Chapter 2 - The Scarred Mafia Boss Warned Her to Stay Away—But When She Recognized the Woman in His Dead Fiancée's Photograph, She Realized the Threat Had Followed Her HomeAt 12:07 a.m., I was standing barefoot in my Brooklyn apartment, staring at a photograph of a beautiful woman who had supposedly died years earlier.
And the most disturbing part wasn't the threatening message beneath it.
It was the fact that I recognized her.
Not from a newspaper.
Not from a television interview.
Not even from one of those society magazines that loved discussing wealthy people as though they were a different species.
I recognized her from a photograph I'd seen inside my mother's old sewing box.
The same dark hair.
The same elegant cheekbones.
The same unusual silver necklace shaped like a crescent moon.
My name is Elena Brooks, and until that evening, the most dangerous thing I'd done all week was attempt to repair a stranger's leaking sink.
Now someone was warning me not to fall in love with Dominic Vale.
Which was ridiculous.
I'd known the man for approximately three hours.
I'd cooked him scrambled eggs.
I'd criticized his refrigerator.
I'd accidentally dropped a spoon near his expensive Italian shoes.
That was hardly the beginning of a grand romance.
Unfortunately, my heart didn't seem interested in reasonable arguments.
I looked at the photograph again.
The woman standing beside Dominic wore a white dress. Her smile was warm, almost mischievous.
And Dominic looked different.
Younger.
Unscarred.
Happy.
The kind of happiness that made the photograph painful to look at.
I enlarged the image.
There it was.
The silver necklace.
I knew I'd seen it before.
"Elena?"
I turned.
Tessa stood in the bathroom doorway, wearing oversized pajamas and holding a toothbrush.
"Why are you standing there like somebody died?"
I swallowed.
"Maybe somebody did."
She frowned.
"That's not funny."
I handed her the phone.
She studied the photograph.
Then the message.
Her expression changed.
"Who sent this?"
"I don't know."
"Elena."
"I really don't know."
She read the words beneath the picture.
HE DIDN'T GET THAT SCAR SAVING HIMSELF.
Tessa looked up.
"What does that mean?"
I shook my head.
"I don't know."
"Then why are you looking at it like that?"
I hesitated.
"Because I think I've seen this woman before."
"Where?"
"At my mother's apartment."
Tessa stared.
"What?"
I took the phone back.
"There's an old photograph in Mom's sewing box. A woman wearing that exact necklace."
"Lots of women wear necklaces."
"Not like this one."
Tessa folded her arms.
"Elena, you're exhausted. You've had an insane day. Somebody is clearly trying to scare you."
"Then why send me a photograph of Dominic's former fiancée?"
Her expression softened.
"Maybe because they know you'll ask questions."
I looked down.
She was right.
And I hated that she was right.
Because I was already asking them.
The next morning, I called my mother.
She answered on the second ring.
"Elena, sweetheart."
"Hi, Mom."
"You're calling early."
"I need to ask you something."
A pause.
"Is everything all right?"
"Yes."
It was a terrible lie.
My mother had spent twenty-nine years recognizing my lies.
"Elena."
I sighed.
"Mostly."
"What happened?"
"Nothing serious. I just wanted to ask about an old photograph."
"What photograph?"
"The one in your sewing box."
Silence.
I sat straighter.
"Mom?"
"Which photograph?"
"The woman with the crescent-moon necklace."
A longer silence.
Then my mother asked quietly:
"Why?"
My stomach tightened.
"Who is she?"
"Elena, where did you see her?"
"Mom."
"Answer me."
Her voice had changed.
My mother, Margaret Brooks, was not easily frightened.
She had survived my father's death, raised two daughters, worked double shifts at a hospital laundry, and once confronted a landlord who tried to charge us for a broken heater.
But now she sounded afraid.
I swallowed.
"Someone sent me a photograph."
"What photograph?"
"A woman standing beside Dominic Vale."
The silence on the other end became unbearable.
Then my mother whispered:
"Stay away from that man."
My blood turned cold.
"Mom?"
"Promise me."
"How do you know him?"
"Elena, please."
"Who is the woman?"
My mother began breathing unevenly.
Then she said something that made my heart stop.
"Her name was Amelia."
I gripped the phone.
"Amelia what?"
"Amelia Cross."
"Was she Dominic's fiancée?"
"Yes."
I closed my eyes.
"How do you know?"
A pause.
Then my mother whispered:
"Because she came to our house the night before she disappeared."
I sat motionless.
"What?"
My mother didn't answer.
"Mom, what do you mean she came to our house?"
