Chapter 5 - MY WIFE WAS ALIVE, BUT SHE NO LONGER TRUSTED ME
Those words stopped me more effectively than any weapon ever could.
“Bella,” I whispered. “I searched for you.”
Isabella stood perfectly still.
Her brown hair was shorter.
There was a faint scar near her temple.
And the woman who once ran into my arms every evening now looked at me as though I might be another danger she needed to survive.
“You searched?” she asked.
“For months.”
“Then why didn't you come?”
“I didn't know where you were.”
She shook her head.
“I sent letters.”
My breath caught.
“What letters?”
“Twelve. Maybe thirteen. I stopped counting.”
“I never received them.”
She laughed once.
A terrible, exhausted sound.
“That's what I wanted to believe.”
Sophie ran between us.
“Mommy!”
Isabella dropped to her knees.
She wrapped both arms around our daughter and held her tightly.
“Oh, sweetheart.”
Sophie patted her cheek.
“Daddy found me.”
Isabella looked up.
I watched the hope and fear fight across her face.
“He did,” she whispered.
“Daddy broke bike.”
I closed my eyes.
Of all the ways my daughter could introduce me.
Isabella looked startled.
“What?”
“I'm responsible,” I said. “My driver hit her bicycle. She's been examined at the hospital. She's all right, and I filed the accident report.”
Isabella searched my face.
“Are you sure?”
“I stayed with her. The doctor gave us instructions.”
She looked down at Sophie.
“Any ouchies?”
Sophie shook her head.
“Bike ouchie.”
Despite everything, Isabella smiled.
Just for a second.
Then she looked at me again.
“Thank you for taking care of her.”
I couldn't bear the distance in her voice.
“She's my daughter.”
Isabella's eyes filled.
“I know.”
Two words.
Four years of pain.
Mrs. Whitaker took Sophie into the front room for warm milk and cookies.
She kept the connecting door open so Isabella could see her.
Vincent remained outside with Mason.
For the first time in four years, I was alone with my wife.
I didn't touch her.
I didn't demand an explanation.
I sat across from her at a small wooden table.
“Tell me what happened.”
Isabella rubbed her fingers together.
“The morning I disappeared, Vincent told me there had been a threat against the baby.”
I felt sick.
“He said you were sending me somewhere safe.”
“That's what I intended.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“You knew I was leaving?”
“I knew Vincent was moving you away from the estate during the attacks. I thought it was temporary. I expected to see you that evening.”
She looked down.
“That isn't what they told me.”
“Who?”
“Vincent. Rafe.”
I closed my eyes.
“They showed me a security order bearing your authorization. Then they told me you'd decided I was too dangerous to keep near the organization.”
“Bella—”
“I begged Vincent to let me speak to you.”
Her voice trembled.
“He said contacting you would put the baby in danger.”
I looked toward the window.
My brother was standing near the car.
For the first time, I understood the true size of his betrayal.
Not just years.
Not just lies.
He had stolen every chance we'd had to save our marriage.
“Why didn't you escape?”
“I tried.”
She pushed back her sleeve.
There was a faint old mark on her wrist.
Not enough to tell me exactly what had happened.
Enough to make my stomach turn.
“Rafe controlled the roads and the people assigned to watch the cottage. Vincent brought food, medicine, books. Sometimes he was kind.”
She paused.
“Sometimes he was the reason the door stayed locked.”
“Did he hurt you?”
“Not the way Rafe wanted him to.”
I waited.
She swallowed.
“When Sophie was born, Vincent argued with Rafe about moving us. I heard him say that if anyone touched the baby, he'd tell you everything.”
My anger shifted.
Not disappeared.
Shifted.
Vincent had helped keep them imprisoned.
But he'd also drawn a line.
Far too late.
“Six weeks ago,” Isabella continued, “I realized Rafe was transferring foundation money again. I found numbers that matched the records I'd copied before I disappeared.”
“You were still investigating?”
“I had to know why our lives were destroyed.”
She reached into a cabinet.
She removed a faded blue notebook.
Its corners were bent.
The cover was stained.
But she held it like something priceless.
“This is why Rafe wanted me silenced.”
I leaned forward.
Inside were handwritten dates, account numbers, donor names, and payments.
Some entries were circled in red.
“These transfers went through foundation accounts?” I asked.
She nodded.
“Money intended for struggling families was being diverted into companies connected to your shipping operations.”
I studied the pages.
The amounts were enormous.
Hundreds of thousands.
Then millions.
“Rafe.”
“Yes.”
But her expression changed when I turned another page.
“Dominic, there's more.”
I stopped.
She pointed to a column of initials beside payments spanning nearly four years.
V.M.
Vincent Moretti.
Again.
And again.
And again.
My brother's name appeared beside almost every transfer.
I looked up.
May you like
Isabella's voice broke.
“Your brother wasn't just keeping us hidden, Dominic. His name was attached to the money that made it possible.”
Related Stories
