Chapter 2 - The Secret Behind the Disappearance
I followed Aleandro outside because I needed answers.
Not because I trusted him.
Not because I wanted him back.
And definitely not because some embarrassing part of my heart still reacted to the sound of his voice.
I followed because he had said one sentence I couldn't ignore.
The war isn't over.
Rain had started falling over Manhattan, thin and silver under the streetlights.
Aleandro stood beside a black SUV.
Marco opened the rear door.
I stopped.
"I'm not getting in there."
Aleandro looked at me.
"It's safe."
"Nothing around you is safe."
A flicker of pain crossed his face.
"That's why I let you go."
I laughed bitterly.
"You didn't let me go."
He went still.
"I escaped."
The rain grew heavier.
Aleandro looked toward the street, jaw clenched.
"You think I don't know that?"
I stared at him.
His voice softened.
"I knew."
That silenced me.
"Then why didn't you come after me?"
"Because you asked me for one thing."
"What?"
"Freedom."
My anger faltered.
He continued.
"You told me that if I loved you, I would stop deciding what was best for you."
My throat tightened.
"I wanted to argue."
"You always did."
"I wanted to send people after you."
"I know."
"I wanted to put a car outside your building every hour."
"You probably did."
"I wanted to drag you back home."
I stared at him.
"But I didn't."
"Why?"
"Because for once, loving you meant letting you hate me."
The words hit harder than they should have.
I looked away.
Rain slid down my cheeks.
Maybe they were tears.
I didn't know anymore.
"Tell me about the war."
Aleandro inhaled slowly.
"Someone inside my organization has been selling information."
"To who?"
"We don't know."
"What does that have to do with me?"
His expression tightened.
"Everything."
He opened the SUV door.
This time, I got in.
The ride to his temporary residence was silent.
When we stopped at an old townhouse in Greenwich Village, I recognized it immediately.
One of the properties he had bought years ago.
He led me inside.
The house looked different.
Empty.
No parties.
No women.
No music.
No evidence of the extravagant life I remembered.
Only stacks of files.
Screens.
Maps.
Photographs.
My photograph.
I stopped.
"Aleandro."
Every image showed me.
Walking to work.
Leaving the grocery store.
Sitting in a coffee shop.
Getting into a taxi.
My chest tightened.
"How long?"
"Six weeks."
"Who took these?"
"We don't know."
"You said the person was inside your organization."
"Yes."
"How do you know?"
"Because someone accessed a restricted file."
He handed me a folder.
I opened it.
My name was on the cover.
Emma Blake.
Underneath was information so private that I felt sick.
My mother's medical appointments.
My sister's college schedule.
My old address.
My new address.
My work hours.
My favorite restaurant.
David's name.
I looked up.
"You've been watching me."
"I wasn't."
"Then who was?"
"We're not certain."
I shut the file.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because telling you would have put you in greater danger."
"You don't get to make that choice anymore."
"I know."
The quiet answer disarmed me.
Aleandro walked to a table.
He picked up another document.
"Three weeks ago, a shipment connected to my company disappeared."
"Company?"
"Not the kind listed on tax records."
Despite myself, I almost smiled.
"You really haven't changed."
"I changed everything."
"Except that."
He nodded.
"Except that."
He looked exhausted.
It was the first time I'd ever seen him that way.
Not weak.
Not helpless.
Just tired.
"The shipment contained a ledger."
"What kind?"
"Names. Accounts. Payments. Politicians. Judges. Police officials."
My stomach sank.
"That's why people are after you."
"No."
He looked directly at me.
"They're after you."
My heart stopped.
"What?"
"The missing ledger wasn't stolen from me."
"Then?"
"It was stolen by someone trying to frame me."
"For what?"
"Murder."
I stared at him.
"Someone has created evidence suggesting that I ordered the killing of a federal informant."
"And they need the ledger to prove it."
"Or destroy it."
I closed my eyes.
"Why would they use me?"
"Because you were the closest person to me who disappeared."
His voice became colder.
"If they could make it look like you were helping me hide evidence, you'd become part of the case."
I looked at the photographs again.
"David."
Aleandro's eyes sharpened.
"What about him?"
"Was he followed?"
"I don't know."
He immediately picked up his phone.
"Marco."
A few seconds later, Marco answered.
"Check the lawyer."
My heart pounded.
"Wait."
Aleandro looked at me.
"I don't know David well enough."
"Exactly."
I frowned.
"You think he's involved?"
"I think anyone who suddenly appears in your life while someone is hunting you deserves scrutiny."
"That's unfair."
"Perhaps."
He looked toward the window.
"But I know what it looks like when a trap closes."
"And what does it look like?"
"Like dinner."
The next morning, David called.
I answered.
"Emma, are you okay?"
I hesitated.
"I'm fine."
"I wanted to make sure."
"Aleandro showed up."
There was silence.
Then David asked softly, "Who?"
The pause was tiny.
Almost invisible.
But I'd spent six months around men who lived on tiny pauses.
I noticed.
"Aleandro Vitali."
Another pause.
David laughed lightly.
"Sorry. I don't know anyone by that name."
My blood chilled.
He should have asked who Aleandro was.
Instead, he'd answered as if the name were meaningless.
I ended the call.
Three minutes later, Aleandro entered the room.
"I think you're right."
"About what?"
"Your lawyer."
"David isn't my lawyer."
"He is now."
"What does that mean?"
"It means we've just discovered who he really works for."
He placed a photograph on the table.
David standing beside a man I recognized instantly.
Marco Moretti.
No.
Not Marco.
The man beside him.
Rafael DeLuca.
Aleandro's oldest rival.
A man rumored to have spent twenty years waiting for an opportunity to destroy the Vitali family.
I stared at the photograph.
"When was this taken?"
"Yesterday."
My stomach turned.
David had been watching me before he ever asked me to dinner.
Aleandro was right.
The dinner hadn't been a date.
It had been surveillance.
But then another thought occurred to me.
"Why?"
Aleandro looked at me.
"Because you're the key to something they can't find."
"What?"
He reached into the folder.
"Six months ago, before you left me, you were present during a conversation you weren't supposed to hear."
I felt the room spin.
I remembered.
A night in the penthouse.
Two men arguing.
A name.
A bank account.
And a woman crying behind a locked door.
I had forgotten most of it.
But one sentence remained.
Someone is lying to the boss.
Aleandro watched my face.
"You remember."
I whispered the words.
"Someone is lying to the boss."
May you like
His eyes darkened.
"Exactly."