"Elena, this isn't something we should discuss over the phone."
"Then I'll come over."
"No."
Her response was immediate.
Too immediate.
"Why not?"
"Because I don't want you involved."
I stared at the wall.
"Mom, somebody sent me a threatening message."
I heard her inhale sharply.
"What message?"
I told her.
Every word.
By the time I finished, she was crying.
That frightened me more than anything else.
"Mom?"
"I'm sorry."
"For what?"
She didn't answer.
"Mom, what are you sorry for?"
Her voice broke.
"I thought it was over."
Then the call disconnected.
I tried calling back.
No answer.
Again.
Nothing.
I grabbed my jacket.
Tessa emerged from her bedroom.
"Where are you going?"
"Queens."
She looked at my face.
"What's wrong?"
"My mother knows something."
"About Dominic?"
"About the woman who died."
Tessa reached for her keys.
"I'm coming."
I shook my head.
"No."
"Elena."
"Please. I need you here in case Mom calls."
Tessa hesitated.
Then nodded.
"Fine. But you're sharing your location."
I almost smiled.
"You sound like my mother."
"Someone has to."
The subway ride felt endless.
Every stranger looked suspicious.
Every phone vibration made my stomach tighten.
I told myself I was being ridiculous.
New York was full of strangers.
Not everyone wearing a dark jacket was following me.
Not every black car belonged to a criminal organization.
And not every beautiful dead woman was connected to my family.
Unfortunately, by the time I reached my mother's building, the last of those comforting thoughts had become impossible to believe.
The front door was open.
My mother never left it open.
I climbed the stairs.
Second floor.
Third floor.
Then stopped.
Her apartment door stood slightly ajar.
"Mom?"
No answer.
I pushed it open.
The living room was empty.
A lamp lay on its side.
Cushions had been thrown onto the floor.
My mother's sewing box was open.
And the old photographs were scattered across the carpet.
My heart began pounding.
"Mom!"
I rushed toward the kitchen.
Empty.
Bedroom.
Empty.
Bathroom.
Empty.
Then I saw a note on the dining table.
Written in black marker.
STOP ASKING ABOUT AMELIA.
My knees weakened.
I grabbed my phone.
Called the police.
Then called Sophie.
She answered immediately.
"Elena?"
"Where are you?"
"At school. Why?"
"Is Mom with you?"
"No."
My throat tightened.
"Listen carefully. Stay where you are."
"What happened?"
"Just stay at school."
"Elena!"
"I'll explain when I know more."
I ended the call.
Then I did something I couldn't explain.
I called Dominic Vale.
He answered after one ring.
"Elena?"
The sound of his voice nearly broke me.
"Dominic."
A pause.
"What's wrong?"
I swallowed.
"My mother's missing."
His voice changed.
"Where are you?"
"Queens."
"Address."
I told him.
He didn't hesitate.
"Stay inside if it's safe. The police are coming?"
"I called them."
"Good."
I heard movement on his end.
Then his voice lowered.
"Elena, listen to me. Don't touch anything else."
My eyes filled.
"Someone left a note."
"What did it say?"
I told him.
Silence.
Then Dominic asked:
"How do you know Amelia Cross?"
My stomach dropped.
"My mother knew her."
A long pause.
Then he whispered:
"That's impossible."
Dominic arrived twenty-eight minutes later.
He entered the apartment with Marcus and two men I didn't recognize.
The police had already begun examining the scene.
Dominic stopped in the doorway when he saw me.
For a moment, the intimidating expression disappeared.
"Elena."
I stood.
He crossed the room.
"Are you hurt?"
I shook my head.
"Where's my mother?"
He looked at the overturned furniture.
Then at the note.
His face hardened.
"We'll find her."
I wanted to believe him.
But I had spent my entire life learning that wanting something didn't make it true.
I looked up.
"Do you know who took her?"
"No."
"Do you know why?"
His silence answered before he did.
"Dominic."
He looked at me.
"Amelia Cross."
His jaw tightened.
"What about her?"
"My mother said Amelia came to our house before she disappeared."
Dominic went completely still.
"Your house?"
"Yes."
"When?"
"The night before."
He looked toward Marcus.
Marcus's expression changed.
Then Dominic asked me:
"Elena, what year did your father die?"
The question startled me.
"What?"
"Your father."
"Ten years ago."
"His name?"
"Thomas Brooks."
Dominic closed his eyes.
I stared.
"You know him?"
He didn't answer immediately.
Then he said:
"Your father worked at a shipping company."
I felt cold.
"Yes."
