Chapter 4 - My Ex Had Sold Me to the Enemy
Vincent arrived twelve minutes after I sent him the photograph.
Not twenty.
Not thirty.
Twelve.
I didn't ask how fast his driver had gone.
I probably didn't want to know.
He entered the apartment with two security men behind him, took one look at the threatening message, and transformed into the man newspapers described.
Cold.
Controlled.
Terrifying.
"Trace it."
One of his men nodded.
"Already working."
"Building cameras?"
"Checking them."
"Street surveillance?"
"We're pulling everything."
His orders came rapidly.
Then Vincent looked at me.
Everything changed.
"Are you hurt?"
"No."
"Did anyone approach you?"
"No."
"Did you notice anyone following you?"
"I don't know."
That answer seemed to anger him more than the threat itself.
Not at me.
At himself.
He dragged a hand through his hair.
"I should've moved you last night."
"I'm not furniture."
"I know."
"Then stop talking like I'm something you can relocate."
His jaw tightened.
"I am trying very hard not to lose my temper."
"Congratulations. So am I."
Mom quietly announced she was making tea.
No one asked for tea.
She disappeared anyway.
Vincent lowered his voice.
"I need you to understand the difference between control and protection."
"Sometimes the person being protected doesn't get to see the difference."
That stopped him.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then he nodded slowly.
"Tell me what you need."
The question surprised me.
Not what he wanted.
What I needed.
"I need the truth."
"You have it."
"No. I have pieces."
I held up the phone.
"Someone bombs your vehicle. Someone threatens my workplace. Now somebody follows me and takes pictures outside my home."
I stepped closer.
"If I'm in danger because of you, I deserve to know why."
Something shifted behind his eyes.
"Not here."
"Why?"
"Because your mother's walls are thin."
From the kitchen, Mom yelled, "He's right!"
I covered my face.
Vincent almost laughed.
An hour later, I sat in the back of his sedan driving toward a neighborhood I'd only seen in real-estate magazines.
His estate stood behind iron gates nearly ten feet high.
Stone walls.
Security cameras.
Armed guards.
The house itself looked less like a home and more like a place built by someone who expected war.
"Subtle," I muttered.
Vincent glanced at me.
"I've been told."
Inside, polished marble reflected enormous chandeliers.
Everything was beautiful.
Nothing felt lived in.
No family photos.
No clutter.
No shoes kicked near the door.
No evidence that anybody actually belonged there.
"You live alone?"
"Mostly."
"That sounds depressing."
"I never considered it."
"That's also depressing."
He led me into a study.
Books lined every wall.
A fire burned beneath a carved stone fireplace.
One of his men entered.
"We traced the burner phone."
Vincent's attention sharpened.
"Where?"
"Purchased near Red Hook. Cash. Camera shows a male in a baseball cap, face covered."
"Anything else?"
"A vehicle."
The man placed a tablet on the desk.
Security footage showed a dark sedan driving past the store.
Vincent froze.
I noticed immediately.
"You recognize it."
"No."
"You're a terrible liar."
His man looked uncomfortable.
Vincent stared at the image.
Finally, he spoke.
"The license plate belongs to a shell company connected to Carlo Moretti."
The name meant nothing to me.
"Who's Carlo Moretti?"
Vincent's expression changed.
"My mother's brother."
I blinked.
"Your uncle is threatening me?"
"Possibly."
"Why?"
He walked toward the fireplace.
"My father controlled most of the family's businesses. When he died, Carlo expected to inherit them."
"But you did."
"Yes."
"Let me guess. He didn't handle disappointment well."
"He attempted to kill me."
I stared at him.
"You say that extremely casually."
"It happened eighteen years ago."
"People don't normally become casual about attempted murder."
"In my family, they do."
He turned toward me.
"Carlo disappeared after that. He built his own organization in Europe. Six months ago, he returned."
"And now he's attacking you."
"Not directly."
"Because?"
"Direct attacks start wars."
I folded my arms.
"Sending threats to a waitress apparently doesn't."
His eyes hardened.
"He wants me emotional."
"Is it working?"
The silence answered.
I looked at him.
Really looked.
Vincent wasn't afraid for himself.
He was afraid for me.
That realization should have comforted me.
Instead, it frightened me more.
"Why me?"
He didn't answer.
"Vincent."
"Because Carlo knows."
"Knows what?"
He stared into the fire.
"That I've been asking questions about you."
My chest tightened.
"What questions?"
