Chapter 2 - The Man Who Remembered Isabella
The rear door opened three inches.
Luca raised the gun.
"Stop."
The door stopped.
A trembling voice answered from the alley.
"I came for the painting."
Elena looked at Luca.
"That's him."
Luca's eyes narrowed.
"Thomas?"
Silence.
Then the man said, "If Luca Moretti is standing beside you, we have less time than I thought."
Luca opened the door.
An elderly man stood outside wearing a charcoal coat and leather gloves.
The moment he saw Luca, his face collapsed.
"You look like her."
Luca didn't lower the weapon.
"Get inside."
Thomas entered slowly.
Marco and two guards immediately rushed from the front of the building, but Luca lifted a hand.
"No one touches him."
Thomas looked toward Elena.
"You should never have finished her eyes."
Elena glanced at the easel.
"What does that mean?"
"It means somebody knows."
"Who?"
Thomas looked at Luca.
"Your father."
Luca's face became still.
"My father has been dead for eleven years."
Thomas gave a humorless smile.
"That would certainly make things easier."
Luca stepped forward.
"Who are you?"
Thomas removed one glove.
There was an old burn scar covering his palm.
"My name is Thomas Bell."
Luca's expression changed faintly.
"You worked for my father."
"For seventeen years."
Marco muttered something under his breath.
Luca didn't look away.
"You disappeared after my mother's funeral."
"I was told to."
"By whom?"
Thomas glanced toward the portrait.
"Isabella."
For the first time, Luca lost control.
He grabbed Thomas by the coat and shoved him against the wall.
Elena gasped.
"Where is she?"
"I don't know."
"You just said—"
"I said she told me to disappear. I didn't say I know where she went."
Luca's fist tightened.
Marco moved closer but didn't interfere.
Thomas stared directly into Luca's eyes.
"If you kill me, you'll never know what happened that night."
Slowly, Luca released him.
Thomas straightened his coat.
Elena crossed her arms.
"Start talking."
Thomas looked at her with something almost like apology.
"You weren't supposed to become part of this."
"Someone photographed my apartment and threatened to kill me. I think I'm already part of it."
Thomas nodded.
"Fair enough."
He walked toward Isabella's portrait.
For several seconds, he simply stared.
"You captured her."
"I copied a photograph."
"No. You captured her."
Luca's impatience sharpened.
"Thomas."
The old man sighed.
"In 1998, your father believed someone inside the Moretti organization was cooperating with federal investigators."
"My mother?"
"No."
"Then who?"
"Me."
Luca stared.
Thomas continued.
"I had seen what Carlo Moretti was becoming. Extortion. Bribery. Judges. Police. Construction fraud. People started disappearing."
Elena felt her stomach tighten.
"And Isabella found out?"
"She found my records."
Luca looked toward the portrait.
"She helped you."
"She did more than help."
Thomas stepped closer to him.
"Your mother built the original evidence file."
Luca laughed once in disbelief.
"My mother barely handled household accounts."
"That's what your father wanted everyone to believe."
Thomas explained that Isabella Moretti had secretly documented years of transactions.
Shell companies.
Payoffs.
Properties.
Names.
Dates.
Carlo eventually discovered that records were missing.
He suspected Isabella.
On November 17, 1998, she planned to leave Chicago with Luca.
"But I never left," Luca said.
Thomas lowered his eyes.
"Because someone betrayed the plan."
"Who?"
"I still don't know."
Thomas had been waiting at a motel outside the city.
Isabella never arrived.
Hours later, Carlo announced that her car had gone over the bridge.
Thomas assumed she was dead.
Then three days later, he received a handwritten note.
"I recognized her writing."
"What did it say?"
Thomas hesitated.
Luca stepped closer.
"What did it say?"
"'Protect my son by staying away.'"
Luca's expression hardened.
"Where is the note?"
"Gone."
"Convenient."
"It was twenty-eight years ago."
"What about the photograph?"
Thomas looked toward Elena.
"I received it six weeks ago."
"From?"
"No return address."
"Why bring it here?"
"Because the envelope contained Elena's studio card."
Elena's head snapped toward him.
"My card?"
Thomas reached inside his coat.
He produced a faded business card.
BROOKS PORTRAIT STUDIO.
Elena recognized the logo immediately.
But it wasn't hers.
The card was older.
Much older.
At the bottom was another name.
MARGARET BROOKS.
Elena went still.
"My grandmother."
Thomas nodded.
Luca looked at her.
"You knew Isabella?"
"No."
"My grandmother died twelve years ago."
Thomas handed Elena the card.
On the back were handwritten coordinates.
And one sentence.
PAINT HER AGAIN WHERE LUCA CAN SEE HER.
Elena's throat tightened.
"Who sent this?"
"I don't know."
Luca looked furious.
"So you brought the photograph here because a mystery letter told you to?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because I spent twenty-eight years wondering if I failed your mother."
Thomas's eyes became wet, though no tears fell.
"If there was even a chance Isabella was trying to reach you, I had to take it."
Luca paced once across the studio.
Elena watched him carefully.
The man who had walked in with lawyers and money had disappeared.
What remained was a son trying to understand whether his mother's death had been a lie.
Marco approached.
"We need to move."
