Chapter 2 - The House with No Photographs
Grace stared at the dead phone.
“Explain.”
Vincent Moretti did not answer immediately.
That was worse than denial.
Outside the back door, someone shouted.
A second voice answered from the alley.
Then came the sound of tires, footsteps, and an engine accelerating away.
Vincent remained focused on Grace.
She held up the phone.
“My brother just told me not to trust you.”
“Yes.”
“And you don’t look surprised.”
“I’m not.”
“Why?”
“Because twelve years ago, my father ordered your mother killed.”
Grace forgot to breathe.
For one second, the diner disappeared.
The dirty tile.
The humming refrigerator.
The overturned mop bucket.
Everything vanished behind that sentence.
“My mother died of cancer.”
Vincent’s expression did not change.
“I know.”
Grace blinked.
“You just said—”
“He ordered it. It didn’t happen.”
“What kind of answer is that?”
“The truthful one.”
“You expect me to believe your father tried to kill my mother?”
“I expect you to believe someone tried very hard to find her.”
Grace stepped backward.
Her hand hit the prep counter.
Vincent kept his distance.
“My mother worked two jobs. She clipped coupons. She drove a twelve-year-old Buick that overheated every summer. Nobody was hunting her.”
“She was Anna Vale.”
“Apparently.”
“The only daughter of Arturo Vale.”
Grace stared at him.
The name meant nothing.
Vincent understood.
“Thirty years ago, Arturo controlled half the ports on the eastern seaboard.”
Grace laughed once.
It sounded broken.
“My grandfather was some kind of gangster?”
“Yes.”
“And my mother ran away.”
“She disappeared after Arturo was murdered.”
“By your father?”
“No.”
“Do I get to guess which criminal did it?”
“Roman Vale.”
The name hit differently now.
Roman.
The man hunting Ethan.
“Who is Roman to me?”
“Your uncle.”
Grace sat down.
She did not decide to.
Her knees simply stopped cooperating.
Vincent waited.
“My uncle sent men to threaten me over my brother’s debt.”
“Your brother’s debt was cover.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“That seems to be your favorite sentence.”
Vincent ignored it.
“My car is outside. We need to move.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“Then Roman’s men return with more than bats.”
“Stop saying things like that.”
“Would you prefer I lie?”
“I would prefer one person tonight not manipulate me.”
Something passed over Vincent’s face.
Regret.
“Fair.”
He removed the gun from inside his jacket.
Grace stiffened.
Vincent placed it on the stainless-steel counter between them.
Then his phone.
Then his wallet.
He stepped back.
“Take the gun.”
“What?”
“Take it.”
“I don’t know how to use a gun.”
“Then hold it while we talk. If I come closer without permission, point it at the floor and tell me to stop.”
Grace stared at him.
“You are trying very hard to look trustworthy for a man whose father wanted my mother dead.”
“I’m trying to keep you alive long enough to hate me properly.”
Despite everything, Grace almost smiled.
She hated that too.
She picked up the gun carefully.
Vincent explained the safety without touching her.
Then he told her the part of the story his family had buried.
Anna Vale had been nineteen when her father was murdered.
Roman, her older half-brother, took control of the organization.
Anna wanted nothing to do with it.
Within six months, she vanished.
Everyone assumed she had fled overseas.
Vincent’s father, Lorenzo Moretti, believed Anna carried documents proving Roman had arranged Arturo’s death.
Lorenzo ordered his men to find her.
One of those men eventually did.
In Ohio.
Living as Anna Avery.
Pregnant.
“He was supposed to bring her back,” Vincent said.
“What happened?”
“He let her go.”
“Why?”
“He had a conscience.”
“Rare family trait?”
Vincent almost smiled.
“Very.”
“Who was he?”
“My uncle Dominic.”
“And your father?”
“Never forgave him.”
Grace held the gun lower.
“If your family lost her fourteen years ago, why do you know all this?”
“Because Dominic told me before he died.”
“When?”
“Two weeks ago.”
Grace looked up.
Vincent’s eyes had changed.
Not dramatically.
But enough.
Grief.
Real grief.
“He told you about my mother two weeks ago?”
“He gave me a name. Anna Avery. He said if Roman ever found her children, I owed him one thing.”
“What?”
“To get them out.”
Grace thought of Ethan’s voice.
Don’t trust anybody named Moretti.
“You failed with my brother.”
Vincent accepted the accusation.
“Yes.”
That answer hurt more than an excuse.
A dark SUV stopped behind the diner.
Grace raised the gun.
Vincent glanced toward the window.
“My people.”
“How convenient.”
A man in a charcoal coat entered through the front.
He stopped when he saw Grace holding Vincent’s gun.
His eyebrows lifted.
“Should I ask?”
“No,” Vincent said.
Grace looked between them.
“Who are you?”
“Marco DeLuca.”
“Does everybody around him have a name from a crime movie?”
Marco looked at Vincent.
“I like her.”
Vincent’s expression remained flat.
“Cars?”
“Two secure. Street clear.”
Vincent turned to Grace.
“You decide.”
She frowned.
“Decide what?”
“You can leave alone. I won’t stop you. Marco will give you a car, cash, whatever you want.”
