Chapter 2 - THE MAN WHO WANTED ME DEAD
“Lorenzo,” the elderly man whispered, pointing past my shoulder. “The person who ordered that baby's death is standing in this room.”
I turned.
And found myself staring at a distinguished gentleman in a charcoal-gray suit.
He stood beside the charity auction table, holding a glass of whiskey. His silver hair was perfectly combed, and a gold watch rested against his wrist.
He looked like someone's beloved grandfather.
Then Lorenzo spoke.
“Uncle Vittorio?”
The gentleman's smile disappeared.
For one terrible moment, nobody moved.
Lorenzo's hand remained protectively around mine, but I could feel the tension running through his body.
“Explain yourself, Aldo,” he said.
The elderly man leaned heavily on his cane.
His name was Aldo Rinaldi. I learned that he had served the Moretti family for nearly fifty years.
And he was trembling.
“Twenty-four years ago,” Aldo said, “Vittorio gave an order concerning Isabella Valenti and her newborn daughter.”
Valenti.
The name struck me harder than anything else.
My mother had always been Isabella Parker.
At least, that was what I believed.
“That's impossible,” I whispered.
Vittorio approached slowly.
“Aldo,” he said, almost kindly, “you're confusing a terrible tragedy with something else.”
“Am I?”
“You've carried your guilt for twenty-four years. Don't put it on innocent people.”
Aldo's eyes filled with tears.
“I heard what you said.”
Vittorio glanced toward the watching guests.
“Perhaps this isn't the place.”
“It became the place,” Lorenzo answered, “when you recognized her necklace.”
Vittorio looked at my chest.
For the first time, I saw genuine fear in his eyes.
Then it vanished.
“Where did you find this girl?”
Lorenzo's voice hardened.
“She was working here.”
“Convenient.”
The word burned.
“I didn't come looking for anyone,” I said. “I came because my rent is overdue.”
Vittorio studied my face.
“Your mother was Isabella Valenti?”
“Yes.”
“And she told you nothing about this family?”
“She told me to stay away from men who believed money made them better than everyone else.”
A few guests shifted uncomfortably.
Lorenzo almost smiled.
Vittorio didn't.
Instead, he said something that made my stomach twist.
“Your mother stole from this family, Elena.”
I shook my head.
“No.”
“She disappeared with money belonging to people who trusted her. Her husband helped her.”
“My mother wasn't married.”
Aldo lowered his head.
“Your father was Gabriel Vieri.”
The ballroom seemed to tilt.
I had spent twenty-four years believing my father died before I was born.
My mother rarely spoke of him.
Whenever I asked, she would kiss my forehead and say, “He was brave. That's what matters.”
Vittorio sighed.
“Gabriel was responsible for a warehouse fire that killed eight people. Isabella helped him hide the evidence.”
“Stop,” I whispered.
But he continued.
“Your mother took a new name because she had something to hide.”
I looked at Lorenzo.
He wasn't defending his uncle.
He wasn't defending me, either.
He was watching Vittorio carefully.
“Which warehouse?” Lorenzo asked.
Vittorio hesitated.
“Pier Fourteen.”
Aldo struck his cane against the floor.
“Gabriel Vieri didn't start that fire!”
Several guests gasped.
Vittorio turned sharply.
“You weren't there.”
“No,” Aldo answered. “But your brother was.”
Lorenzo went completely still.
His father, Pietro Moretti, had died eleven years earlier.
“Don't bring my father into this,” Lorenzo said quietly.
“Then ask your uncle why your mother drove to the river that night.”
Vittorio's jaw tightened.
I barely heard them.
My thoughts were racing backward through childhood memories.
My mother teaching me to dance in our cramped Queens apartment.
My mother refusing to walk near the East River.
My mother waking from nightmares and checking the locks twice.
And the little silver necklace she placed around my neck on my twelfth birthday.
Keep this safe, sweetheart. It belongs to the part of our family nobody can take away.
She had died three years ago.
Now strangers were telling me she had lived under a false name.
I pulled my hand from Lorenzo's.
“I want to leave.”
“Elena—”
“No. You brought me onto that dance floor, and now your family is calling my mother a criminal.”
His expression changed.
“You're right.”
He turned toward the watching crowd.
“This evening is over.”
Vittorio stepped forward.
“You cannot dismiss a hundred guests because of one maid.”
Lorenzo looked at him.
“Watch me.”
The orchestra stopped.
His security chief quietly instructed the staff to open the ballroom doors.
As the guests began leaving, the brunette in the sparkling red gown approached us.
I recognized her immediately.
She was the woman who had laughed when Lorenzo asked me to dance.
Her name was Bianca Vescari.
She was one of the charity gala's organizers.
And she looked terrified.
“Lorenzo,” she whispered, “you need to stop this before someone gets hurt.”
He narrowed his eyes.
“What do you know?”
Bianca glanced at Vittorio.
Then at me.
“I didn't think she was really Isabella's daughter.”
My blood went cold.
“What?”
Bianca covered her mouth.
Lorenzo stepped closer.
“Bianca. Explain.”
She looked toward the service entrance, where my abandoned champagne tray still sat.
Then she whispered:
“Because Elena Parker wasn't hired for tonight by accident.”
She swallowed.
“Vittorio gave me her name six weeks ago.”
May you like
And then she said the words that made every person around us fall silent.
“He told me to bring her here wearing that necklace.”
