Chapter 4 - The Redheaded Woman Knew Why My Mother's Car Never Reached the BridgeBy sunrise, Daniel Mercer had disappeared.
His apartment was empty.
His phone was disconnected.
And the security company employing him claimed he had resigned two weeks earlier.
"Convenient," I said.
Massimo stood beside Tony in the estate's security room.
Three monitors showed Mercer's final known movements.
He had driven past the library, stopped near a hotel in Midtown Manhattan, and entered an underground parking garage.
He hadn't been seen leaving.
"Someone is moving him," Tony said.
"Or protecting him," Massimo replied.
I studied the screen.
"Who owns the hotel?"
Tony checked his tablet.
"Lombardi Hospitality Group."
Of course.
Every road seemed to lead back to the same company.
I turned toward Massimo.
"We need to speak with Daria."
He shook his head.
"Not yet."
"She has access to Lombardi properties. Her car entered your estate before the shooting. She tried to damage our marriage yesterday, and now Mercer disappears into a Lombardi hotel."
"I know."
"Then why are we waiting?"
"Because Daria lies when she's frightened. And right now, she doesn't know how much we've found."
I considered that.
He was right.
Confronting her too early would give her time to destroy evidence.
I hated that he was right.
"Fine," I said. "Then we make her come to us."
Massimo looked interested.
"How?"
I smiled.
"By giving her something she wants."
That afternoon, the Falcone Foundation hosted its annual waterfront fundraiser at a private event space overlooking the East River.
The event had been scheduled months earlier.
Under ordinary circumstances, Massimo would have canceled it after the wedding attack.
Instead, I suggested we attend.
Together.
Publicly.
"Your family needs to see us united," I told him.
"And Daria?"
"She needs to believe we're distracted by our honeymoon."
He laughed.
"Sweetheart, you're developing a dangerous talent for manipulation."
I picked up my silver knife from the dresser.
"Call me sweetheart again, and you'll discover my other talents."
He smiled.
The nickname no longer irritated me quite as much.
I chose a deep emerald evening gown with long sleeves and a fitted waist.
Nothing about it was innocent.
I wanted every person at that fundraiser to understand that I wasn't a frightened Rosetti daughter waiting for someone to tell her what to do.
Massimo entered my dressing room just as I finished fastening my earrings.
He stopped in the doorway.
For once, he said nothing.
I turned.
"What?"
He cleared his throat.
"Nothing."
"Massimo."
"You look beautiful."
The compliment was so straightforward that I almost didn't know how to respond.
"Thank you."
He approached and offered his arm.
"Ready?"
"Not remotely."
"Neither am I."
That made me smile.
We arrived beneath a canopy of camera flashes.
Reporters shouted questions about the wedding shooting.
Had the Rosettis ordered the attack?
Was the marriage already collapsing?
Would the Falcones retaliate?
Massimo ignored them until one journalist asked whether I feared my own family.
He stopped.
The crowd quieted.
"My wife was the target of an act of violence," he said firmly. "Anyone suggesting she is responsible should consider their evidence before making accusations."
Then he placed his hand against my back.
"Rosalia and I are investigating what happened. We intend to find the truth."
The cameras erupted.
I looked up at him.
He hadn't called me his possession.
He hadn't demanded obedience.
He had stood beside me.
Somehow, that mattered more than it should have.
Inside, the ballroom glowed beneath enormous chandeliers.
Politicians, businessmen, lawyers, and socialites mingled over champagne.
Massimo's sister Carmela approached us.
"You two look convincing."
I raised an eyebrow.
"Convincing?"
"Like you actually enjoy each other's company."
Massimo slipped an arm around my waist.
"We're working on it."
Carmela's expression softened.
For the first time, she smiled at me.
Then her gaze moved over my shoulder.
"Brace yourselves."
Daria Bellini was approaching.
She wore a scarlet gown and diamonds that probably cost more than most people's houses.
Her smile was flawless.
Her eyes were not.
"Massimo," she said. "Rosalia."
"Daria," I replied.
She examined my gown.
"How brave of you to attend after everything that's happened."
"How thoughtful of you to notice."
Massimo's hand tightened slightly against my waist.
Daria looked at him.
"I hear you're investigating the shooting."
"Yes."
"Such an unfortunate misunderstanding between the families."
I smiled.
