Chapter 2 - The Man Who Knew My Secret
Victor drove me out of Bellmont in a black sedan that looked less like a luxury car and more like a moving vault.
I sat in the back seat with his jacket around my shoulders.
I still didn't understand what was happening.
My hip throbbed with every movement.
My mind throbbed even harder.
“Where are we going?” I finally asked.
“To somewhere safe.”
“I have an apartment.”
“I know.”
I turned toward him.
The words came out sharper than I intended.
“How do you know where I live?”
Victor looked through the window.
“Because you're not the person they think you are.”
I frowned.
“Who is they?”
He didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he reached into his coat pocket and handed me a photograph.
It was old.
A picture of a young woman standing outside a building.
I recognized her instantly.
“My mother.”
Victor nodded.
“When was this taken?”
“Twenty-seven years ago.”
My fingers tightened around the photograph.
“What is she doing there?”
Victor pointed to the building.
Caldwell Tower.
My heart stopped.
“My mother never worked for Richard Caldwell.”
Victor looked at me.
“Yes, she did.”
“No.”
“She did.”
“That doesn't make sense.”
“Your mother worked as an accounting assistant for one of his companies.”
I shook my head.
“She was a bookkeeper at a small firm in Queens.”
“She told you that.”
“Yes.”
“Because she wanted you to stay alive.”
The words froze me.
I stared at him.
“What are you talking about?”
Victor leaned back.
“My father and Richard Caldwell were business partners.”
“You're saying my mother knew your father?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“She found something.”
The car became painfully quiet.
“What?”
Victor looked directly at me.
“Evidence.”
“Evidence of what?”
“Financial fraud. Bribery. Property manipulation.”
I stared at him.
“My mother wouldn't—”
“She didn't participate.”
“She had no reason to be involved.”
“She had every reason. She discovered millions of dollars being moved through shell companies.”
I swallowed.
“What happened to her?”
Victor didn't respond.
I already knew I wasn't going to like the answer.
“She was threatened.”
“When?”
“Before you were born.”
I looked at the photograph again.
“Why didn't she tell me?”
“Because the people who threatened her made it clear you would become leverage.”
My chest tightened.
“But she's dead.”
“I know.”
“How?”
Victor hesitated.
“Your mother died believing the evidence had disappeared.”
I looked up.
“What evidence?”
Victor's voice lowered.
“The evidence is not gone.”
He took a small envelope from his briefcase.
My name was written on it.
Anna Martinez.
My hands shook.
“This was delivered to me yesterday.”
“By who?”
“An attorney who worked for your mother.”
I opened the envelope.
Inside was a brass key.
Nothing else.
I looked at Victor.
“What does this open?”
“I don't know.”
“Then why did you give it to me?”
“Because it's yours.”
I stared at the key.
Then I noticed an engraving.
M-17.
My mother's initials.
I remembered something.
An old blue jewelry box she'd kept in the back of her closet.
She had never allowed me to open it.
I had forgotten about it after her death.
But now I couldn't stop thinking about it.
Victor watched my expression.
“You remember something.”
“My mother had a box.”
“Where?”
“At home.”
“You can't go there.”
“I need it.”
“You don't know who's watching.”
“I need my mother's things.”
Victor studied me.
Then he said something I didn't expect.
“I'll go with you.”
We returned to my apartment with two of his security men.
The building looked exactly as it had when I left for work.
Cheap hallway.
Flickering light.
Old elevator.
Nothing seemed wrong.
Until Victor pointed toward the opposite building.
“Third floor.”
I looked.
A man stood behind a window.
He disappeared.
Victor immediately motioned to his guards.
“Stay here.”
Within seconds, they were moving.
My breathing became shallow.
“What is happening?”
Victor put a hand gently against my back.
“Stay close.”
We entered my apartment.
Everything seemed normal.
Then I saw my bedroom door.
It was slightly open.
I always locked it.
Victor noticed too.
He raised one hand.
The room was searched.
Closets.
Bathroom.
Kitchen.
Nothing.
Then one of the guards called from the bedroom.
“Mr. DeLuca.”
Victor entered.
A drawer had been pulled out.
My old jewelry box was gone.
Someone had searched my mother's belongings.
I felt sick.
“They were looking for the key.”
Victor looked at me.
“Exactly.”
I pulled the brass key from my pocket.
“They don't know I have it.”
“Not yet.”
He took me downstairs.
That night, instead of returning to my apartment, I stayed at one of Victor's residences overlooking Central Park.
I barely slept.
At 3:12 a.m., I woke to the sound of voices outside the door.
Victor was speaking to someone.
I stepped into the hallway.
“Who is it?”
He turned.
His expression was darker than before.
“Ethan Caldwell.”
My stomach dropped.
“What does he want?”
“He wants you fired.”
“He can't do that.”
Victor looked at me.
“He already has.”
I almost laughed.
Then I realized he was serious.
“Mr. Collins fired me?”
Victor nodded.
I felt humiliation burn through me again.
“He said I embarrassed the restaurant.”
Victor's jaw tightened.
“He also told Ethan that he would make sure you never worked in Manhattan again.”
Tears filled my eyes.
“I didn't do anything wrong.”
“I know.”
“Then why does it feel like I'm the criminal?”
Victor stepped closer.
“Because powerful people often mistake consequences for punishment.”
I wiped my tears.
“You're not exactly powerless yourself.”
“No.”
“Then why are you helping me?”
Silence.
Victor looked away.
Finally he said,
“Because your mother once saved my life.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
“My father blamed her for something she didn't do.”
May you like
He looked back at me.
“And I intend to correct that.”
