Chapter 3 - THE WATCH THAT SHOULD HAVE BEEN BURIED
“My uncle has that watch.”
Elena stepped backward.
For six years, she had believed keeping Sophie away from me was the only thing protecting our daughter.
Now she was looking at the man she had once loved, and I could see her struggling to decide whether the danger had followed me—or had been living beside me all along.
“Vittorio?” she whispered.
I nodded.
“No. That can't be right.”
“Why?”
“Because the man who threatened me wasn't Vittorio.”
That stopped me.
“What do you mean?”
“He was younger. Dark hair. A scar near his mouth.”
I felt a familiar chill.
“Did he give you a name?”
“No.”
“Did he have a silver ring?”
Elena stared at me.
“Yes.”
I knew the man.
Luca Ferraro.
Former Moretti security chief.
A man Vittorio had personally recommended to my father.
Luca had vanished after an internal investigation four years earlier.
At least, that was what Vittorio told me.
“Elena, I need you and Sophie somewhere safe.”
Her face hardened immediately.
“Absolutely not.”
“Someone threatened your life.”
“Six years ago. And she's alive because I stayed away.”
“You don't know that.”
“I know I've raised her alone. I know I've worked two jobs. I know I've spent five birthdays telling her that some families look different.”
Her voice cracked.
“And I know she still asks why other children have fathers waiting outside kindergarten.”
Every word landed exactly where it should.
I deserved them.
But there was something she didn't know.
“I looked for you.”
She shook her head.
“No, Dante. Don't.”
“For eleven months.”
“Stop.”
“I sent people to every hospital where you might have transferred. I went to your apartment. I spoke to your former supervisor.”
Elena's expression shifted.
“My supervisor told me you'd called.”
“Then you knew?”
“She said you wanted the bracelet back.”
I stared at her.
“What?”
“She said you'd sent someone to collect everything you gave me.”
“I never asked for anything back.”
We stood facing each other in the little front yard.
Six years of pain suddenly had a different shape.
Not abandonment.
Not betrayal.
Something deliberately built between us.
Elena pressed a hand against her mouth.
“She told me you'd moved on.”
I thought about Mrs. Katherine Bell, the hospital administrator who had assured me Elena had left New York voluntarily.
I remembered the expensive floral arrangement Vittorio had sent after my supposed heartbreak.
And for the first time, I wondered how many of my memories had been arranged by other people.
I wanted to take Elena and Sophie immediately.
But Elena refused to let fear make another decision for her.
Instead, she agreed to remain at Mrs. Alvarez's house while I investigated.
Angelo would station himself nearby without drawing attention.
Rico would remain with me.
No uniforms.
No visible weapons.
And no one was to frighten Sophie.
Before leaving, I watched Elena kneel beside her daughter through the front window.
Sophie held up her repaired sneaker.
Elena smiled.
Then Sophie said something that made her mother cover her face.
I couldn't hear the words.
But I recognized a child trying to comfort someone.
That hurt more than I expected.
At the mansion, Vittorio was finishing his espresso.
My uncle was sixty-three, impeccably dressed, with silver hair and the relaxed posture of a man accustomed to obedience.
He had been my father's closest adviser.
After Marco died, he had become the nearest thing I had to a second father.
“Dante,” he greeted warmly. “Your housekeeper tells me you've been chasing neighborhood children.”
I sat opposite him.
“Something like that.”
He smiled.
“Perhaps Bruno is getting sentimental.”
“Perhaps.”
His gold watch rested beside his coffee cup.
A vintage Patek Philippe with a scratched crystal.
My father's watch.
I had seen it hundreds of times.
That morning, it looked like evidence.
“Where were you six years ago?” I asked.
Vittorio raised an eyebrow.
“That's an unusual question.”
“September. The week Elena Carter disappeared.”
His expression remained calm.
“Ah. Elena.”
“You remember her?”
“Of course. She broke your heart.”
“She didn't leave voluntarily.”
Vittorio slowly set down his cup.
“According to whom?”
“Her.”
A silence settled between us.