"Interesting word."
"What word?"
"Misunderstanding. Most people call an assassination attempt something else."
Daria laughed.
"Of course. I only meant—"
"Who told you the families were involved?"
Her smile faltered.
Massimo watched silently.
"Everyone has been discussing it," she replied.
"Of course."
I glanced around the ballroom.
"Speaking of family connections, I understand you work with Lombardi Maritime."
Daria lifted her chin.
"My consulting firm handles several of their hospitality and development contracts."
"Only hospitality?"
"Mostly."
"Not security?"
A flicker of annoyance crossed her face.
"Why would I handle security?"
"I was curious."
She looked at Massimo.
"Your wife asks a lot of questions."
He smiled faintly.
"One of her better qualities."
Daria's face tightened.
Before she could respond, a waiter approached with champagne.
I accepted a glass.
Massimo refused.
We walked away together.
"She's nervous," I whispered.
"Yes."
"Did you notice her reaction to security?"
"Yes."
"You're annoyingly observant."
"Occupational hazard."
We made our way toward the private offices above the ballroom.
Tony had arranged for us to meet the foundation's independent accountant, a man named Andrew Pierce.
Pierce was pale, sweating, and clutching a leather folder.
"I don't have much time," he whispered.
Massimo shut the office door.
"Start talking."
Pierce opened the folder.
"Three years ago, the Harbor Relief Initiative transferred nearly eighteen million dollars through a series of development contracts."
"To whom?" I asked.
"Companies controlled by the Lombardi group, several Rosetti subcontractors, and a Falcone security subsidiary."
Massimo examined the records.
"These contracts were supposed to be terminated."
"They were," Pierce replied. "On paper."
I leaned forward.
"What happened in reality?"
"Payments continued through replacement companies with different names. One received a large transfer last month."
"Which one?"
"Bellini Strategic Holdings."
Daria.
I felt a surge of cold satisfaction.
Pierce continued.
"I also found something strange about the foundation's governance records."
He handed me a document.
My mother's signature appeared at the bottom.
The amended agreement from after her funeral.
"Can you prove it's forged?" I asked.
"Not alone. But the original trustee registration includes a scanned copy of her signature. The amended document uses an exact digital duplicate, including a tiny ink blemish from the registration paper."
I stared at it.
"Someone copied her signature."
"Yes."
The mystery of how a dead woman had signed a contract was suddenly less supernatural.
And much uglier.
Someone had stolen her identity to keep taking money in her name.
"Who submitted the amendment?" Massimo asked.
Pierce checked his notes.
"A corporate representative working for Bellini Strategic Holdings."
I looked at Massimo.
"Daria."
He nodded grimly.
Before we could ask another question, someone knocked.
Tony opened the door.
"Boss. Your father is asking for you."
Massimo's expression changed.
"Where?"
"Downstairs. Private lounge."
I stood.
"I'm coming."
Massimo hesitated.
Then nodded.
Vito Falcone waited beside a marble fireplace.
He was a broad-shouldered man in his early sixties, with silver hair and an expression that suggested he'd spent his life frightening people into agreement.
My mother had once insisted I call him Uncle Vito.
That had been before the families stopped pretending they were friends.
When I was little, he brought expensive gifts to our Christmas parties.
Now I wondered how much blood had paid for them.
"Massimo," he said. "We need to speak privately."
"Rosalia stays."
Vito's eyes narrowed.
"This concerns family business."
"Then she's family."
The words landed heavily.
Vito stared at his son.
Then looked at me.
"Your mother would be ashamed of what you're doing."
Every muscle in my body went rigid.
"Don't."
He frowned.
"Excuse me?"
"Don't use my mother's memory to frighten me."
Vito stepped closer.
"Isabella understood that some sacrifices were necessary to maintain peace."
"She died trying to expose your agreements."
His expression changed.
Barely.
But I saw it.
Massimo did too.
"Tell us about the Harbor Relief Initiative," my husband said.
Vito's jaw tightened.
"Old business."
"Then you won't mind answering a few questions."
"I won't discuss internal matters in front of a Rosetti."
I laughed bitterly.
"That's convenient, considering the Rosetti money involved."
Vito looked furious.
Massimo moved slightly between us.
"Father."
The warning was quiet.
Effective.
Vito turned toward him.
