Chapter 3 - THE LOCKED ROOM
By midnight, Raffaele had doubled security around the estate.
By 12:15, Sera had disappeared.
He found her in Domenico's bedroom.
She stood before an antique writing desk with the brass key from the wedding pressed into a hidden lock beneath its third drawer.
"Sera."
She didn't turn.
"You have a remarkable habit of appearing exactly where I don't want you."
"You disappeared after someone tried to shoot us."
"They weren't shooting at us."
"You know that how?"
"The angle."
The hidden compartment clicked open.
Inside was an envelope.
Sera froze.
Written across the front in Domenico's unmistakable handwriting were two words.
FOR SERA.
Raffaele approached.
She opened it.
My dear girl,
If you are reading this, then I have failed to finish what your father began.
Trust Raffaele only when he learns to trust you.
Trust Lorenzo until you have reason not to.
Never trust Luca.
And whatever happens, do not let anyone open Vault Seven.
Sera read it twice.
"What's Vault Seven?" Raffaele asked.
"I don't know."
"You're lying."
She turned.
"And you're accustomed to people being frightened enough to answer you."
"Most are."
"I'm not."
"I noticed."
He moved closer.
"Your father."
Her expression changed.
Only slightly.
"He died thirteen years ago."
"Apparently we're no longer certain how."
"I am."
"The man tonight—"
"Was trying to destabilize me."
"Or tell you something."
Sera looked toward Domenico's empty bed.
"My father was loyal to him."
Raffaele said nothing.
"My father loved him like a brother."
"Brothers kill each other every day."
She looked sharply at him.
"You really do have a comforting personality."
"I don't specialize in comfort."
"No. You specialize in entering rooms and making furniture nervous."
That time, he smiled.
It surprised both of them.
The moment disappeared when his phone rang.
Security.
The shooter had escaped.
But the man in the blue tie had been found.
Dead.
In the estate garden.
The next morning, Sera requested something that almost caused Raffaele to choke on his espresso.
"A job."
"You have forty-eight hours of marriage and you're already negotiating employment?"
"I've been working for this family unpaid since I was nine."
"You lived here."
"Yes. Children are famously compensated in bedrooms."
Raffaele lowered his cup.
"What do you want?"
"Access to Ferrara Holdings."
"No."
"Financial records."
"No."
"Shipping archives."
"No."
"Then enjoy losing your company."
She buttered toast.
Raffaele stared at her.
"You are irritating."
"Domenico mentioned that."
"He discussed me with you?"
"Often."
"What did he say?"
"Mostly unflattering things."
"Sera."
"He loved you."
The humor left her voice.
"He just didn't trust what power would do to you."
Raffaele looked away.
That landed harder than he expected.
Finally, he said, "You can review financial records with Lorenzo present."
"Full access?"
"Supervised."
"Temporary."
"Very."
"Deal."
She extended her hand.
He looked at it.
"Are we conducting business over breakfast?"
"We conducted a marriage over an inheritance."
Fair point.
He shook her hand.
Three weeks changed everything.
Sera discovered two fraudulent warehouses.
Raffaele discovered his wife could speak fluent French and Italian, read Spanish, and swear creatively in Neapolitan dialect.
She discovered he slept four hours a night.
He discovered she drank tea at 2:00 a.m. when anxious.
She discovered he secretly visited Domenico's grave every Sunday.
He discovered she removed her glasses only when she believed nobody was watching.
And somewhere between shared documents and midnight arguments, Raffaele began watching.
Noticing.
Wanting.
He hated it.
The problem became impossible to ignore at the Moretti Foundation gala.
Sera descended the marble staircase in a pale champagne gown.
Conversation around Raffaele faded.
Men looked.
Women looked.
Luca looked longest.
Raffaele's jaw tightened.
Sera reached him.
"You're staring."
"So is everyone else."
"Is that my fault?"
"No."
"Then stop looking homicidal."
"I always look like this."
"Tragic."
He offered his arm.
She took it.
Halfway through the ballroom, a socialite named Bianca Romano approached.
Bianca had dated Raffaele briefly.
She looked Sera over.
"So this is the famous arrangement."
Sera smiled.
"Which one?"
"The marriage."
"Ah."
Bianca's smile sharpened.
"I confess, I expected someone more..."
She paused.
Raffaele knew exactly which word she wanted.
Sera saved her the trouble.
"Beautiful?"
Bianca smiled.
"I was going to say sophisticated."
"No, you weren't."
Raffaele almost laughed.
Bianca flushed.
Sera leaned slightly closer.
"But don't worry. Raffaele didn't marry me for my face."
Bianca glanced at him.
"What did he marry you for?"
Sera's expression became perfectly innocent.
"Forty-eight million dollars and an impending criminal conspiracy."
Bianca blinked.
Sera walked away.
Raffaele followed.
"Did you enjoy that?"
"Immensely."
"You realize half the room thinks you're joking."
"And the intelligent half?"
"Terrified."
"Excellent."
Then the orchestra changed songs.
Couples moved onto the dance floor.
Raffaele held out his hand.
Sera stared at it.
"What?"
"We're supposed to maintain appearances."
"You hate dancing."
"How do you know?"
"I watch."
He went still.
She realized what she had said.
Something shifted.
Raffaele stepped closer.
"And what else have you watched?"
Sera's breath caught.
Before she could answer, Luca interrupted.
"Raffaele."
He handed him an envelope.
"No return address. Delivered for Sera."
Inside was a photograph.
Sera's father.
Alive.
The date stamped beneath it was six years after his supposed death.
And beside him stood Domenico Ferrara.
May you like
On the back, four words had been written.
ASK WHO BURIED HIM.
