Chapter 2 - The Name She Buried
Sophie had imagined being recognized a hundred different times.
She had imagined it while washing dishes in cheap apartments.
She had imagined it while lying awake in motel rooms with the television on low.
She had imagined it in grocery stores, on subway platforms, outside hospitals, everywhere ordinary people existed without looking over their shoulders.
In every version, she had run.
Tonight, her feet refused to move.
Vincent D'Angelo stood by the door like he owned the room.
He wore an immaculate navy suit and a silver watch that cost more than everything Sophie owned. His blond hair was neatly combed back, his smile polite.
That was what made him terrifying.
The men who enjoyed violence usually showed it.
Vincent hid it behind manners.
"Well," he said, glancing around the room, "this is awkward."
Enzo moved first.
He stepped directly into Sophie's line of sight, blocking Vincent's view of her.
"Get out."
Vincent chuckled.
"I only just arrived."
"I didn't invite you."
"You don't own the city."
"Tonight, I own this room."
The smile on Vincent's face faded.
Two men at the back of the club reached inside their jackets.
Rocco shifted his weight.
The air became a wire stretched too tightly.
Sophie knew what happened next in rooms like this.
People died.
She stepped forward.
"Wait."
Enzo looked at her.
Everyone did.
"I don't belong to either of you," she said.
Vincent laughed.
"That's exactly what you told the judge three years ago."
Her stomach dropped.
The fire.
Her father.
The trial.
Three years ago, Judge Adrian Castellan had been the most respected federal judge in New York.
Then his name had appeared in a leaked ledger linking him to bribes, illegal gambling operations, and the disappearance of evidence in three murder cases.
The newspapers had destroyed him.
He had been arrested.
Before trial, he had died in a fire inside the family house.
Officially, the fire was an electrical accident.
Sophie knew it wasn't.
She had seen the gasoline stains.
She had smelled the smoke before the alarms went off.
She had heard her father's final words.
"Don't trust the police."
That night had erased Sophia Castellan.
She had changed her hair.
Changed her voice.
Changed her city.
Changed her name.
She had learned to live as Sophie Bennett.
Until now.
Enzo looked at Vincent.
"Why are you saying her name?"
Vincent shrugged.
"Because she has something that belongs to me."
"I don't have anything," Sophie said.
"Not anymore," Vincent replied. "But your father did."
The room became even quieter.
Enzo's eyes narrowed.
"What did Adrian Castellan take from you?"
Vincent's smile returned.
"A ledger."
Sophie felt dizzy.
The ledger.
She thought of the locked metal box hidden beneath the loose floorboard in the apartment where she had lived for almost a year.
She had never opened it.
She had been too afraid.
Her father had given her the box one week before his death.
"Only open it when you are ready to stop running."
She had never understood what he meant.
Until tonight.
Vincent took a step forward.
"My organization lost millions when your father vanished. Men disappeared. Businesses collapsed. People started asking questions."
"You killed him," Sophie whispered.
Vincent's expression hardened.
"No."
Enzo looked sharply at her.
"You said your father was murdered."
"He was."
"How do you know?"
"Because I was there."
Vincent smiled.
"Then you know who did it."
Sophie stared at him.
She had spent three years thinking the answer was Vincent.
Now she wasn't sure.
Enzo stepped closer.
"Tell me."
Vincent interrupted.
"She's not going anywhere with you."
Enzo looked at him.
"That wasn't your decision."
"It will be."
The next moment happened so fast that Sophie barely understood it.
Rocco grabbed Vincent's man.
Another guard drew his weapon.
The lights went out.
Someone screamed.
Sophie dropped instinctively.
Gunshots cracked through the darkness.
She heard glass breaking.
A table overturned.
Then strong arms wrapped around her waist and dragged her behind the piano.
"Stay down."
Enzo.
She recognized his voice immediately.
"Your people are shooting at us!"
"So are his."
"That's not helping!"
"You're alive, aren't you?"
She almost laughed from disbelief.
The gunfire stopped.
Emergency lights flickered on.
Vincent was gone.
So were two of his men.
One of Enzo's guards had been shot in the shoulder.
Rocco slammed the door shut.
Enzo crouched beside Sophie.
"You hurt?"
She shook her head.
He looked at the piano.
Then at her.
"You knew him."
"Yes."
"How?"
She swallowed.
"My father prosecuted his people."
"Your father was a judge."
"Yes."
"And Vincent wants a ledger."
"Yes."
"What is in it?"
"I don't know."
Enzo studied her face.
He was close enough that she could see the tiny scar near his jaw.
"You've been lying to me since the moment I met you."
"So have you."
"About what?"
"The suit."
For the first time, a trace of amusement crossed his face.
Then disappeared.
"Fair."
He stood and offered her a hand.
She stared at it.
"You don't trust me."
"No."
"But you took a bullet for me."
"I didn't."
"What?"
"The shot was going toward the piano. I was saving the piano."
She blinked.
He almost smiled.
Almost.
"Come with me."
"No."
"That wasn't a request."
"I said no."
Rocco looked shocked.
Nobody told Enzo Valente no.
Enzo only stared at her.
Then he nodded.
"Fine."
He stepped back.
"Then you can stay here."
Sophie looked around.
Bodies.
Blood.
Broken glass.
Rick was hiding behind the bar.
The pianist was gone.
The room smelled like smoke.
She looked back at Enzo.
"And if Vincent comes back?"
"He will."
"What happens to me?"
"You die."
The honesty chilled her more than the threat would have.
"Come with me," Enzo said again.
This time, Sophie took his hand.
His fingers closed around hers.
Warm.
Steady.
Not gentle, exactly.
But careful.
They left through the back door.
Outside, cold rain had started falling.
Enzo's black sedan waited by the curb.
Sophie stopped beside it.
"What happens now?"
Enzo opened the rear door.
"Now you tell me the truth."
She got inside.
As he climbed in beside her, she realized she had crossed the first locked door.
There would be no going back.
Not after tonight.
Not after the piano.
Not after Enzo had heard her father's song.
Because the final chord of that song had been more than music.
It had been a message.
And Enzo Valente knew enough about the Castellan family to understand what it meant.
Her father had not written the song as music.
May you like
He had written it as a code.
And someone had just heard the first half.
