Z

For eleven months after I ran from my wedding, I believed the worst thing Damian Vale could do to me was already over.

I was wrong.

It happened on a Tuesday morning while I was standing inside the Caroline Bennett Foundation’s new legal clinic, arguing with a contractor about the placement of emergency exit signs.

Irony has always had excellent timing.

“Ms. Bennett?”

I turned.

One of our receptionists stood in the doorway holding a white envelope.

“No return address.”

That was enough to make every instinct I had developed over the past year wake up.

I took it carefully.

“Who delivered it?”

“Courier.”

“Name?”

“He said John.”

“Of course he did.”

I carried the envelope into my office before opening it.

One photograph fell onto my desk.

I stopped breathing.

The man in the picture looked older than the last time I had seen him.

His hair was gray at the temples. His face was thinner. A scar ran from the corner of his mouth toward his jaw.

But I knew him.

Everyone in Chicago knew him.

Raymond Vale.

Damian’s father.

The man officially declared dead seven years earlier after a private plane crashed over Lake Michigan.

The man who had ordered my mother’s car sabotaged.

The man who had ordered the bombing that killed Luca’s brother.

The photograph had been taken recently.

Very recently.

Raymond stood outside a café.

Behind him was a newspaper vending box.

The date printed on the front page was yesterday.

My phone was in my hand before I consciously decided to call Luca.

He answered on the second ring.

“Good morning.”

“Raymond Vale is alive.”

Silence.

Then his voice changed.

“Where are you?”

“At the clinic.”

“Lock your office.”

“Luca—”

“Isabella.”

The old instinct in me rose immediately.

Don’t order me.

He must have heard the silence.

His tone softened.

“Please lock your office.”

That was different.

I locked it.

“Done.”

“I’m on my way.”

Twenty minutes later, Luca walked through the clinic with two security men behind him.

He had changed over the past year.

Not visibly, at least not to anyone else.

He still wore dark suits. Still carried the kind of stillness that made rooms become quieter when he entered.

But I knew the differences.

He knocked before entering my office.

He asked before assigning security to foundation events.

He had learned that protecting someone and possessing them were not the same thing.

Most of the time.

He picked up the photograph.

For a full minute, he said nothing.

“That’s him,” he finally whispered.

“You’re sure?”

“I spent years wanting to kill him.”

Fairly definitive.

“There’s something on the back.”

He turned the photograph over.

One sentence.

YOUR MOTHER LIED TO BOTH OF YOU.

Luca’s expression hardened.

“Who sent this?”

“No idea.”

“Raymond.”

“Maybe.”

“Or Damian.”

Damian Vale had been sitting in federal detention for months while his attorneys fought charges ranging from fraud to conspiracy.

His trial was scheduled to begin in three weeks.

The government wanted my testimony.

They wanted Luca’s too.

Damian had built his legal strategy around one argument.

Everyone accusing him was lying.

His father was dead.

Victor Bennett was desperate for a reduced sentence.

Matteo Moretti was protecting Luca.

And I was a bitter runaway bride trying to steal his family’s businesses.

A ridiculous story.

Which meant exactly half the internet believed it.

“Do federal investigators know Raymond might be alive?” I asked.

“They will.”

Luca photographed both sides of the picture.

“You’re not taking the original.”

He looked up.

“I was going to ask.”

I leaned back.

“Progress.”

He almost smiled.

Then another knock came.

Our receptionist stepped inside.

“Isabella, there’s a man downstairs asking for you.”

“Who?”

“He won’t give his name.”

Luca’s men immediately moved.

The receptionist swallowed.

“He said to tell you he knows what happened the night your mother died.”

I stared at Luca.

Five minutes later, we entered the clinic’s conference room.

The stranger stood beside the window.

Late sixties.

Cheap gray suit.

Shaking hands.

He looked like a man who hadn’t slept peacefully in decades.

When he saw Luca, his face went white.

“You brought him.”

“I bring Luca when strangers send me photographs of dead crime bosses.”

The man looked at me.

“My name is Samuel Pierce.”

Nothing.

“I worked for Raymond Vale.”

Luca’s voice became cold.

“Doing what?”

“Driving.”

“For how long?”

“Fourteen years.”

Luca stepped forward.

Samuel stepped backward.

I moved between them.

“Talk to me.”

