Chapter 2 - THE PHOTOGRAPH THAT SHOULD NOT EXIST
The first photograph Lorenzo Moretti examined showed his fiancée standing beside a man who had supposedly been dead for eleven years.
He recognized the man immediately.
Not because of his face.
Because of the silver watch on his wrist.
Lorenzo had seen that watch every morning of his childhood.
His father, Antonio Moretti, had given it to his most trusted business partner, Victor Salerno, shortly before the two men became enemies.
Victor had disappeared after a warehouse fire in 2015.
A private investigator had identified his remains.
Antonio had attended the funeral.
And now, on a November afternoon in 2026, Victor appeared in a photograph taken outside a Manhattan restaurant three weeks earlier.
Lorenzo stepped closer.
His fiancée, Isabella Romano, wore a cream wool coat and carried the brown leather handbag he had bought her for her birthday.
She was smiling.
Victor stood beside her, one hand resting lightly against her elbow.
The photograph had been printed on expensive matte paper.
A date appeared beneath it.
OCTOBER 16, 2026.
Lorenzo looked at the other photographs.
His younger sister, Sofia, leaving her son's elementary school.
His longtime security director, Daniel Russo, entering a pharmacy.
Clara Bennett, carrying groceries toward her modest staff cottage.
And Mia.
Three-year-old Mia, crouching in the estate garden with a caterpillar balanced carefully between her fingers.
Lorenzo remembered that afternoon.
Mia had insisted the caterpillar needed a name.
She had called it Mr. Pickles.
The photograph had been taken through a window overlooking the garden.
Someone inside Lorenzo's own home had been watching her.
He felt something cold settle beneath his ribs.
The photographs were not arranged randomly.
Thin red threads connected them to a large architectural drawing of the estate.
Not targets.
Routes.
Each photograph corresponded to a location, entrance, or daily movement.
Someone had been documenting the routines of the people closest to him.
On a narrow desk sat a black notebook, a fountain pen, and a small brass key.
The notebook was open.
Lorenzo read the final entry.
November 28. Complete transfer before the family gathering.
A month away.
Below that was another sentence.
The child has begun noticing things.
Lorenzo closed the notebook.
He could tolerate threats against himself.
He had spent most of his adult life learning how.
But someone had written about Mia.
And suddenly the entire room felt unforgivable.
He took out his phone and called Daniel Russo.
"Come to the west corridor. Alone."
Daniel arrived six minutes later.
At forty-eight, he had served the Moretti family for more than twenty years.
His dark hair had begun turning gray near his temples. A faint scar crossed his left eyebrow.
He stopped when he saw the open door.
"How did you get inside?"
"Mia found it."
Daniel's expression changed.
"Clara's daughter?"
"Yes."
"Was she hurt?"
"No."
Daniel entered the room.
He examined the photographs without touching them.
Then he noticed the silver watch.
"That's impossible."
"You recognize him."
"Victor Salerno."
"Apparently, the dead have been enjoying lunch in Manhattan."
Daniel leaned closer.
"That photograph could be altered."
"So could his death certificate."
Daniel did not answer.
Lorenzo studied him.
"Who has access to this corridor?"
"Facilities. Senior security. You."
"And you."
Daniel met his eyes.
"Yes."
It was the answer Lorenzo expected.
It was also the answer he feared.
He pointed toward Mia's photograph.
"Someone took that from inside the house."
Daniel examined the angle.
"The upstairs breakfast room."
"Who has access?"
"Almost everyone."
"Find out who used it that afternoon."
Daniel nodded.
Then his attention shifted to the brass key.
He picked it up carefully.
His face lost color.
Lorenzo noticed.
"What?"
Daniel turned the key over.
A small number had been engraved near the handle.
17\.
"Your father used these keys for the old property records."
"Where?"
"The records were moved years ago."
"Where, Daniel?"
"To a private archive in White Plains."
Lorenzo held out his hand.
Daniel hesitated before returning the key.
That hesitation lasted barely a second.
It was enough.
"You're withholding something."
Daniel looked exhausted.
"Your father had enemies who never forgave him."
