Chapter 5 - THE TORN PHOTOGRAPH
Silence crashed down on the ruined living room, broken only by the distant wail of a police siren.
I stared at the heavy brass key resting in the palm of Dominic’s hand.
“I have never seen that in my life,” I said, backing up slightly, clutching Lily tighter to my chest.
Dominic’s guards instantly shifted, their eyes darting toward me with sudden suspicion. If my husband had the key to the murdered Don’s vault, that made him an accomplice. That made me an accomplice.
Dominic closed his fist around the key. He didn't look at his men; he looked only at me.
“I believe you.”
One of the older guards stepped forward. “Boss, with respect, if her husband had the key—”
“I said I believe her, Marco,” Dominic’s voice cracked like a whip, leaving no room for argument. He turned his attention back to me. “Mark didn't just owe them money, Emma. They blackmailed him into stealing this. As a teacher, he tutored the children of the elite. He had access to estates. Including mine.”
The revelation made me feel physically sick. The secrets Mark had carried while smiling over family dinners were monstrous.
“We can’t stay here,” I said, looking at the slashed couch.
“No. You’re coming with me to the estate. It’s a fortress. You and Lily will be safe there.”
Within twenty minutes, we were back in the SUVs, leaving my old life entirely behind. Lily, exhausted by the adrenaline, had fallen asleep across my lap.
The Salvatore estate was located on the cliffs overlooking the water, surrounded by ten-foot stone walls and wrought-iron gates. It was breathtakingly beautiful, but it felt like a gilded cage.
Dominic led us into a grand study lined with dark mahogany bookshelves and a roaring fireplace. He instructed a maid to prepare a bedroom for Lily, but I refused to let her out of my sight. I laid her on the plush leather sofa and covered her with my coat.
Dominic walked over to a massive steel safe behind his desk. He opened it and pulled out a thick manila folder.
“When my father was murdered and the vault was emptied three years ago, I spent months investigating,” Dominic explained, spreading crime scene photos and documents across his desk. “I never found the thief. But I found this in the vault.”
He handed me a piece of paper.
It was a torn, slightly scorched photograph.
I looked at it closely.
The blood froze in my veins.
It was a picture of Mark. He was standing in a dimly lit parking garage, looking terrified, handing a duffel bag to an older, distinguished-looking man wearing a tailored suit.
I didn't recognize the man, but I recognized his posture. Wealthy. Powerful.
“Who is he?” I asked, handing it back.
Dominic stared at the photo, a look of profound heartbreak crossing his stoic features.
“That,” Dominic said softly, “is my Uncle Silvio. My father’s brother. The man who practically raised me.”
I gasped. “Your own uncle hired my husband to rob your father?”
“And then he murdered my father. And when Mark became a liability, Silvio ordered the hit on your husband to tie up loose ends.” Dominic’s knuckles turned white on the edge of the desk. “The Morettis didn't run Mark off the road. My family did.”
Before I could even process the horror of what he was saying, the heavy oak doors of the study swung open.
May you like
Standing in the doorway, wearing the exact same tailored suit from the photograph, was Uncle Silvio.
“Dominic, my boy,” Silvio smiled warmly, stepping into the room. “I heard we had guests.”
