Chapter 2 - The Woman Who Walked Away
By sunrise, I had made a decision.
I would not go back to Vincent.
Not because I hated him.
That would have been easier.
I still loved him.
That was the part nobody warned you about when they told you to leave someone who had hurt you.
Love did not disappear simply because your dignity finally became louder.
I loved the man who used to sit beside my hospital bed when I was sick.
I loved the man who remembered that I hated thunderstorms because they reminded me of the night my father died.
I loved the man who once drove three hours through a blizzard because I had casually mentioned that I wanted a specific pie from a bakery that would close at six.
But somewhere between those memories and the woman in the warehouse, Vincent had built a life where I always came second.
I was done fighting for first place.
My mother made coffee while I studied the blue box.
Inside, beneath the photograph and brass key, I found an old USB drive.
There was no label.
“Your father used that?” I asked.
“I have never seen it.”
I plugged it into my laptop.
A password screen appeared.
I tried his birthday.
Wrong.
My birthday.
Wrong.
My mother’s name.
Wrong.
Then I remembered something.
My father used to say one sentence whenever he gave me a birthday card.
“Always count the things people forget.”
I typed:
The date I was born.
The drive opened.
A single folder appeared.
SOUTH MARKET.
Inside were scans of shipment ledgers, invoices, bank transfers, photographs, and dozens of names.
I leaned closer.
My father had been an accountant.
He had discovered that shipments arriving at Moretti warehouses were being rerouted through shell companies.
The official cargo was listed as electronics, food, machinery, and construction equipment.
But the payments were different.
Millions of dollars had flowed through accounts connected to a network of private companies.
At the bottom of every page was the same signature.
G. VOSS.
My mother saw my face.
“What is it?”
“Gabriel Voss.”
She went pale.
“Who is that?”
“Vincent’s right-hand man.”
The laptop suddenly felt too heavy.
Gabriel had been part of Vincent’s inner circle for as long as I could remember.
He sent birthday flowers.
He delivered wedding gifts.
He attended family dinners.
He had even stood beside Vincent at my wedding.
I remembered his expression that day.
Calm.
Professional.
Almost fatherly.
Now I looked at those documents and wondered how many lies had been hidden behind that smile.
My phone buzzed.
A message from Vincent.
DO NOT OPEN ANYTHING ELSE ON THAT DRIVE.
I stared at it.
Then another message arrived.
THE FILES ARE REAL.
A third.
BUT THEY ARE INCOMPLETE.
I typed back.
YOU EXPECT ME TO TRUST YOU?
His reply came instantly.
NO.
I paused.
Then:
I EXPECT YOU TO SURVIVE.
I locked the phone.
My mother watched me.
“Was it Vincent?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
“He says the files are incomplete.”
“That’s what your father always feared.”
I looked at her.
“You knew?”
“I knew he believed somebody was hiding the truth.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I was trying to keep you alive.”
The words sounded impossible.
Yet suddenly every strange moment from my childhood seemed different.
My father had always checked the locks twice.
He never liked restaurants with windows.
He hated being photographed.
He had once told me never to tell anyone where we kept emergency documents.
At the time, I thought he was paranoid.
Now I wondered whether he had simply been careful.
A knock sounded at the front door.
My mother froze.
I whispered, “Did anyone know I was here?”
“No.”
Another knock.
Harder.
I closed the laptop.
“Go upstairs.”
“Claire—”
“Now.”
I grabbed the fireplace poker.
Another knock.
Then a man's voice.
“Mrs. Moretti?”
I did not move.
“We know you're inside.”
My mother grabbed my arm.
“They found us.”
The back door suddenly slammed open.
Two men entered.
One wore a dark coat.
The other held a gun.
My mother screamed.
I pushed her toward the hallway.
“Run!”
The gunman fired.
The bullet struck the wall.
I grabbed a chair and threw it.
The weapon fell from his hand.
The second man rushed me.
I hit him with the poker.
He stumbled.
My mother ran upstairs.
I grabbed the laptop and the USB drive.
Then I heard tires outside.
A black SUV.
But this time I recognized the vehicle.
Moretti security.
The front door exploded inward.
Vincent's men stormed the house.
The two attackers ran for the back.
Three security agents chased them.
Vincent entered seconds later.
His black coat was dusted with snow.
