Z

The lights went out.

I heard the mechanical click of locks engaging throughout the safe house.

Then darkness swallowed everything.

Nicholas pushed me against the wall.

“Stay behind me.”

“I can't see you.”

“Keep one hand on my coat.”

A moment later, emergency lights glowed red along the floor.

Luca moved toward the kitchen.

Nicholas stayed between me and the hallway.

No one spoke.

Then came a metallic crash.

Luca disappeared around the corner.

There was a grunt.

Another crash.

Nicholas moved.

Fast.

I followed because my hand was still twisted into the back of his coat.

When we reached the kitchen, Luca had a man face down on the tile.

Young.

Maybe twenty-five.

Black clothing.

Blood running from his nose.

Nicholas stared at him.

Recognition crossed his face.

“Evan?”

The man laughed weakly.

“You really are alive.”

Nicholas crouched.

“Who sent you?”

Evan said nothing.

Luca pulled a phone from his pocket.

The last outgoing message contained the photograph of us entering the building.

Nicholas’s expression became stone.

“You worked security at my funeral.”

I remembered him then.

He had held an umbrella over Victor Moretti.

That afternoon, I had thanked him.

I had thanked the man spying on me.

Nicholas took the phone.

“Who sent you?”

Evan smiled through blood.

“You know who.”

“Victor?”

The smile disappeared.

Nicholas noticed.

“So not Victor.”

A strange look passed between Nicholas and Luca.

I stepped closer.

“Then who?”

Nicholas held out an arm, silently telling me to stay back.

I ignored it.

Evan looked directly at me.

“The wrong Moretti died.”

Nicholas’s jaw tightened.

“What does that mean?”

“You were supposed to stay dead.”

Then the fire alarm began screaming.

Smoke rolled beneath the pantry door.

Luca swore.

Nicholas grabbed my hand.

“Move.”

The next thirty seconds became chaos.

Smoke.

Alarms.

A service stairwell.

Nicholas pulling me down three flights while Luca followed.

By the time we reached the alley, flames were licking through the rear windows.

Evan never came out.

“Did he—”

“He knew what he was doing,” Luca said.

I looked back at the burning building.

A safe house known to almost nobody.

Compromised.

Our photograph sent before we had even taken off our wet coats.

For the first time, I understood Nicholas’s paranoia.

It wasn’t paranoia if they really were everywhere.

We switched vehicles twice before dawn.

Nicholas eventually brought me to a penthouse above a hotel on Michigan Avenue.

It belonged to a shell company.

Of course it did.

I stood beside the windows and watched Chicago wake beneath me.

Nicholas joined me.

“You should sleep.”

“I slept plenty when my husband was dead.”

He accepted that without response.

I turned.

“Who besides Victor benefits from your death?”

“Several people.”

“Names.”

“Sofia.”

“Names.”

His gaze held mine.

“My mother.”

That stopped me.

“Isabella?”

“Yes.”

I actually laughed.

“Your mother cried harder at your funeral than I did.”

“That doesn't mean she didn't benefit.”

“You think your mother tried to kill you?”

“I think money makes people capable of disappointing things.”

“That sounded almost philosophical.”

“My father used to say it.”

“Your father was shot outside a steakhouse.”

“Exactly.”

I rubbed my forehead.

Nicholas walked toward the desk and opened another folder.

“My father built the old organization. Victor handled operations. My mother handled the legitimate companies.”

“And you inherited both.”

“Yes.”

“So when you died?”

“Victor took operational control. My mother became acting chair of Moretti Holdings.”

“And I inherited your shares.”

“Yes.”

“Which means neither of them can fully control the company unless I cooperate.”

“Yes.”

I stared at him.

“Your family is exhausting.”

“That’s why I married outside it.”

The words came naturally.

Too naturally.

Something about them bothered me.

“How did you really meet me?”

His expression changed.

It was tiny.

But I saw it.

My stomach dropped.

“Oh my God.”

“Sofia.”

“You already knew who I was.”

He said nothing.

I backed away.

“The restaurant. The champagne tray. You knew who I was?”