“And Roman?”
“Will keep looking.”
“Or?”
“You come with me until we find Ethan and figure out why they want that key.”
Grace looked down at the brass key.
She remembered Anna wearing it once.
Only once.
Grace had been seven.
She had asked what it opened.
Anna had smiled and said, Something I hope you never need.
Grace had forgotten that.
Until now.
“What does A.V.R. mean?” she asked.
Vincent shook his head.
“I don’t know.”
Grace returned the gun.
“I hate this.”
“I know.”
“I don’t trust you.”
“I know.”
“And I am not your fiancée.”
Marco’s mouth twitched.
Vincent glared at him.
“Temporary misunderstanding.”
Grace grabbed her coat.
“Find my brother.”
Vincent nodded.
“That I can promise.”
They left the diner at 12:19 a.m.
Vincent’s home was not what Grace expected.
No giant gates covered in gold.
No marble lions.
No men smoking cigars.
It was an old brownstone in Brooklyn tucked between two respectable houses on a quiet street.
The security was nearly invisible.
That made it more intimidating.
Inside, Grace noticed the first strange thing immediately.
There were no family photographs.
Not one.
Vincent led her upstairs to a guest room.
“You’ll be safe here.”
“Am I locked in?”
“No.”
“Can I leave?”
“Yes.”
“Will someone follow me?”
“Yes.”
“That sounds a little like being locked in.”
“It sounds like staying alive.”
Grace dropped her purse on the bed.
“I need to call the police.”
“You can.”
She studied him.
“You won’t stop me?”
“No.”
“Then why don’t you want me to?”
“Because some of Roman’s payroll receives government salaries.”
Grace stared.
“Police?”
“Some.”
“How many?”
“Enough.”
She rubbed her face.
“I want to wake up.”
“I can’t help with that.”
Vincent turned to leave.
“Wait.”
He stopped.
“Why did Ethan say not to trust you?”
Vincent faced her.
“I don’t know.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Yes.”
“What if Ethan knows something you don’t?”
“He usually does.”
That surprised her.
“You know him?”
“I met him once.”
Grace’s eyes narrowed.
“When?”
“Three weeks ago.”
Her anger returned immediately.
“You lied.”
“I said I didn’t know where he is. I didn’t say I’d never met him.”
“You let me believe—”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because he came to me asking questions about Anna Avery. He did not tell me he was your brother.”
“What questions?”
Vincent hesitated.
Grace saw it.
“What questions?”
“He wanted to know who killed Arturo Vale.”
“Roman?”
“That’s what everyone believed.”
“But?”
“But Ethan had proof it wasn’t Roman.”
Grace’s mind raced.
“Then who?”
“He wouldn’t tell me.”
She stepped closer.
“What did you do?”
“I offered protection.”
“And?”
“He ran.”
“Why?”
“Because somebody sent him a photograph.”
Vincent reached into his jacket and opened his phone.
He found an image.
Grace looked.
It showed her leaving the diner.
Taken from across the street.
Three weeks ago.
On the back of the photograph, photographed separately, someone had written:
ASK MORETTI WHO SIGNED THE ORDER.
Grace slowly lifted her eyes.
“What order?”
Vincent’s jaw tightened.
“I don’t know.”
“Wrong answer.”
“I have spent two weeks trying to find out.”
“Your own family?”
“Yes.”
“Who signed it?”
“I don’t know.”
Grace laughed bitterly.
“Maybe Ethan was right.”
“Maybe.”
She hated how easily he admitted that.
Vincent left.
Grace did not sleep.
At three seventeen, she heard footsteps in the hallway.
She opened the guest-room door.
Marco stood near the stairs speaking quietly into a phone.
He saw her.
“Everything okay?”
“No.”
“Fair enough.”
“Where is Vincent?”
“Office.”
“Can I see him?”
Marco hesitated.
That answer was enough.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Marco.”
He sighed.
“Vincent doesn’t like people in there.”
“Wonderful.”
Grace went downstairs anyway.
Vincent’s office door stood partly open.
She knocked.
No response.
“Vincent?”
Nothing.
Grace pushed it wider.
The room was empty.
A desk lamp burned.
Files covered the desk.
She should have left.
Instead, she saw her mother’s name.
ANNA AVERY.
Grace stepped inside.
A thick folder lay open.
She turned one page.
Hospital records.
Another.
Photographs.
Anna younger.
Anna holding baby Grace.
Anna with Ethan.
Grace’s stomach twisted.
Some photographs had clearly been taken without Anna knowing.
Surveillance.
Years of it.
Grace flipped farther.
Then she found a document dated fourteen years earlier.
AUTHORIZATION FOR EXTRACTION.
Subject: Anna Avery.
Status: Compromised.
Approved by:
L. MORETTI.
Grace’s hands began shaking.
Lorenzo.
Vincent’s father.
Beneath the signature was another line.
Secondary authorization required.
A second signature.
Vincent Moretti.
Grace heard a floorboard creak behind her.
She turned.
Vincent stood in the doorway.
May you like
He saw the paper in her hand.
And for the first time since she had met him, the most feared man in the room looked afraid.