Luca looked at me.

I held his gaze.

Eventually he stepped aside.

Samuel noticed.

So did I.

“I drove Raymond the night Caroline Bennett died,” he said.

The room disappeared around me.

“Where?”

“To the garage.”

Luca’s jaw tightened.

Samuel continued.

“He met Victor there.”

“My father?”

“Yes.”

“And your employer ordered my mother’s car sabotaged.”

Samuel looked sick.

“Yes.”

“What did Victor do?”

“He gave Raymond a folder.”

“What was inside?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did my father know Raymond planned to kill her?”

Samuel hesitated.

“Answer.”

“I heard them arguing.”

“What did Victor say?”

Samuel closed his eyes.

“He said, ‘You promised she’d only be scared.’”

The same story.

The same excuse Victor had written in his email.

Cowardice wrapped in plausible deniability.

“And Raymond?”

Samuel looked at me.

“He laughed.”

My hands tightened.

“What happened next?”

“Raymond told him it was too late.”

Luca spoke.

“And my father?”

Samuel swallowed.

“Antonio arrived six minutes later.”

Luca froze.

“What?”

“He was supposed to meet Caroline. He didn’t know Raymond was there.”

“Did they fight?”

“Yes.”

“About?”

“Caroline.”

Luca took another step.

“What about her?”

Samuel looked between us.

“Antonio knew she had evidence against Raymond.”

“We know that.”

“No.”

Samuel shook his head.

“You know part of it.”

I felt dread crawl slowly up my spine.

“What part don’t we know?”

“Caroline wasn’t giving Antonio evidence about money.”

Luca stared at him.

“Then what?”

Samuel reached inside his coat.

Luca’s guard immediately drew his weapon.

Samuel froze.

“Easy.”

Very slowly, he removed an old cassette tape.

An actual cassette.

The kind my mother used to play in the car when I was little.

“She recorded Raymond.”

My pulse accelerated.

“What’s on it?”

Samuel looked directly at me.

“Proof he ordered murders.”

“How many?”

“I don’t know.”

He placed the cassette on the table.

“But your mother did.”

Luca picked it up.

“Why do you have this?”

“Because Caroline gave it to me.”

That made no sense.

“You worked for Raymond.”

“She knew.”

“Knew what?”

“That I was informing for the FBI.”

Silence.

“What happened to your investigation?”

Samuel laughed bitterly.

“My handler died.”

“How?”

“Heart attack.”

Luca and I exchanged a look.

Samuel nodded.

“Exactly.”

I stared at the cassette.

“Why disappear for sixteen years?”

“Because Raymond survived.”

The room went cold.

Luca’s voice dropped.

“You knew.”

“Yes.”

“And you said nothing?”

“I had children.”

“My brother died.”

Samuel flinched.

“I know.”

“You knew the man responsible was alive.”

“I was afraid.”

Luca’s face became terrifyingly blank.

I stepped closer to him.

Not touching.

Just enough for him to know I was there.

Samuel reached into his pocket again.

This time he removed a folded piece of paper.

“I didn’t come only because of the trial.”

He handed it to me.

It contained three names.

One was Raymond Vale.

One was a retired Chicago judge.

The third name stopped me.

Emily Bennett.

“My aunt?”

Samuel nodded.

My father’s younger sister had supposedly moved to Arizona twelve years earlier.

We hadn’t spoken in almost a decade.

“What does Emily have to do with this?”

“She helped Raymond disappear.”

My mouth went dry.

“Why?”

Samuel shook his head.

“That’s what you need to ask her.”

“Where is she?”

He looked toward the photograph on my desk.

“She’s with him.”

Luca stepped closer.

“Where?”

Samuel hesitated.

Then said one word.

“Wisconsin.”

Before he could say anything else, the conference room window exploded.

Luca hit me hard enough to knock me behind the table.

A gunshot cracked through the room.

Samuel jerked backward.

Blood appeared across his chest.

“No!”

Luca’s men fired toward the opposite building.

I crawled toward Samuel.

His eyes were wide.

Terrified.

Alive.

Barely.

I pressed both hands against the wound.

“Stay with me.”

He grabbed my wrist.

“Don’t find Raymond.”

Blood touched his lips.

“What?”

His fingers tightened.

“Make him find you.”

Then Samuel Pierce stopped breathing.