Chapter 2 - The Woman in the Photograph
Isabella stood motionless.
Rosa’s fingers dug into her wrist.
Another floorboard creaked below.
“Stay here,” Isabella whispered.
Rosa shook her head immediately.
“No.”
“You told me to lock the door.”
“I did.”
“Then how did someone get in?”
Rosa looked at the wooden box.
That frightened Isabella more than the sound downstairs.
“Nonna.”
A shadow passed beneath the bedroom door.
Isabella reached for the heavy brass lamp on the nightstand.
Then a familiar voice called from the hallway.
“Mrs. Romano?”
Vincent.
Isabella exhaled sharply.
She opened the door.
Vincent stood five feet away.
Alone.
No men.
No gun.
Nothing in his hands.
Isabella tightened her grip on the lamp anyway.
“How did you get inside?”
“The front door was open.”
“No, it wasn't.”
Vincent glanced behind him.
“It was when I arrived.”
Rosa appeared behind Isabella.
The moment Vincent saw her, everything changed.
The intimidating calm disappeared from his face.
He stared.
Rosa stared back.
Neither spoke.
Isabella lowered the lamp slightly.
“You two know each other?”
Rosa whispered, “I knew his mother.”
Vincent’s jaw tightened.
“What was her name?”
“Caterina.”
“You knew her?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
Rosa took a shaky breath.
“She was my friend.”
Vincent looked almost angry.
“My mother never had a friend named Rosa Romano.”
“That wasn't my name then.”
Silence.
“What was it?”
“Rosa Bellandi.”
Vincent stared.
The name meant something.
Isabella saw it instantly.
“You know that name.”
Vincent stepped back.
“My mother wrote it once.”
“Where?”
“In a notebook she destroyed before she died.”
Rosa closed her eyes.
“She should have destroyed everything.”
Vincent’s voice hardened.
“Why?”
Rosa walked past Isabella into the bedroom.
She knelt beside the wooden box again.
“You came for answers.”
“Yes.”
“You may wish you hadn't.”
Vincent entered.
Isabella stayed between them.
Not because she thought Vincent would hurt Rosa.
Because she no longer knew what was possible.
Rosa removed a photograph.
Two women stood beside a small church.
One was unmistakably Vincent’s mother, Caterina.
The other was Rosa.
Young.
Dark-haired.
Smiling.
Their arms were linked.
Vincent sat down without realizing he was doing it.
“My mother told us she spent those eleven days alone.”
“She lied.”
“Why?”
“To protect me.”
“From who?”
Rosa looked toward Isabella.
“No.”
Isabella shook her head.
“You don't get to do that anymore.”
“Bella—”
“No. My entire life you answered every question with half a sentence. Mom died knowing almost nothing about her own family. Now some stranger hears one phrase and suddenly you’re opening boxes I've never seen?”
Vincent glanced at Isabella but said nothing.
She pointed at the photograph.
“What happened?”
Rosa’s lips trembled.
“In 1994, I was planning to leave Sicily permanently.”
“You were already married to Grandpa?”
“No.”
That surprised Isabella.
Rosa had always spoken as though her late husband, Antonio Romano, had been the great love of her life.
“I was engaged to someone else.”
“Who?”
Rosa pulled out another photograph.
A handsome young man leaned against an old Fiat.
Someone had torn his face straight down the middle.
On the back was written:
CARLO.
“Carlo who?”
Rosa did not answer.
Vincent leaned forward.
“Carlo Marchetti?”
Rosa’s eyes lifted.
Isabella looked between them.
“Who is Carlo Marchetti?”
Vincent answered.
“My father’s cousin.”
The room seemed to shrink.
Rosa nodded.
“I was supposed to marry him.”
Isabella sat on the edge of the bed.
“What happened?”
“He was not the man I thought he was.”
Rosa’s hands tightened around the photograph.
“He controlled everything. Where I went. Who I spoke to. What I wore. When I told him I wanted to leave, he laughed.”
She looked down.
“Caterina helped me.”
Vincent listened without moving.
“She arranged a car. Money. Documents. She told Carlo I had gone to my aunt’s village. Then she drove me to the coast herself.”
“The eleven days,” Vincent said.
Rosa nodded.
“She stayed with me until I could leave safely.”
“Why didn't she tell my father?”
“She didn't trust him.”
