Chapter 3 - The Mansion With No Safe Room
Valente's estate stood behind iron gates on a hill overlooking the Hudson.
Sophie stared through the rain-streaked car window as the gates opened.
The house was enormous.
Not a mansion in the flashy sense.
It was old stone, dark windows, ivy crawling across the walls. The kind of house that looked like it had secrets buried beneath every floorboard.
She had expected luxury.
She hadn't expected silence.
Inside, the staff moved like ghosts.
Nobody looked surprised to see Enzo return with a woman.
Nobody asked questions.
A woman in her sixties approached, wearing a gray dress and an expression that suggested she could have ruled a country if she'd been born in a different century.
"Boss."
"Maria."
Her eyes moved to Sophie.
"Who is she?"
"Sophie Bennett."
Maria looked at Enzo.
"Is that what we're calling her?"
Sophie nearly stopped breathing.
Enzo said nothing.
Maria turned to Sophie.
"I've prepared the blue guest room."
"Thank you."
Maria lowered her voice.
"Don't thank me yet."
Then she walked away.
Sophie watched her go.
"I don't like her."
"That's because you're intelligent."
"Do you trust anyone?"
"No."
"That's sad."
"It keeps me alive."
He led her upstairs.
The hallway was lined with family photographs.
Enzo as a child.
A younger man beside him, probably his brother.
His mother.
His father.
Sophie stopped at one photograph.
Enzo stood at fourteen, thin and smiling.
Beside him was a little boy with the same dark eyes.
"Your brother?"
Enzo stopped.
"Mateo."
"What happened?"
"He died."
She instantly regretted asking.
"Sorry."
He continued walking.
"Don't be."
She followed.
The blue guest room was larger than her entire apartment.
There were fresh clothes on the bed.
A robe.
Shoes.
Toiletries.
Sophie stared.
"When did you prepare this?"
"While you were playing."
"That's impossible."
"Not for me."
She turned.
"Why are you helping me?"
"I'm not."
"Then why am I here?"
"Because Vincent is looking for you."
"And?"
"And I dislike people taking what belongs to me."
Her heart skipped.
"I don't belong to you."
Enzo's expression changed.
"No."
He stepped closer.
"You don't."
The words landed harder than they should have.
He left.
Sophie closed the door.
The moment it clicked shut, she locked it.
Then she laughed bitterly.
A locked door.
How appropriate.
She searched the room.
There were no visible cameras.
No weapons.
No traps.
That almost made it worse.
She sat on the bed.
Her hands were still trembling.
She looked down at them.
The same hands that had played her father's song.
The same hands her mother used to call "miracles."
Her mother.
A memory surfaced.
Her mother's voice.
"Promise me you'll never become what your father fights."
Sophie closed her eyes.
Her mother had died before the fire.
Cancer.
At least, that was what the papers said.
But recently Sophie had started questioning everything.
The next morning, Maria knocked on the door at seven.
"Breakfast."
"I'll come down."
"You should."
"Why?"
"Because the boss expects you."
She dressed quickly.
Downstairs, Enzo was seated at the head of the table.
There were only two places set.
He looked up.
"Sit."
She did.
Breakfast was painfully normal.
Eggs.
Toast.
Coffee.
Fruit.
It felt surreal.
"I'm not hungry."
"You haven't eaten since yesterday afternoon."
"How do you know?"
"I know everything that happens in my house."
She picked up her coffee.
"That's disturbing."
"I've been called worse."
There was a pause.
Then he slid a folder toward her.
She stared at it.
"What's that?"
"Your life."
Her blood went cold.
She opened it.
Inside were photographs of Sophie Bennett.
Driver's license.
Employment records.
Medical records.
Bank statements.
Then she saw another folder.
Sophia Castellan.
Her old school.
Juilliard.
Competition photographs.
A newspaper clipping.
Young Sophia Castellan winning a national piano competition.
Her father smiling beside her.
Sophie stared.
"You investigated me."
"Yes."
"When?"
"Last night."
"That's impossible."
"Again."
He watched her carefully.
"You were the youngest finalist at the Hartford International Piano Competition."
She swallowed.
"You weren't just good."
"I know."
"You were exceptional."
She closed the folder.
"That girl is dead."
"No."
His voice was quiet.
"She's hiding."
She looked at him.
"Why did you keep this?"
He leaned back.
"Because your father once saved my life."
She froze.
"What?"
"Seven years ago, I was arrested."
"You?"
"Yes."
"I thought you were untouchable."
"I wasn't."
He looked toward the window.
"I was twenty-three. My father had been killed. I was trying to take over the family. Someone leaked evidence placing me at a murder scene."
"Did you do it?"
"No."
"Who was the victim?"
"Mateo."
She looked at the photograph from the hallway.
Enzo continued.
"Your father was the judge. He reviewed the evidence."
"And?"
"He saw it was fabricated."
"Then why didn't he clear you?"
"He couldn't."
"Why?"
"Because the man who fabricated it was inside his chambers."
Sophie felt a chill.
"Someone close to him?"
"Very close."
She remembered her father's last days.
The paranoia.
The locked office.
The hidden box.
The whispered phone calls.
Enzo pushed another photograph across the table.
It showed three men.
Her father.
Vincent D'Angelo.
And another man Sophie didn't know.
Her face went white.
"Who's that?"
"My uncle."
"Salvatore Valente."
She stared.
"Your uncle was involved?"
"He was the reason Mateo died."
"Then why is Vincent searching for the ledger?"
"Because the ledger can prove it."
Silence.
Sophie closed her eyes.
Everything she'd believed about her father's death was collapsing.
Enzo leaned forward.
"Your father discovered that Salvatore, Vincent, and several politicians were moving money through shell companies. He made a copy of the records."
"The ledger."
"Yes."
"And he gave it to me?"
"Probably."
"Why probably?"
"Because he knew you were the only person they would not suspect."
She laughed bitterly.
"I was seventeen."
"He trusted your memory."
Her eyes narrowed.
"What does my memory have to do with it?"
Enzo pointed to her.
"The piano."
She went still.
"The code is inside the composition, isn't it?"
Sophie said nothing.
"Your father encoded information using musical intervals."
She looked at him sharply.
"How do you know?"
"Because my brother spent years studying music."
"Mateo?"
"He was supposed to inherit the family. He was the smart one."
Enzo stared at the table.
"When he died, I became something else."
Sophie felt a strange ache in her chest.
She wanted to ask about Mateo.
Instead she whispered, "The song isn't complete."
Enzo raised his eyes.
"What?"
"My father only taught me the first half."
"Where is the second half?"
"I don't know."
"Think."
"I have been thinking for three years."
He stood suddenly.
"Then think harder."
She flinched.
He saw it.
His jaw tightened.
He lowered his voice.
"Sorry."
The apology surprised her.
She looked at him.
He looked away.
"I don't apologize often."
"Apparently."
He almost smiled.
Then a phone rang.
Rocco entered the dining room.
"Boss."
Enzo answered.
"What?"
Rocco's expression was grim.
"Someone found the old house."
Sophie went cold.
"My father's house?"
"Yes."
"How?"
"We're not sure."
Enzo looked at her.
"Sophie, pack a bag."
"Why?"
"We're leaving."
"Where?"
"To a place Vincent won't expect."
"Where?"
May you like
Enzo's eyes hardened.
"Your father's grave."