My uncle folded his napkin.
“Dante, a woman reappearing with a child after six years should make you cautious.”
I felt something harden inside me.
“I didn't mention a child.”
Vittorio didn't blink.
“You mentioned a neighborhood girl. It wasn't difficult to infer.”
It was a reasonable answer.
Too reasonable.
“You knew Elena was pregnant.”
He looked genuinely surprised.
“Was she?”
“Don't.”
“Dante, I understand why you're upset. But grief can make people believe extraordinary things.”
I stood.
“Where is Luca Ferraro?”
Vittorio's spoon stopped moving.
There it was.
Not much.
A hesitation.
But enough.
“He left our employment years ago.”
“Where?”
“I have no idea.”
“Then you won't mind if I investigate.”
My uncle rose.
“Do what you must. But remember something your father taught us.”
I looked at him.
“Blood makes us family,” he said. “Trust keeps us alive.”
I almost laughed.
My father had said those words the night he disowned Marco for refusing to join the business.
“Sometimes,” I replied, “family is exactly what makes trust dangerous.”
Vittorio studied me.
Then he left.
I called my longtime accountant and friend, Samuel Price, to my office.
Samuel had worked for my legitimate businesses for twelve years.
He had also known Elena.
Unlike most of my employees, he had never pretended she was temporary.
When I told him about Sophie, his glasses slid down his nose.
“Good Lord, Dante.”
“Find every payment to Luca Ferraro. Six years back.”
Samuel looked troubled.
“That's difficult.”
“Why?”
“Because Luca was removed from the official payroll long before he disappeared.”
“Then find the unofficial payments.”
Samuel hesitated.
“Dante, there's something I should have told you.”
I felt my patience thinning.
“Then tell me now.”
He opened his leather briefcase.
Inside was a small envelope.
“I found this during the annual audit last December.”
He placed it on my desk.
Inside was a photocopy of a medical reimbursement request.
Elena Carter's name appeared across the top.
Beneath it was an address in Philadelphia.
And a payment authorized through one of our charitable foundations.
I scanned the document.
“Who approved it?”
Samuel pointed.
The authorization bore my signature.
Except I had never signed it.
“Someone forged this.”
“I suspected as much.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
Samuel looked ashamed.
“Vittorio said Elena was receiving discreet support because you'd asked him to protect her privacy.”
I closed my eyes.
“He told you that?”
“Yes.”
I looked again at the document.
The payment was dated three months after Elena disappeared.
“What medical care?”
Samuel swallowed.
“Prenatal.”
For a moment, I forgot how to breathe.
Someone had known.
Someone had paid for her pregnancy.
And someone had used my name to do it.
By late afternoon, Samuel had uncovered seven similar payments.
Each had traveled through a different shell company.
All seven ended at the same medical office.
A small women's clinic outside Philadelphia.
The records indicated the patient had delivered a healthy baby girl in March.
Sophie.
My daughter.
There it was, written in plain ink.
Not proof of paternity in a legal sense.
But enough to make the world tilt beneath my feet.
I sat staring at the paper.
For five years, I had missed every ordinary moment.
Her first steps.
Her first birthday.
Her first scraped knee.
The day she learned to tie a shoe.
And somehow, the worst part wasn't what had been stolen from me.
It was knowing Elena had carried all of it alone.
Samuel quietly left.
I remained at my desk until the afternoon light began fading.
Then Rico entered.
“Boss, Angelo found something.”
I looked up.
“What?”
“There was a gray sedan parked near Mrs. Alvarez's house.”
My body went cold.
“Did it approach them?”
“No. It drove away when Angelo stepped outside.”
“License plate?”
“Covered.”
I stood.
“Get the vehicles ready.”
Rico hesitated.
“There's more.”
He held out a photograph recovered from the sidewalk.
A recent picture of Sophie walking beside Elena.
Across the bottom, someone had written:
She has his eyes.
I felt rage rise through my chest.
Then I turned the photograph over.
On the back was a drawing of a blue star.
And beneath it, a date.
May you like
Friday.
Three days away.