Vincent’s expression changed.
Rosa quickly added, “Not because he would hurt me. Because Carlo was family. And family loyalty was complicated.”
Vincent gave a bitter little laugh.
“That sounds like my father.”
Rosa lifted the second pendant.
“Caterina gave me this before we separated.”
Vincent touched the pendant with one finger.
“What do the letters mean?”
Rosa smiled sadly.
“Rosa, Maria, Caterina.”
“Who was Maria?”
Rosa froze.
Isabella noticed.
“So there's more.”
Rosa slowly lowered the pendant.
“Yes.”
“Who was Maria?”
Rosa looked at Vincent.
“Your mother had a sister.”
Vincent’s face went blank.
“My mother was an only child.”
“No.”
“She told everyone she was.”
“Why?”
“Because Maria disappeared.”
“When?”
“1974.”
Vincent stood.
“My mother would have been sixteen.”
“She was.”
“How old was Maria?”
“Nineteen.”
Vincent paced once to the window.
“She never told me.”
“She couldn't.”
“Why?”
Rosa’s gaze drifted toward Isabella.
Again.
Vincent saw it.
“What does Maria have to do with her?”
Rosa said nothing.
Isabella’s heart began beating harder.
“Nonna.”
“I promised.”
“Caterina is dead,” Vincent said.
“The promise was not to Caterina.”
“Then to who?”
Rosa suddenly looked toward the open bedroom door.
“Before we talk about Maria, someone needs to check downstairs.”
Isabella frowned.
“Why?”
“Because Vincent said the door was already open.”
The three of them went silent.
Vincent moved first.
He stepped into the hall.
Isabella followed despite Rosa’s protest.
They descended the stairs.
Nothing looked disturbed.
Kitchen.
Living room.
Dining room.
Then Isabella noticed something on the floor beside the front door.
A photograph.
She picked it up.
It had not been there when she arrived.
The picture showed Isabella leaving the restaurant that night.
Taken from across the street.
A black marker line had been drawn around her face.
On the back:
SHE SHOULD NEVER HAVE SAID IT.
Vincent took the photograph.
His entire demeanor changed.
The grief vanished.
The powerful man from Table Six returned.
“Who knows you're here?”
Isabella stared at him.
“No one.”
“Did anyone follow you?”
“I don't know.”
Rosa came down the stairs.
She saw the photograph.
Her face drained of color.
“No.”
Vincent turned.
“You recognize this?”
Rosa whispered, “The handwriting.”
“Whose?”
Rosa backed toward the wall.
“Carlo’s.”
Isabella frowned.
“You said this happened thirty years ago.”
“It did.”
“How old is Carlo now?”
Rosa swallowed.
“He died in 2008.”
The room went still.
Vincent looked at the photograph again.
“Then somebody wants you to think he's alive.”
Rosa shook her head.
“No.”
“What?”
“That isn't what scares me.”
She took the picture.
“Carlo had a son.”
Vincent’s eyes narrowed.
“Name.”
Rosa did not want to say it.
Isabella saw that.
Then Rosa whispered:
“Matteo.”
Vincent stepped backward.
Isabella looked between them.
“You know him?”
Vincent’s face became unreadable.
“Matteo Marchetti has worked for my company for nineteen years.”
Rosa covered her mouth.
Vincent immediately reached for his phone.
Before he could make the call, Isabella’s phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
A photograph appeared.
It showed Rosa’s bedroom window.
Taken less than one minute ago.
Then a message followed.
ASK YOUR GRANDMOTHER WHO MARIA’S BABY WAS.
Isabella looked up.
Vincent saw her face.
“What?”
She handed him the phone.
He read the message once.
Then again.
Rosa sank into a chair.
Isabella crouched beside her.
“Nonna.”
Rosa’s eyes filled with tears.
“Maria had a daughter.”
Isabella’s throat tightened.
“What happened to her?”
Rosa looked directly at Isabella.
“She grew up believing Rosa Romano was her mother.”
Isabella stopped breathing.
“My mother?”
Rosa nodded.
“Elena.”
Another knock sounded at the front door.
Nobody moved.
Then a voice came from outside.
A man’s voice.
“Mr. Moretti?”
Vincent recognized it.
His face changed.
May you like
Matteo Marchetti was standing on the other side of the door.
And he already knew they were inside.
