment.
She found an old attorney's storage file.
“Why didn't she tell me?”
My mother laughed bitterly.
“She intended to.”
“How do you know?”
“Because she confronted me.”
I stared.
“When?”
“Three weeks ago.”
“What did you tell her?”
Teresa looked away.
“Mother.”
“I told her the document was probably invalid.”
“What else?”
Silence.
“What else?”
“I asked her to wait until after the wedding.”
There it was again.
After.
Tomorrow.
Later.
Convenience disguised as timing.
“Did Claire agree?”
“No.”
“What did she say?”
Teresa's mouth tightened.
“She said she would tell you.”
“Did she?”
“No.”
Why?
Then I understood.
Claire had been testing me.
Not cruelly.
She wanted to know whether I could defend her when the issue seemed to be only symbolic.
If I couldn't stand against my family over a necklace, what would I do when nine hundred million dollars was involved?
My stomach dropped.
“She gave me a smaller truth first.”
Vivienne nodded.
“And you failed it.”
I looked at her.
“Careful.”
“No.”
She surprised me.
“Stop doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“Making people afraid whenever they say something you don't like.”
The room went silent.
Vivienne removed something from her purse.
The emerald.
She placed it on the desk.
“I don't want this.”
My mother stared.
Vivienne continued:
“I never wanted you, Luca.”
That was unexpectedly insulting.
She smiled.
“Relax.”
“Continue.”
“Our parents wanted us.”
“Yes.”
“I played along because it was convenient.”
There was that word.
“I threatened Teresa because my father wanted leverage in the Boston deal.”
“Your father.”
“Yes.”
“Does he know about the trust?”
“He knows enough.”
“Was he behind the men who followed Claire?”
Vivienne's face changed.
“I don't know.”
Not good.
Her father, Dominic Russo, had billions tied to Ferraro development projects.
If Ellen Donovan suddenly controlled a major Ferraro voting block, everything changed.
I called Detective Mercer.
Not my security.
Police.
Then federal counsel.
Then Claire's attorney.
I did not ask where Claire was.
I gave them the information.
At 6:40 p.m., Claire finally called me.
Her name appeared.
I stared.
Answered.
“Claire.”
Silence.
Then:
“Are you alone?”
“Yes.”
“Are you lying?”
“No.”
“Where's Nora?”
“Kitchen.”
“Your security?”
“Outside.”
“Your mother?”
“East wing.”
“Vivienne?”
“Gone.”
“Good.”
My throat tightened.
“Are you safe?”
“Yes.”
Relief nearly dropped me to my knees.
“Can I see you?”
“No.”
I closed my eyes.
“Okay.”
That answer surprised her.
“I heard about the car.”
“I know.”
“I'm sorry.”
“For what?”
“Searching.”
“You had reason.”
That mattered more than forgiveness.
“Claire, Vivienne told me.”
“All of it?”
“Ellen. Alessandra. Trust.”
Silence.
“Why didn't you tell me?”
She answered quietly:
“Because I was afraid you'd ask me to wait.”
That sentence hurt worse than her note.
“I probably would have.”
“I know.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
Not forgiveness.
Recognition.
“Claire.”
“Yes?”
“I canceled the wedding publicly.”
“I heard.”
“I told them why.”
“I heard that too.”
“How?”
She almost laughed.
“Luca, rich people post everything.”
Fair.
“Your mother must hate you.”
“She's adapting.”
“Poor Teresa.”
“Claire.”
Silence.
“I love you.”
Her breathing changed.
“I love you too.”
Hope exploded.
Then she destroyed it.
“But I'm still not coming back.”
“Why?”
“Because loving you was never the problem.”
I sat.
“What is?”
“I don't know if I trust the version of myself I become around your family.”
“What does that mean?”
“I started measuring every room before I entered.”
Her voice shook.
“I started asking whether my clothes looked expensive enough.”
“Claire—”
“I stopped talking about Dad being an electrician because your uncle once joked about tradespeople.”
My stomach turned.
“I laughed at jokes I hated because I didn't want to embarrass you.”
“I never asked you to.”
“No.”
She continued:
“That's what scares me.”
“What?”
“You didn't have to.”
Silence.
“Your world trained me.”
I had no defense.
“So what do you want?”
“I want time.”
“How much?”
“I don't know.”
That terrified me.
But I said:
“Okay.”
“And Luca?”
“Yes?”
“Don't fix the trust for me.”
“What?”
“Don't use your lawyers to make my mother rich.”
“I wasn't—”
“You were thinking it.”
I had been.
Damn her.
“This belongs to Mom's history with Alessandra.”
Claire continued.
“Let her decide.”
“Okay.”
“And don't destroy Dominic Russo.”
“That one is harder.”
“Let police investigate the car.”
“Okay.”
“And don't fire your mother from the company because you're angry.”
I paused.
“I was also thinking that.”
“I know you.”
Despite everything, I smiled.
“Anything else?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Learn how to make a decision without asking whether it keeps the Ferraros comfortable.”
The call ended.
I sat alone.
Then I noticed an envelope beneath the library door.
No stamp.
Someone inside the estate had placed it there.
I opened it.
Photograph.
Claire outside the pharmacy that morning.
Taken after the attack on the rideshare.
Meaning someone had continued following her.
On the back:
THE DONOVAN WOMEN SHOULD HAVE STAYED OUT OF FERRARO BUSINESS.
My blood went cold.
I called Mercer.
Then Claire's attorney.
I didn't call Claire directly.
Because she had asked me not to hunt for her.
But respecting her didn't mean hiding danger.
Her attorney could warn her without revealing her location.
Twenty minutes later, Detective Mercer called back.
“We identified one of the men from the SUV.”
“Who?”
“Former private security.”
“For Russo?”
“No.”
My stomach tightened.
“Then who?”
Mercer paused.
“Ferraro Holdings.”
I stopped breathing.
“Current employee?”
“No.”
“Who hired him?”
“We're tracing it.”
“Name.”
“Anthony Bellini.”
I knew him.
My uncle Matteo's former driver.
And suddenly the threat to Claire wasn't coming from Vivienne.
May you like
Or Dominic Russo.
It might be coming from inside my own family.
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