Chapter 3 - The Woman Who Knew Too Much
By noon, every senior member of my organization had gathered in the conference room beneath my Manhattan estate.
I stood at the head of the table, the photograph of Vanessa and Marcus Bell projected onto the wall behind me.
“Who has spoken to Marcus in the last three months?”
Nobody answered.
I looked from face to face. These men had built their reputations on loyalty. Some had buried friends for the family. Others had spent years protecting my interests because they believed my word was worth more than a signed contract.
Now I wondered how many of them had mistaken my silence for permission to betray me.
“I'm asking once,” I said. “Who has spoken to him?”
Anthony Russo, my security chief, finally cleared his throat.
“I received an anonymous message two weeks ago claiming Marcus was alive. I didn't tell you because I couldn't verify it.”
“Show me.”
Anthony placed his phone on the table. The message contained a single sentence.
Ask Vanessa who paid for the Chicago party.
I read it twice.
“Vanessa paid for nothing,” I said. “I paid for the hotel, the necklace, the car, the guests, everything.”
“That was what I thought,” Anthony replied.
“What are you suggesting?”
He hesitated.
“Your accounts show the necklace was charged to your personal card. The car was paid through Romano Holdings. But the party itself was billed to a company that doesn't appear in our regular financial reports.”
“Which company?”
“Bellweather Consulting.”
The name meant nothing to me.
Thomas, standing near the window, went very still.
I noticed.
“You know it?”
“No,” he said too quickly.
I stepped away from the table.
“Everybody out.”
The men filed from the room, leaving Thomas and me alone.
I shut the door.
“Try again.”
Thomas removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
“Bellweather is a dormant company. It was established years ago to handle certain private expenses. Your father approved it before he died.”
“My father died when I was twenty-six. Why would a company created by him be paying for my mistress's birthday party?”
“I don't know.”
“Who controls it?”
Thomas looked at the photograph on the wall.
“Technically, the company belongs to a trust. The beneficiary information is sealed.”
“Open it.”
“I can't.”
“You're my adviser.”
“I'm also the man who helped your father establish that trust. He gave explicit instructions that its records were not to be opened without a particular authorization.”
I stared at him.
“What authorization?”
“A document signed by both you and Grace.”
For a moment, the room seemed to tilt.
“Why would my wife have anything to do with a company my father established?”
Thomas didn't answer.
I gripped the edge of the table.
“Tell me what you're hiding.”
“I'm trying to protect you from making a decision you'll regret.”
“I've already made the decision that ruined my life. Don't pretend you're saving me from regret now.”
Thomas looked older than he had that morning.
“Your father believed that one day you might confuse the power of the family with the needs of the family. He wanted Grace to have a way to protect herself if that happened.”
I felt something cold move through my chest.
“My father set up a company so my wife could leave me?”
“He set up a financial safeguard. I don't know what Grace has done with it.”
“Then find out.”
Thomas shook his head.
“Not without her permission.”
I walked toward him slowly.
“You've spent seventeen years working for me. You know what happens when people conceal information from this family.”
“Yes,” he said. “I also know what happens when a man uses fear to make everyone around him lie.”
His words struck harder than I expected.
I dismissed him before I said something unforgivable.
Then I called Vanessa.
She answered on the third ring, her voice bright and irritated.
“Vincent? Finally. I've been trying to reach you all morning.”
“Where are you?”
“At the penthouse. Where else would I be?”
“Don't leave.”
A pause.
“What does that mean?”
“It means stay where you are. I'm coming over.”
“Are you angry with me?”
I stared at the projected photograph.
“I haven't decided yet.”
Vanessa was waiting in the living room when I arrived. She wore a cream silk robe, and the diamond necklace I'd bought her glittered at her throat.
For eleven months, I'd told myself that being with her was an escape from the obligations of my marriage. Vanessa laughed at my jokes, admired my money, and never asked me to talk about the things that frightened me.
I had mistaken that for peace.
Now, looking at her, I saw how carefully she'd learned to give me exactly what I wanted.
“You look terrible,” she said, reaching for my hand. “Is this about Grace?”
I pulled away.
“Who is Marcus Bell?”
Her smile disappeared.
“Who?”
“Don't insult me.”
She crossed her arms.
“He worked for you. I barely knew him.”
“You were photographed holding an envelope with my company's seal.”
“That picture could be anything.”
“Then explain the money.”
She blinked.
“What money?”
“The birthday party. Bellweather Consulting paid the bill.”
Vanessa's face lost its color so quickly that I knew the name meant something to her.
“You're making a mistake,” she whispered.
“Then help me understand it.”
She walked to the bar and poured herself a drink. Her hand trembled enough to spill liquor onto the counter.
“I was told the party had been arranged through your office.”
“By whom?”
“I don't know.”
“Vanessa.”
She put down the glass.
“Your wife.”
Silence filled the room.
I stared at her.
“Grace arranged your birthday party?”
“No. Not the party. The money. Someone contacted my event planner and told her that the expenses would be covered. I assumed it was you.”
“Someone contacted her using Grace's name?”
Vanessa shook her head.
“Not her name. A company name. Bellweather. I didn't know what it was.”
I wanted to believe her. I wanted to believe that this was a misunderstanding, that Grace had been involved in some harmless financial arrangement and that I could still explain away the photograph, the missed calls, the incubator, the empty nursery.
But Vanessa was watching me too carefully.
“Did you know Grace was in labor?”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“You told me the doctor said the baby might come early.”
“That isn't what I asked.”
“I knew she was having complications.”
“Did you know she was in labor when you stopped me from leaving?”
She looked down.
I felt the answer before she gave it.
“I was afraid you'd never come back.”
“You knew my daughter might be dying.”
“I didn't know she was dying!”
“But you knew she needed me.”
Vanessa started crying.
“I love you.”
“No,” I said quietly. “You love being the woman I chose.”
Her expression hardened for a fraction of a second.
Then she reached into a drawer and pulled out a folded document.
“Fine. You want the truth? Read this.”
It was a copy of a bank transfer authorization bearing my signature.
The transfer had moved nearly eight million dollars from a private family account into an overseas holding company. The authorization date was two days before my trip to Chicago.
I had never seen the document.
“This is a forgery,” I said.
“Then someone forged your signature.”
“Who gave you this?”
Vanessa looked toward the front door.
“Marcus.”
Before I could ask another question, my phone rang.
It was Dr. Porter.
“Mr. Romano, I need you to come to the hospital immediately.”
My stomach tightened.
“What happened to Lily?”
“She has experienced a sudden change in her condition. She's stable at the moment, but there's something else you need to know.”
“What?”
“The hospital has received a legal notice instructing us not to release your daughter's medical records to you without authorization from her mother or her attorney.”
I closed my eyes.
“Who sent it?”
“Your wife's attorney.”
When I hung up, Vanessa was still standing beside the bar.
“Vincent, please—”
“Don't call me again.”
I left the document on the table and walked out.
At the hospital, Dr. Porter met me outside the neonatal unit. Lily was still receiving care, but her condition had stabilized.
“Your daughter is being monitored closely,” she explained. “The immediate concern is medical. The legal issue is separate.”
“Then tell me what the legal issue is.”
She handed me a sealed envelope.
“This was delivered for you. We were instructed to give it to you only if you came in person.”
Grace's handwriting was on the front.
Inside was a single sentence:
If you want to know why your father prepared for the day I would leave you, ask Thomas what happened to your brother.
I read it again.
May you like
My brother, Daniel, had died when he was nine years old.
At least, that was what my father had told me.