Luca nodded.
"Take Thomas with us."
Thomas resisted.
"I'm not going anywhere."
"Someone followed you here."
"How do you know?"
Luca pointed toward the back window.
A black sedan was parked across the alley.
Thomas looked.
His face drained.
"That's not mine."
Marco reached for his radio.
The sedan accelerated away.
Luca made a decision.
"Everybody leaves. Now."
Elena stood her ground.
"I'm not leaving my studio."
Luca turned.
"Somebody threatened to murder you."
"It's still my studio."
"Your studio has windows."
"So does your mansion."
Marco almost smiled.
Luca didn't.
"Fine. Then I'm staying here."
Elena blinked.
"What?"
"You refuse to leave. I'm not leaving you unprotected."
"I don't need—"
A sharp crack interrupted her.
The front window shattered.
Marco threw Elena down.
Luca moved at the same instant.
Glass exploded across the floor.
Another crack.
A bullet struck the brick wall behind the easel.
Everyone dropped.
Elena covered her head.
"Stay down!" Marco shouted.
Luca crawled toward the window, gun raised.
The black sedan disappeared past the intersection.
Then silence.
Elena slowly lifted her head.
The studio looked wounded.
Broken glass covered the floor.
One bottle of paint had shattered.
A bullet hole scarred the wall.
The portrait remained untouched.
Luca looked at Elena.
"Still want to stay?"
She stared at the broken window.
"No."
They moved quickly.
Thomas traveled in one SUV with Marco.
Elena sat beside Luca in another.
She refused to look at him for the first five minutes.
Finally, she said, "Where are we going?"
"My house."
"Absolutely not."
"It's secure."
"I'm not living in a mafia fortress."
"Tonight you are."
"You don't get to decide that."
He turned toward her.
"Someone just fired into your studio."
Elena looked away.
Chicago passed beyond the tinted window.
"Why were you buying the block?"
Luca studied her.
"What?"
"Why that block?"
"Development."
"That's the company answer."
"It's also the real answer."
She didn't believe him.
His phone rang.
He looked at the screen.
His expression sharpened.
"Marco."
Elena heard only Luca's side.
"What happened?"
Pause.
"Where?"
Another pause.
"No hospitals."
He hung up.
"What?"
Luca looked out the window.
"The car carrying Thomas was hit."
Elena's blood went cold.
"Is he alive?"
"Yes."
"Marco?"
"Alive."
"What happened?"
"Truck ran a red light."
"Accident?"
"No."
Luca immediately made several calls.
Routes changed.
Vehicles switched.
By the time they reached his estate outside the city, Elena had lost track of how many men were following them.
The house wasn't what she expected.
Not a gaudy mansion.
Old stone.
Dark wood.
Security cameras hidden everywhere.
Inside, the walls were covered with art.
Real art.
Elena stopped.
"You collect paintings?"
"My mother did."
That explained more than Luca probably intended.
A doctor examined Thomas in a downstairs room.
Bruised ribs.
Cut forehead.
Nothing broken.
Marco had a dislocated shoulder but refused medication until everyone else was secure.
Elena stood in Luca's library while he poured himself water.
Not whiskey.
That surprised her too.
"Your people are loyal to you."
"They're paid well."
"That isn't the same thing."
"No."
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Elena asked, "What happens tomorrow?"
"November seventeenth."
"The date on the portrait."
"The anniversary of my mother's disappearance."
"And?"
Luca stared at the glass in his hand.
"I don't know."
Elena walked toward shelves containing old photographs.
One showed Luca as a boy beside a beautiful dark-haired woman.
Isabella.
Same face.
Same eyes.
Elena touched the frame.
"She loved you."
Luca's jaw shifted.
"You can tell from a photograph?"
"I'm a portrait artist."
"What does that mean?"
"It means I spend my life studying how people look at each other."
Their eyes met.
For the first time, the tension between them wasn't anger.
Something quieter entered the room.
Dangerous in another way.
Then Thomas appeared in the doorway.
His face was pale.
"I remembered something."
Luca immediately turned.
"What?"
"The coordinates."
Elena handed him the old studio card.
Thomas placed it on the desk.
"Your mother loved puzzles. The numbers aren't coordinates."
"What are they?"
"They're dimensions."
Elena frowned.
"For a canvas?"
Thomas nodded.
"Thirty-six by forty-eight."
Elena felt cold.
"That's the size of the portrait."
Luca looked toward her.
Thomas continued.
"And Margaret Brooks used to hide things inside stretcher frames."
Elena stared at him.
"My grandmother?"
Thomas nodded.
"Isabella trusted her."
Luca stepped closer.
"Where is the portrait now?"
Elena's breath stopped.
She had left it behind.
At the studio.
Luca immediately called security.
No answer.
He called again.
Nothing.
Then Elena's phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
A photograph appeared.
Her studio.
The easel was empty.
Beneath the image was one message:
MIDNIGHT. COME ALONE IF YOU WANT ISABELLA BACK.
Luca read it over her shoulder.
Then another message arrived.
This one was addressed to him.
BRING ELENA.
NO POLICE.
May you like
NO BODYGUARDS.
YOUR MOTHER HAS WAITED LONG ENOUGH.
