Chapter 3 - A Photograph Hidden in the WallsRoman hit me before the second shot came.
Not with his fist.
With his entire body.
He knocked Lily and me behind the kitchen counter just as another bullet tore through our living room wall.
"Stay down!"
His voice thundered through the apartment.
Glass rained across the floor.
Lily screamed.
Roman pulled a pistol from beneath his shirt and spoke rapidly into his earpiece.
"North building. Fourth floor. Shooter across the street."
I pressed my hand over Lily's head.
She was shaking so badly that her teeth clicked.
"Are we going to die?"
"No, sweetheart."
I said it with a confidence I didn't feel.
Roman looked at me.
Something passed between us.
A silent promise.
He would not let that happen.
Minutes later, his security team evacuated us through the rear stairwell.
Outside, the December air burned my lungs.
Roman kept one hand against my back as we hurried toward the waiting SUV.
I hated that I felt safer with him.
I hated that my body recognized his presence before my mind could argue.
Most of all, I hated that whoever wanted to hurt us had succeeded in making me dependent on the very man I feared.
The Cavalli estate stood outside Chicago behind iron gates, stone walls, and enough security cameras to make a prison look welcoming.
Lily stared through the car window.
"Does he live in a castle?"
"Apparently."
Roman didn't smile.
He had spent the entire drive speaking with his security chief, Marco Bellini.
The shooter had escaped.
No fingerprints had been found on the bracelet.
And Natalia had disappeared from the gala before midnight.
When we entered the mansion, an older housekeeper named Teresa welcomed us.
She looked at Roman with something close to maternal concern.
"You're bleeding."
I turned.
A dark stain spread across his left shoulder.
My stomach dropped.
"Roman!"
"It's a scratch."
"That's what men say before collapsing in action movies."
Lily was already reaching for the medical bag Teresa had brought.
"I'm in nursing school."
Roman glanced at her.
"Then you know what you're doing."
"Not enough to treat a gunshot wound."
"It's a graze."
He allowed us to inspect it.
The bullet had cut a shallow path across his upper arm.
Not life-threatening, but painful.
As Lily cleaned the wound, I watched Roman's face.
He barely flinched.
"You could have been killed," I whispered.
He looked up.
"So could you."
"Why did you jump in front of us?"
He didn't answer immediately.
Then he said, "Because I know what it feels like to arrive too late."
The next morning, I wandered into the mansion's enormous kitchen.
For the first time in months, nobody was ordering me to cook.
Teresa had left fresh bread, coffee, and a handwritten note.
Eat something, dear.
I smiled despite myself.
While searching for a serving platter, I discovered a narrow hallway behind the pantry.
At its end stood a locked wooden door.
Except it wasn't locked.
It had been left slightly open.
Inside was a room that smelled of old books and cedar.
A nursery.
My heart tightened.
A white crib stood beneath a painted ceiling of stars.
Stuffed animals lined a shelf.
Tiny yellow shoes rested beside a rocking chair.
On the wall hung a framed photograph.
Roman.
Younger.
Smiling.
Beside him stood a beautiful brunette woman holding a baby blanket against her stomach.
Elena.
I stepped closer.
Something about her face seemed familiar.
Not the eyes.
Not the smile.
The necklace.
A small gold pendant shaped like a flower.
I had seen it before.
My mother owned one just like it.
She had worn it every day until she died.
I reached for the frame.
Behind it, tucked into a gap in the wood paneling, was an old photograph.
Two women stood outside a hospital.
One was Elena.
The other was my mother.
I nearly dropped it.
My mother had died when I was eighteen.
She had worked as a hospital administrator, and she'd never mentioned knowing anyone connected to the Cavalli family.
I turned the photograph over.
A handwritten message covered the back.
Margaret, if anything happens to me, protect the records. Roman cannot know until we find the truth.
My breath stopped.
Margaret.
My mother's name.
I heard footsteps behind me.
Roman stood in the doorway.
His face drained of color when he saw what I was holding.
"Where did you get that?"
I couldn't speak.
He crossed the room and took the photograph.
For several seconds, he stared at it.
Then he whispered something in Italian.
"What does it mean?" I asked.
He looked at me.
"Your mother knew Elena."
"Apparently."
"No, Cara."
His voice shook.
"Your mother was the last person Elena called before she died."
I felt the floor tilt beneath me.
"That's impossible."
Roman reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone.
He opened an old voicemail recording.
A woman's frightened voice filled the nursery.
"Margaret, it's Elena. I found the files. If Roman learns what his father did—"
A loud crash interrupted her.
Then silence.
Roman stopped the recording.
I stared at him.
"Your father?"
He closed his eyes.
"My father died believing I never knew."
"Knew what?"
Roman looked toward the empty crib.
"That the bomb wasn't meant for Elena."
I swallowed.
"Who was it meant for?"
May you like
His answer was barely audible.
"Me."
Related Stories
