Chapter 3 - THE WOMAN WHO KNEW TOO MUCHCamille Rossi had worked for Alessia for four years.
She was thirty-one.
Blunt.
Organized.
Obsessed with peppermint tea.
And incapable of leaving a document unlabeled.
If she disappeared without warning, she had not done it voluntarily.
Alessia knew that before anyone said it aloud.
By morning, she had refused enough pain medication to irritate three nurses.
Dr. Cole caught her trying to lower herself from the bed.
“What are you doing?”
“Leaving.”
“No.”
“I have work.”
“You have a broken leg.”
“I have crutches.”
“You cannot feel half your foot.”
“I can feel enough.”
Dr. Cole stared at her.
“You are the reason doctors develop migraines.”
“Then prescribe yourself something.”
Before he could answer, Valerio entered carrying coffee.
He took one look at Alessia.
“No.”
She glared.
“I haven’t said anything.”
“You’re leaving.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“You do not control me.”
“I know.”
“Then stop saying no.”
“You can leave when the surgeon clears you.”
“He already did.”
Valerio looked at Dr. Cole.
Dr. Cole betrayed her instantly.
“He cleared her for discharge. Not for international travel, interrogation, or whatever insane thing she plans next.”
Alessia looked offended.
“I didn’t say interrogation.”
“You brought a laptop.”
Valerio set down the coffee.
“Where is Camille’s family?”
“Queens.”
“Do they know?”
“Her sister knows she’s missing.”
“Police?”
“Officially, yes.”
“And unofficially?”
“Enzo has people looking.”
Alessia watched him.
“You’re treating this like your problem.”
“It became my problem when someone tried to injure you at a wedding under my protection.”
“Your protection?”
His eyes held hers.
“Bad wording.”
“Very.”
He stepped closer.
“Still true.”
Something shifted between them.
Too much.
Too close.
Alessia looked away first.
“Get me my laptop.”
By noon, she was discharged into a wheelchair she despised.
Valerio took her to his Manhattan townhouse rather than the Moretti estate.
“Why here?”
“Fewer people know.”
“Am I a prisoner?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“Because you are terrible at being one.”
She almost smiled.
The dining room became a command center.
Screens.
Bank records.
Security footage.
Hotel staffing lists.
Camille’s phone data.
Alessia worked while Valerio’s men searched.
At 2:14 p.m., she found the first crack.
“Here.”
Valerio came behind her.
“What?”
“Camille sent herself a draft email at 6:42 yesterday evening.”
“Why?”
“She does that when she wants a timestamp without sending a document.”
“What does it say?”
Alessia opened it.
Only four words.
NOT SWITZERLAND. MALTA. V.R.
Valerio leaned closer.
“V.R.”
“Veronica Romano?”
“Maybe.”
Alessia shook her head.
“Too obvious.”
“Victor Romano?”
“No Victor.”
“Vincenzo?”
She froze.
Valerio noticed.
“Who?”
“My grandfather.”
“Dead.”
“For twelve years.”
“But?”
“His trust structures still exist.”
Alessia typed quickly.
Romano family trusts.
Legacy entities.
One stood out.
V.R. Maritime Foundation.
Registered in Malta.
Valerio stared.
“You think Salvatore is routing money through his father’s foundation?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because dead men don’t answer subpoenas.”
That afternoon, a message arrived from Camille’s email.
No subject.
One attachment.
An audio file.
Alessia pressed play.
Static.
Breathing.
Then Camille’s voice.
“If you’re hearing this, I couldn’t get to the airport.”
Alessia gripped the table.
“I was followed after the wedding rehearsal. I think they know about Malta. Alessia, do not go to Zurich. The Swiss account is a decoy.”
Pause.
“There’s a ledger in Malta connected to the old Romano dock accounts.”
Another pause.
Then Camille whispered:
“And Salvatore isn’t the only signature.”
The recording cut.
Valerio replayed the last line.
“Someone else.”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
Alessia’s face hardened.
“We find Camille.”
They found her seven hours later.
Alive.
Barely.
An abandoned storage facility in Brooklyn.
Tied to a chair.
Dehydrated.
Concussion.
One broken finger.
But alive.
Valerio stayed outside the hospital room while Alessia went in.
Camille’s eyes filled when she saw her.
“Oh God.”
Alessia rolled closer.
“Don’t.”
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“I told them nothing.”
“I know.”
“They wanted the login.”
“Camille.”
“They knew about Malta.”
“Stop.”
Camille finally looked at Alessia’s leg.
“What happened?”
“Veronica.”
Camille actually laughed weakly.
“Of course.”
“Who took you?”
Camille’s expression changed.
“I didn’t see faces.”
“Voices?”
“One.”
“Who?”
Camille swallowed.
“A woman.”
Alessia frowned.
“Veronica?”
“No.”
“Bianca?”
Camille shook her head.
“No.”
“Then who?”
Camille looked frightened.
“She called Salvatore ‘my husband.’”
Alessia’s entire body went still.
“My aunt?”
“Yes.”
Lucia Romano.
Salvatore’s wife.
Veronica and Bianca’s mother.
A woman who rarely spoke at family meetings.
Who smiled gently in photographs.
Who spent most of the wedding reception greeting guests.
Alessia whispered:
“Aunt Lucia?”
Camille nodded.
“She told them not to kill me.”
Relief tried to rise.
Then Camille finished:
“She said if I died, you would become suspicious too quickly.”
The relief vanished.
Valerio heard everything ten minutes later.
He stood near the hospital window.
“Lucia.”
Alessia nodded.
“She has financial authority on several family trusts.”
“More than Salvatore?”
“In some.”
“Could she move forty-eight million?”
“With the right signatures.”
“And the second signature?”
Alessia looked toward Camille’s room.
“I don’t know.”
Her phone rang.
Unknown number.
She answered.
“Hello?”
Silence.
Then Lucia Romano’s voice.
“Alessia.”
Alessia stared at Valerio.
“Aunt Lucia.”
“You should have stayed out of family finances.”
“Where are you?”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“You had Camille kidnapped.”
“I kept her alive.”
“That is not a defense.”
“No.”
Lucia sounded almost tired.
“It is an explanation.”
“What are you hiding?”
“Something your uncle should have told you years ago.”
Alessia’s pulse changed.
“What?”
“Your father did not die because of an accident.”
Her fingers went cold.
Valerio saw the change in her face.
Lucia continued.
“He discovered the same accounts you did.”
Alessia could barely breathe.
“My father died in a boating accident.”
“No.”
“Who killed him?”
Lucia was silent.
Then:
“If you want the answer, stop looking at Salvatore.”
“Who should I look at?”
Lucia whispered a name.
“Valerio.”
The line went dead.
Alessia slowly lowered the phone.
Valerio watched her.
“What did she say?”
She looked at him.
For the first time since he had entered the ballroom after her fall, she did not know whether he was the safest person in the room.
May you like
Or the most dangerous.
“My aunt says your family killed my father.”
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