"Your background."
I stepped back.
"You investigated me?"
"Before you judge—"
"Oh, I'm absolutely judging."
"I needed to know whether approaching you would put you in danger."
"By putting me in danger?"
His mouth tightened.
"That irony has not escaped me."
"What did you investigate?"
"Your finances. Employment history. Tyler."
My anger spiked.
"You investigated Tyler?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because he hurt you."
"You didn't even know me."
"I knew enough."
I walked toward the door.
"Emily."
I turned.
"You don't get to investigate my life because you're interested in me."
"I know."
"No, you clearly don't."
"I had another reason."
"Of course you did."
He reached into a drawer.
Then he placed a photograph on the desk.
I stopped.
The picture was old.
Maybe fifteen years.
My father stood beside a younger Vincent.
Dad.
My dad.
I couldn't breathe.
"Where did you get that?"
"My father took it."
I slowly approached.
Dad looked younger than I remembered.
He wore a construction helmet and stood beside a half-finished building.
Vincent couldn't have been older than twenty.
"How did you know my father?"
Vincent's voice became quiet.
"He saved my life."
The room seemed to tilt.
"What?"
"Eighteen years ago, Carlo attempted to arrange an accident at one of our construction sites."
Vincent pointed toward the photograph.
"A steel support was deliberately weakened. Your father noticed the problem seconds before it collapsed."
I remembered Dad mentioning a construction accident.
But never Vincent.
"He pushed me out of the way."
My eyes filled.
"He was injured?"
"Broken ribs. Damaged shoulder."
Dad had always claimed he'd fallen from scaffolding.
"He never told us."
"He refused money. Refused publicity. My father offered him anything he wanted."
"What did Dad ask for?"
Vincent smiled sadly.
"Nothing."
That sounded exactly like him.
"After your father died, I didn't know he had a daughter."
I swallowed.
"When did you find out?"
"The night your mother collapsed."
Everything connected.
Vincent had heard Mom's last name.
Learned who I was.
Then started asking questions.
"So this started because of Dad."
"No."
His answer came immediately.
"I recognized your name because of your father."
He stepped closer.
"But I kept returning because of you."
I looked down at the photograph.
For years, I'd missed Dad so badly that certain memories physically hurt.
His laugh.
The way he sang badly while washing dishes.
The way he always told me kindness mattered when nobody was watching.
Now I was discovering he'd once saved Vincent DeLuca's life and never told us.
A tear fell onto the photograph.
Vincent gently took it before the moisture damaged it.
"I'm sorry."
"For what?"
"Bringing him back this way."
I shook my head.
"You didn't."
I wiped my cheek.
"He was always here."
Something softened between us.
Then alarms suddenly screamed through the estate.
Vincent's body changed instantly.
He pushed me behind him.
The study door burst open.
One of his security men rushed inside.
"West gate breach."
Vincent reached beneath his jacket and pulled out a handgun.
My heart stopped.
The reality of his world slammed into me.
"Stay here."
"No."
"Emily."
"You said you'd stop ordering me around."
"I was referring to ordinary circumstances."
"This doesn't feel ordinary."
"Exactly."
He turned toward the guard.
"Lock this room."
I grabbed his arm.
"Vincent."
He looked down.
"Don't go."
For the first time, fear entered my voice.
His expression softened.
Then he cupped my face.
"I'll come back."
"That's not a promise you can make."
His thumb brushed beneath my eye.
"No."
A gunshot echoed somewhere outside.
I flinched.
Vincent's eyes turned cold.
"But I'll make it anyway."
He left.
The door locked behind him.
For twenty minutes, I heard nothing.
Then thirty.
My mind created every possible nightmare.
Finally, the door opened.
Vincent entered.
Blood covered one sleeve.
I ran toward him.
"You're hurt."
"Not mine."
I stopped.
His face was pale beneath his controlled expression.
"What happened?"
"They caught someone at the west wall."
"Carlo?"
"No."
"Who?"
Vincent hesitated.
Then he said the one name I never expected.
"Tyler."
I stared at him.
"My Tyler?"
"Unfortunately."
"What was he doing here?"
Vincent placed a plastic evidence bag on the desk.
Inside was a keycard.
"Trying to deliver this."
"To whom?"
"Someone inside my security team."
My stomach dropped.
Vincent's voice became deadly calm.
"Your ex-boyfriend isn't just humiliating you online anymore."
He looked toward the locked door.
May you like
"He's working for Carlo."
---
