Chapter 3 - The Woman He Planned to MarryDante did not confront Isabella.
Not yet.
That surprised Nico.
They remained in the security room until Isabella returned to her bedroom at 12:31 a.m.
“You heard enough,” Nico said.
“I heard claims.”
“You watched her hand your stolen property to Vittorio.”
“Yes.”
“So we take them both.”
Dante looked at him.
“And learn nothing.”
Nico leaned back.
“You’re getting patient in your old age.”
“I’m thirty-nine.”
“Ancient.”
Dante almost smiled.
Almost.
“Find out who Isabella’s father was.”
“We already did background on her.”
“Do it again.”
The original background investigation had been exhaustive.
Isabella Romano, thirty-two.
Born in Connecticut.
Mother deceased.
Father listed as Anthony Romano, an investment adviser killed in a boating accident when Isabella was eleven.
Private schools.
Columbia.
Art history.
Charity boards.
No criminal record.
No significant debt.
No obvious connection to the Morettis before meeting Dante at a museum fundraiser two years earlier.
It had been clean.
Too clean.
By sunrise, Nico discovered why.
Anthony Romano had never existed.
The Social Security number belonged to a child who died in 1967.
Dante stared at the report.
“Her mother?”
“Real.”
“Father?”
“Still digging.”
Dante looked through the window.
Below, Sophia ran across the lawn after pigeons while Elena followed carrying her coat.
The little girl stopped.
Turned toward the house.
Saw Dante in the window.
She waved enthusiastically.
Dante did not wave back.
Sophia kept waving.
Nico looked at him.
“For God’s sake.”
Dante finally lifted one hand.
Sophia grinned and ran back toward her mother.
Nico chuckled.
“You’ve gone soft.”
“Finish that sentence and I’ll bury you under the greenhouse.”
“There he is.”
At breakfast, Isabella appeared perfectly composed.
Sophia was seated at the far end of the kitchen eating pancakes because Elena had refused Dante’s suggestion that they use the formal dining room.
Dante entered unexpectedly.
Sophia brightened.
“Mr. Dante!”
Isabella followed him.
Sophia’s smile vanished.
Children were terrible liars.
They were even worse at hiding distrust.
Isabella noticed.
“Good morning, sweetheart.”
Sophia hugged her stuffed cat.
“You took his bird.”
Elena nearly dropped the coffee pot.
Dante watched Isabella.
Isabella laughed softly.
“What an imagination.”
Sophia frowned.
“I saw you.”
“Children see all kinds of things.”
Sophia looked at Dante.
“She’s lying again.”
Elena closed her eyes.
“Sophia.”
“What?”
Dante sat.
Isabella’s smile tightened.
“This is becoming ridiculous.”
“Is it?”
She looked at Dante.
“You cannot possibly be taking this seriously.”
“Shouldn’t I?”
Now the smile disappeared.
“Dante.”
He buttered toast.
“Where’s the bird?”
Elena became very still.
Isabella stared at him.
“What bird?”
“The one you took from my study.”
“I didn’t take anything.”
Dante looked up.
For several seconds, neither moved.
Then Sophia whispered loudly to Elena.
“She’s doing the lying face.”
Nico coughed into his fist.
Isabella stood.
“I will not be interrogated by a toddler.”
Dante’s voice remained calm.
“You’re being questioned by me.”
A different silence entered the kitchen.
Isabella’s eyes changed.
There it was.
Fear.
Not guilt.
Fear.
“I don’t know what you think you know.”
“Then help me.”
She looked toward Sophia.
Then Elena.
Then back at Dante.
“Not here.”
They went to the study.
Isabella closed the door.
“You followed me.”
Dante said nothing.
“You had me followed.”
“You stole from me.”
Her face hardened.
“You don’t understand.”
“I’m listening.”
For a moment, Isabella looked like she might finally tell him everything.
Then her phone vibrated.
She glanced down.
One message.
Whatever she read erased the color from her face.
Dante noticed.
“Who is it?”
“No one.”
“Show me.”
“No.”
“Isabella.”
She stepped backward.
For the first time since he had known her, her polished confidence disappeared.
“You cannot protect everyone, Dante.”
“From what?”
She looked toward the door.
“Especially not that little girl.”
Dante went completely still.
“What did you just say?”
Isabella realized her mistake.
But it was too late.
He crossed the room.
“Who threatened Sophia?”
“I didn’t say—”
“Who?”
She closed her eyes.
“My uncle.”
Dante stopped.
“Vittorio?”
Her eyes opened.
That told him enough.
“You know who he is.”
“Yes.”
“Who is your father?”
She looked at him.
Tears gathered, but she did not let them fall.
“My father was Gabriel Moretti.”
Dante felt as if the floor shifted beneath him.
Gabriel.
Vittorio’s only son.
Dante’s cousin.
The boy who had supposedly died with his mother in a house fire thirty-one years earlier.
Isabella whispered:
“Your father murdered him.”
Dante stared at her.
“That’s impossible.”
“No.”
Her voice cracked.
“It’s the reason I came into your life.”
Then she reached into her purse and placed something on the desk.
A photograph.
Two young men stood beside Dante’s father.
One was Vittorio.
The other was Gabriel.
On the back, in Caterina Moretti’s handwriting, were six words.
Salvatore knows what he did. God forgive us.
Dante read them twice.
Then Isabella spoke.
May you like
“I was never supposed to fall in love with you.”
And suddenly, the theft was no longer the worst betrayal in the room.
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