Chapter 2 - THE WATCH IN MATTEO’S DRAWER
The fourth transfer cleared at 11:17 Saturday morning.
Norah stared at the confirmation.
Twelve million, eight hundred thousand dollars.
Twenty percent of four contingency accounts.
She felt no thrill.
Only relief.
The baby shifted beneath her ribs, and Norah rested one hand over the movement.
“We’re going,” she whispered.
Not forever, perhaps.
She was careful enough not to make promises she could not keep.
But they were going somewhere Matteo could not walk into a room, raise his voice, and decide the discussion was over.
Norah removed the flash drive.
She wiped the keyboard exactly as she had found it.
Then she opened Matteo’s bottom desk drawer.
Her passports should have been there.
Matteo kept them with his own because, according to him, it was safer.
Norah had stopped questioning years ago why safety always seemed to require him controlling the things she might need to leave.
The drawer was locked.
She used the small brass key Matteo kept behind a framed photograph of his father.
Inside were passports, property deeds, emergency cash—
and a silver pocket watch.
Norah stopped breathing.
The room seemed to tilt.
She knew the scratch across the face.
She knew the initials engraved into the back.
T.Q.
Thomas Quinn.
Her father.
“No.”
Her fingers trembled when she lifted it.
Her father had carried that watch every day of Norah’s childhood.
At breakfast, he set it beside his coffee.
At church, he checked it when sermons ran long.
When Norah was twelve, she had dropped it while sneaking it from his nightstand. The scratch had remained across the glass ever since.
Her father had died eight years ago.
The authorities had recovered almost nothing after the warehouse fire.
Norah had been told the watch had been found among what little remained and buried with him.
Apparently, someone had lied.
She pressed the release.
The watch opened.
The hands had stopped at 7:14.
Underneath it lay a photograph.
Norah pulled it free.
Three men stood outside an old Italian restaurant near the Boston waterfront.
Her father was one.
Matteo was another.
He looked younger—late twenties, perhaps—with harder eyes and less weight on his shoulders.
The third man was Salvatore Rossi.
Matteo’s uncle.
His mentor.
The man who had practically raised Matteo after his parents died.
Norah flipped the photograph over.
Three words were written in her father’s careful handwriting.
Trust neither brother.
Norah stared.
Brother?
Salvatore had only one brother.
Vittorio Rossi.
Matteo’s father.
Dead fifteen years.
Norah sat slowly.
Her father had never told her he knew the Rossis.
Certainly not Matteo.
When she and Matteo met six years ago at a charity dinner, he had acted as though Thomas Quinn was nothing more than a name he had heard in old stories.
A bookkeeper for another family.
A cautious man who had survived longer than most.
Another lie.
Norah heard movement behind her.
She spun.
Arthur Cole stood in the doorway.
Matteo’s head of security was fifty-two, broad shouldered, silver beginning to show at his temples.
He looked at the open drawer.
Then the watch.
The color drained from his face.
“Where did you get that?”
Norah almost laughed.
“In my husband’s desk.”
Arthur entered and closed the door.
“Put it back.”
“No.”
“Mrs. Rossi—”
“Don’t call me that right now.”
Arthur stopped.
Norah held up the photograph.
“Did Matteo know my father?”
Arthur’s silence answered before his mouth did.
“How long?”
“Norah.”
“How long?”
Arthur exhaled.
“Before you.”
Something hot broke through her numbness.
“All these years.”
“I can’t explain this.”
“You mean you won’t.”
“I mean some explanations will put you in more danger than ignorance ever did.”
Norah stood.
“I am seven months pregnant, my husband is sleeping with another woman, twelve million dollars just left his private accounts, and apparently he kept my dead father’s watch in a locked drawer.”
She stepped closer.
“I think we are past ignorance being useful.”
Arthur’s gaze dropped toward her laptop.
“You moved the money.”
It was not a question.
Norah did not answer.
Arthur closed his eyes briefly.
“That changes the timeline.”
“What timeline?”
Instead of answering, he crossed to the wall monitor.
The Rossi estate had dozens of surveillance cameras. Arthur entered a code and pulled up the front drive.
A black sedan was approaching the outer gate.
Norah recognized it immediately.
Salvatore.
“What is he doing here?”
“He told Matteo yesterday he’d be in New York until Monday.”
Norah looked at the watch.
“Did the transfer alert him?”
“Possibly.”
“Why would Matteo’s uncle receive alerts about Matteo’s private money?”
Arthur’s jaw tightened.
“That is exactly what I’ve been trying to figure out for three years.”
The gate opened.
Norah’s pulse quickened.
“Arthur.”
He looked at her.
“Is Matteo coming back?”
Arthur hesitated.
Norah knew.
“He is.”
“His jet turned around ninety minutes ago.”
She gave a bitter little laugh.
“So he finally got homesick.”
“He didn’t turn around because of Harper.”
That hurt less than it should have.
Arthur checked another feed.
Salvatore’s sedan stopped.
Three men got out with him.
Arthur stiffened.
Norah noticed.
“What?”
“Those men don’t work estate security.”
“Then who are they?”
“Salvatore’s private crew.”
Arthur looked toward the desk.
“Take your suitcase.”
Norah did not move.
“You work for Matteo.”
“I work for this house.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you have time for.”
Arthur opened the study door.
Then stopped.
His gaze returned to the silver watch.
“Whatever happens in the next ten minutes, do not let Salvatore know you found that.”
“Why?”
Arthur’s expression changed.
For the first time since Norah had known him, the man looked frightened.
“Because your father had that watch the night he died.”
Footsteps sounded in the marble foyer.
Slow.
Confident.
A familiar voice called from downstairs.
“Arthur?”
Salvatore.
Arthur drew his weapon.
Norah’s hand closed around the watch.
Another set of footsteps approached the study.
Arthur moved in front of her.
But Salvatore did not wait to be invited.
The door swung inward.
He stood there in an immaculate navy coat, three armed men behind him.
His eyes moved first to Norah.
Then to the suitcase.
Then to the open desk drawer.
His pleasant expression disappeared.
“Norah,” he said quietly.
His gaze dropped toward her closed fist.
May you like
“Step away from my nephew’s desk.”
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