"My father has been dead for nine years."
"Grudges don't always end with funerals."
Lorenzo walked toward the door.
"Secure this room. No one enters without me."
"And Isabella?"
The question stopped him.
"What about Isabella?"
"Her photograph is there."
"I noticed."
"You should consider telling her."
Lorenzo looked back.
"Did she tell me about Victor Salerno?"
Daniel remained silent.
"Then perhaps we can both practice keeping secrets."
He left before Daniel could reply.
Clara was folding Mia's pajamas when Lorenzo appeared at the cottage.
The little house stood behind the estate's greenhouse.
It had white shutters, a narrow porch, and a kitchen that always smelled faintly of cinnamon.
Clara opened the door and immediately straightened.
"Mr. Moretti."
"Is Mia awake?"
"She's having dinner."
"I need to ask her something."
Clara looked frightened.
"Did she break anything?"
"No."
"Because if there's damage, I'll pay for it."
"Clara, stop."
He softened his voice.
"She's not in trouble."
Mia appeared behind her mother with tomato sauce on her chin.
"Uncle Lorenzo!"
She ran toward him.
"Did you find me?"
"Eventually."
"I won."
"You certainly did."
Mia grinned.
Then Lorenzo crouched.
"Sweetheart, how did you open that little door?"
Mia considered the question.
"I turned it."
"Was it locked?"
"Nope."
"Did someone show it to you?"
She shook her head.
"Did you see anyone near it?"
Mia looked toward Clara.
"Can I have more noodles?"
Clara gave Lorenzo an apologetic smile.
"She's three. Once she's hungry, the investigation is over."
Lorenzo almost smiled.
But something on the kitchen counter caught his attention.
A child's drawing.
A crooked yellow house.
Three stick figures.
A large black rectangle beside them.
And a man wearing something silver around his wrist.
"Did Mia draw this?"
Clara nodded.
"Yesterday."
Lorenzo picked it up.
"Who's the man?"
Mia followed his finger.
"The clock man."
Clara laughed gently.
"She calls watches clocks."
Lorenzo's stomach tightened.
"Where did you see him, Mia?"
"Outside."
"Outside where?"
She pointed through the kitchen window.
"By the flowers."
Clara's smile disappeared.
"Mia, what man?"
"The one with the shiny hand."
Lorenzo looked at the drawing again.
The silver watch had been colored gray.
"Did he speak to you?"
Mia nodded.
"What did he say?"
"He said my daddy had one."
Clara dropped the dish towel.
For a moment, nobody moved.
Lorenzo turned toward her.
"Clara?"
Her face had gone pale.
"That's impossible."
"What is?"
She stared at her daughter.
"Mia, honey, did he tell you his name?"
The little girl shook her head.
Then she pointed at the drawing again.
"He said Mommy knows."
Clara slowly sat down.
Lorenzo looked between them.
"What does that mean?"
Clara's fingers trembled against the table.
"My husband died before Mia turned one," she whispered. "His name was Thomas Bennett. He worked in accounting for Moretti Holdings."
Lorenzo remembered the name.
An internal auditor.
Quiet. Meticulous. Respected.
He had died in a highway accident.
"Thomas never mentioned Victor Salerno," Clara continued.
Lorenzo went still.
He had not told her Victor's name.
"How do you know about Salerno?"
Clara looked toward the window.
Then toward Mia.
"Because three days before my husband died, he came home with a silver watch."
Her voice broke.
"And he told me that if anyone ever came looking for it, I was supposed to say I'd never seen it."
Lorenzo stared at her.
"Where is that watch now?"
Clara closed her eyes.
"Thomas put it somewhere safe."
"Where?"
She looked at her daughter.
"In Mia's baby blanket."
Lorenzo felt the room turn silent.
Clara rose, walked to an old cedar chest, and lifted out a faded pink blanket.
She unfolded one corner.
Something heavy slipped into her palm.
A silver wristwatch.
May you like
On the back, beneath Antonio Moretti's engraved initials, someone had scratched a message.
LORENZO MUST NEVER TRUST THE WOMAN HE MARRIES.