"You're allowing this girl to turn you against your own blood."
"No," Massimo replied. "I'm asking why my father's companies received money from a fraudulent charity."
Vito stared.
For the first time, his confidence cracked.
"Who gave you those records?"
"Does it matter?"
"Yes."
"Then explain why."
Vito looked away.
A long silence followed.
Finally, he said, "That agreement prevented a war."
"And what did it cost?" Massimo asked.
"Less than a war would have."
I stepped forward.
"Did it cost my mother's life?"
Vito looked at me sharply.
"No."
"Then why did you arrange for her wrecked car to be destroyed?"
His face drained of color.
I hadn't known whether Carmela's memory was accurate.
Now I did.
Massimo spoke softly.
"Father?"
Vito ran a hand over his face.
"The car had already been examined."
"By whom?"
"Private investigators."
"Whose investigators?"
Vito didn't answer.
I felt sick.
Massimo stared at his father.
"Did you interfere with the police investigation?"
"Everything I did was to keep the families from destroying each other."
"That wasn't my question."
Vito's voice rose.
"You were young. You had no idea what the waterfront was like before the agreement."
"I know what murder looks like."
Vito flinched.
For one brief moment, I thought he might finally tell us everything.
Instead, his face hardened.
"Stop this investigation, Massimo."
"No."
"You're putting your sister at risk."
"Then tell me who's threatening her."
Vito looked toward me.
"People who don't care whether Rosalia lives long enough to learn the truth."
The room went silent.
I forced myself to speak.
"Who?"
Vito's eyes remained fixed on mine.
"Ask your father."
Then he walked out.
I stood motionless.
Massimo watched the empty doorway.
"He's hiding something."
"Yes."
"Something worse than fraud."
"Yes."
He turned toward me.
"Rosalia, I need to know if you're prepared for what we might find."
I looked at him.
"My mother is dead. Somebody made money from her charity. Somebody forged her signature. And both our fathers have lied to us for three years."
My voice broke.
"What else is there left to lose?"
Massimo approached.
His hands closed gently around my shoulders.
"Me."
I stared up at him.
He seemed almost surprised by his own answer.
"I mean," he continued, "we're married. Whatever this becomes, you're not facing it alone."
For a moment, I wanted to lean into him.
Wanted to forget that our marriage had begun as a transaction.
Wanted to believe he meant every word.
Then Tony appeared in the doorway.
"Boss, we found Daniel Mercer."
Massimo turned.
"Where?"
"At a private airfield in New Jersey. He's preparing to leave."
"Stop him."
"Already contacted the team."
Tony hesitated.
"There's something else."
"What?"
"Mercer isn't traveling alone."
He showed us a photograph taken outside the terminal.
Daniel Mercer was standing beside a woman in a scarlet coat.
Daria Bellini.
She was handing him a leather bag.
I recognized the bag immediately.
It was the same dark blue leather handbag my mother had carried on the night she died.
The one the police told me had burned in the accident.
My knees nearly gave way.
Massimo caught me.
"Rosalia?"
I stared at the photograph.
"That's my mother's bag."
He looked back at the screen.
"Are you certain?"
"She carried it for twelve years. My initials are embroidered beneath the handle. I gave it to her when I got my first job."
Massimo turned toward Tony.
"Do not let them leave."
His voice was colder than I'd ever heard it.
"And tell your team I want that bag recovered intact."
An hour later, Mercer had escaped through a service exit at the airfield.
But Daria had been detained briefly by private security officers who couldn't legally hold her without evidence of a crime.
She walked away before the police arrived.
The bag, however, remained behind.
Inside were several old receipts, a broken phone, and a folded sheet of paper.
The note was written in my mother's handwriting.
If anything happens to me, ask why the person who promised to send help never came.
Beneath the sentence was a date.
The night of her accident.
And one name.
Salvatore.
My father.
I stared at the paper until the letters blurred.
Then I turned to Massimo.
"I need to see him."
He studied my face.
"Tonight?"
"Tonight."
"Rosalia—"
"Three years ago, he told me my mother died because she took a dangerous road in bad weather."
I held up the note.
"Now I want to know why she was waiting for help from the husband who was supposed to protect her."
Massimo didn't argue.
May you like
He took my coat from the chair.
And together, we went to confront the man I'd trusted more than anyone in the world.
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