His eyes found mine immediately.
“Are you hurt?”
I stared at him.
“You followed me.”
“I tracked the men following you.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
His jaw clenched.
“No. I tracked the people who were tracking you.”
I looked at the blood on my sleeve.
“My arm is fine.”
Vincent stepped closer.
“You were attacked again.”
“I noticed.”
He glanced at the shattered window.
Then toward the upstairs hallway.
“Your mother?”
“Safe.”
He exhaled.
For a moment, the dangerous Vincent disappeared.
I saw the husband.
The man who used to hold me in his sleep.
“Claire.”
I looked away.
“I’m still divorcing you.”
“I know.”
“You can stop following me.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
“Because the men who came here knew exactly where you would be.”
I folded my arms.
“Then protect Sofia.”
Pain flashed across his face.
“I deserve that.”
“Yes, you do.”
A long silence followed.
Then Vincent said,
“Gabriel Voss is missing.”
I froze.
“What?”
“He disappeared from his office two hours ago.”
“And you think he’s behind this?”
“I think he knows why your father died.”
The room went still.
Vincent looked toward the laptop.
“What did you find?”
“Nothing you need to know.”
“Claire.”
“Why should I tell you?”
“Because I am trying to keep you alive.”
“You were trying to keep Sofia alive.”
His face tightened.
“Yes.”
“And what am I?”
He stepped closer.
“My wife.”
I laughed without humor.
“Not anymore.”
He looked as though the words physically hurt.
Before he could answer, one of his men approached.
“Boss.”
Vincent turned.
“We caught one of them.”
“Alive?”
“Yes.”
“Bring him.”
The man was dragged into the kitchen.
He had blood on his face.
Vincent crouched in front of him.
“Who sent you?”
The man smiled.
“Ask your wife.”
I stiffened.
Vincent's eyes darkened.
“What did you say?”
The man laughed.
“She has no idea what she married into.”
Vincent grabbed his collar.
“Who sent you?”
The man's smile faded.
“South Market.”
Vincent went still.
My mother made a small sound behind me.
The attacker looked directly at me.
“Your father didn't die in an accident.”
My entire body went numb.
“What?”
“He was killed.”
Vincent turned toward me.
The man continued.
“He kept records. Somebody paid to make them disappear.”
“Who?”
The attacker smiled again.
Then bit down.
Vincent lunged forward.
Too late.
The man's body went limp.
My mother screamed.
Vincent stood slowly.
His face had become something terrifying.
Not anger.
Recognition.
“You knew,” I whispered.
He looked at me.
“I suspected.”
“For how long?”
“Years.”
“And you said nothing.”
“I didn't have proof.”
“You could have told me my father might have been murdered.”
“I was trying to protect you.”
“By lying to me?”
Vincent had no answer.
I stepped backward.
“You kept Sofia safe because you made a promise to her father.”
His eyes dropped.
“And you kept me ignorant because of mine.”
“It wasn't that simple.”
“Nothing is ever simple with you.”
I held up the USB drive.
“I am going to find out what happened to my father.”
Vincent's face hardened.
“No.”
I stared at him.
“You don't get to tell me no.”
“Claire, the people connected to this are not going to stop.”
“Neither am I.”
He stepped closer.
For a second, I thought he might grab me.
Instead, he stopped.
“I know.”
His voice was soft.
“That is what scares me.”
I turned away.
That night, Vincent slept in the hallway outside my mother's bedroom because he refused to leave the property.
I didn't sleep at all.
At three in the morning, I opened the USB again.
There was one encrypted folder I had missed.
I entered the brass key number.
The folder opened.
Inside was a scanned letter.
The letter was from my father.
It was addressed to me.
Claire,
If you're reading this, it means you've finally learned that the truth is buried deeper than money.
Do not trust the man closest to the Moretti throne.
He is not loyal to Vincent.
He is loyal to power.
And if you have already married Vincent, remember this:
The woman everyone thinks is his weakness may be the only person who can save him.
At the bottom, my father had written one name.
SOFIA RUSSO.
I stared at it until the letters blurred.
The woman I thought had stolen my husband might have been connected to the truth all along.
May you like
And for the first time, I wondered whether Sofia Russo was Vincent's greatest weakness.
Or the person standing closest to the knife.