"Vale Maritime Logistics."
My mouth went dry.
I remembered the name.
My father had worked nights at the docks.
He rarely discussed his job.
He came home exhausted.
And in the months before his death, he had become strangely quiet.
"How do you know that?"
Dominic looked at me.
"Because your father worked for my family."
The police questioned me for nearly two hours.
Dominic remained nearby.
He didn't interfere.
He didn't try to control the investigation.
But whenever I looked toward the doorway, he was there.
At one point, Marcus brought me water.
I thanked him.
He looked uncomfortable.
"Miss Brooks, Mr. Vale asked me to make sure you had something."
I glanced toward Dominic.
He was speaking quietly with an investigator.
"Does he always do that?"
Marcus frowned.
"Do what?"
"Notice when people haven't eaten or had water."
Marcus looked at me for a long moment.
Then said:
"No."
That single word stayed with me.
By late afternoon, investigators had found evidence that my mother had left the apartment with two men.
Security footage showed her walking between them.
She appeared frightened.
But she was not visibly restrained.
One man wore a baseball cap.
The other carried a black umbrella.
The footage wasn't clear enough to identify either man.
I watched it three times.
Then asked to stop.
I couldn't bear seeing my mother walk toward an unknown car.
Dominic stood beside me.
"We'll keep looking."
I turned.
"Why would somebody take her because of Amelia?"
His expression darkened.
"I don't know yet."
"You're lying."
He looked at me.
I swallowed.
"Maybe not about knowing. But you know more than you're telling me."
For a moment, he said nothing.
Then nodded.
"You're right."
I stared.
He continued.
"Amelia disappeared seven years ago."
"Everyone thinks she died."
"Yes."
"But you don't?"
His jaw tightened.
"I saw her car after the explosion."
My stomach dropped.
"Explosion?"
He nodded.
"She was supposed to meet me that night. Someone intercepted her vehicle."
I looked at the scar on his face.
"You were there."
"Yes."
"What happened?"
His expression became distant.
"I tried to get her out."
I swallowed.
"Did you?"
He looked away.
"I don't know."
The answer was worse than a simple no.
Dominic took me back to his house that evening.
Not because he ordered me.
Because I asked him to.
My apartment no longer felt safe.
My mother's home had been searched.
And somebody had connected my family to a woman Dominic had spent seven years mourning.
Marcus arranged for Sophie to stay with Tessa, with their agreement and additional security around the building.
I didn't like any of it.
But I liked the thought of my sister disappearing even less.
When we entered Dominic's kitchen, I stopped.
Everything looked exactly as it had the day before.
The skillet.
The counter.
The ridiculous refrigerator.
The room where I'd made him laugh.
It seemed impossible that so much could change in twenty-four hours.
Dominic noticed my expression.
"What?"
I shook my head.
"Yesterday, I thought this was the strangest kitchen I'd ever worked in."
"And today?"
I looked at him.
"Today, I wish I'd stayed under the sink."
For the first time all evening, he smiled faintly.
Then he said:
"Are you hungry?"
I stared.
He gestured toward the refrigerator.
"I believe that's how this started."
A laugh escaped me.
Then I began crying.
I couldn't stop.
Dominic stood motionless for a moment.
Then approached carefully.
"Elena."
I covered my face.
"I'm sorry."
"Don't apologize."
"I don't usually cry in strangers' kitchens."
"You're not a stranger."
I looked up.
His expression softened.
"Not anymore."
And before I could think better of it, I stepped forward and wrapped my arms around him.
Dominic froze.
His body went rigid.
For one terrible second, I thought I'd made a mistake.
Then his arms slowly closed around me.
Carefully.
As though he was afraid I might disappear.
I rested my forehead against his chest.
And felt his heart beating.
Fast.
Far faster than I'd expected.
Later that night, Marcus brought Dominic a sealed envelope.
I was sitting at the kitchen table when he entered.
He glanced at me.
Then at Dominic.
"Sir. It's important."
Dominic opened it.
Inside was an old photograph.
My father.
Thomas Brooks.
Standing beside Amelia Cross.
And a third man.
A man wearing a dark suit.
His face was partly hidden.
Dominic stared at the image.
Then turned it over.
Something had been written on the back.
THOMAS KEPT THE ORIGINAL.
I looked at him.
"What original?"
Dominic's face had gone pale.
He looked toward Marcus.
Then whispered:
"The evidence."
My heart pounded.
"What evidence?"
He turned toward me.
And said the words that changed everything.
May you like
"Elena, I think your father was murdered."
End of Chapter 2.
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