“I knew your name.”

My pulse accelerated.

“Why?”

He looked toward the window.

Wrong move.

Nicholas only avoided my eyes when the truth was worse than the lie.

“Tell me.”

“Your father.”

“My father died when I was nineteen.”

“I know.”

“How?”

Nicholas opened a locked drawer.

He removed an old photograph.

My father stood outside a building beside a much younger Victor Moretti.

I forgot how to breathe.

“What is that?”

“Thomas Bennett worked for my family.”

“No.”

“For twelve years.”

“He was an accountant.”

“Yes.”

“For hospitals.”

“Before that.”

I stared at the photograph.

My father's smile.

Victor’s arm around his shoulder.

Nicholas spoke carefully.

“Your father handled offshore finances for my uncle.”

I shook my head.

“No.”

“Sofia—”

“No.”

“He found something he wasn't supposed to find.”

“What?”

“A ledger.”

“What ledger?”

“Payments. Judges. Police officers. Contractors. Politicians. Every person Victor had bought for fifteen years.”

The room tilted.

“And?”

“Your father copied it.”

“What happened to him?”

Nicholas didn't answer.

I moved closer.

“What happened to my father?”

“He was killed in a car accident.”

“I know how he died.”

“No.”

Nicholas’s eyes filled with something terrible.

“You know how they told you he died.”

I went still.

The official story returned.

Late-night highway.

Rain.

A truck losing control.

Instant death.

I whispered, “Was it Victor?”

“We believe so.”

“We?”

“My father suspected it first. Years later, I found supporting records.”

“When?”

Silence.

“When did you find them, Nicholas?”

“Before I met you.”

It felt as though the floor disappeared.

“You approached me because of my father.”

“At first.”

Every tender memory in my marriage suddenly rearranged itself.

The flowers Nicholas sent after our second date.

The apartment he insisted I move out of because the neighborhood “wasn't safe.”

The questions about my childhood.

My parents.

Old boxes.

My father's belongings.

I slapped the photograph against his chest.

“You used me.”

“No.”

“You knew exactly who I was.”

“Yes.”

“You came into that restaurant looking for me.”

“Yes.”

The word hurt worse than denial.

“Why?”

“Because Victor was looking for the ledger, and he believed your father gave it to you.”

“I've never seen a ledger.”

“I know that now.”

“And when did you decide that? Before or after sleeping with me?”

His face hardened.

“That is not what happened.”

“Then tell me what happened.”

“I went there to see if you knew anything.”

“And then?”

“You almost poured six glasses of champagne on me.”

Despite everything, the memory flashed between us.

Nicholas’s voice softened.

“You called me an arrogant bastard before you knew my last name.”

“I apologized.”

“Eventually.”

“This isn't funny.”

“No.”

He came closer.

“What began as an investigation stopped being one very quickly.”

“How quickly?”

“The second date.”

“That’s supposed to make me feel better?”

“No.”

“Did you marry me because of the ledger?”

“No.”

“Did you marry me because you loved me?”

“Yes.”

There was no hesitation.

That was somehow worse.

Tears burned my eyes.

“You loved me and still let me build a marriage on a lie.”

“I was afraid that if I told you what happened to your father, you'd try to find the truth.”

“You mean I would have had a choice.”

“Yes.”

“And you couldn't allow that.”

“I wanted you alive.”

“I am so tired of men lying to me because they want me alive.”

He flinched.

Before he could answer, my phone rang.

Only three people had the number.

My sister.

My lawyer.

And Isabella Moretti.

I stared at the screen.

Nicholas saw the name.

“Don't answer.”

I answered.

“Sofia?”

Isabella’s voice sounded breathless.

“Where are you?”

I looked at Nicholas.

“Why?”

A pause.

Then she whispered something that froze every drop of blood in my body.

“Because Nicholas is alive.”

Nicholas went completely still.

Isabella continued.

“And if he’s with you, don't tell him I called.”

I whispered, “Why?”

Her next words came so quietly I almost missed them.

“Because my son is not the only man who came back from the dead.”