Chapter 3 - Alessandro Vitali Never Asked Twice
By noon, Alessandro had broken his promise.
Not by calling.
By walking into my diner.
The room became quiet in stages.
First, Denise stopped pouring coffee.
Then two businessmen near the window recognized him.
Finally, my manager noticed the black Maybach outside and suddenly began wiping a perfectly clean counter.
Alessandro Vitali looked absurd beneath the diner’s fluorescent lights.
Black overcoat.
Charcoal suit.
No tie.
A face that belonged on the side of a skyscraper advertising watches nobody I knew could afford.
He took booth seven.
My booth.
I marched over.
“You said you wouldn’t call.”
“I didn’t.”
“That is an obnoxiously technical interpretation.”
“I’m an obnoxiously technical man.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Ordering lunch.”
“You have restaurants.”
“I have buildings containing restaurants.”
“That somehow sounds worse.”
His mouth almost smiled.
“Coffee.”
“We have a menu.”
“I know what I want.”
The sentence landed differently than it should have.
I looked away first.
When I returned with coffee, his gaze dropped to my wrist.
There was a faint bruise where I had struck the bathroom counter that morning.
His expression hardened.
“Who did that?”
“What?”
“Your wrist.”
“I bumped into something.”
“Who?”
“A sink.”
He considered this.
“Do you want me to have it removed?”
I stared at him.
“The sink?”
“Yes.”
A laugh escaped me before I could stop it.
There it was again—that tiny change in his face whenever he made me laugh.
Like he had discovered sunlight personally.
Then nausea hit.
Hard.
I turned and barely reached the employees’ restroom.
Ten minutes later, I emerged pale and sweating.
Alessandro was waiting in the corridor.
“Move.”
“No.”
“I’m working.”
“You’re sick.”
“People get sick.”
“Not three times during one lunch shift.”
My stomach dropped.
“How do you know?”
His jaw tightened.
“I asked.”
“You investigated me?”
“I asked your manager whether you needed medical assistance.”
“That isn’t better.”
“Emma.”
“Stop trying to control everything.”
“I’m trying to understand why you look terrified every time I come near you.”
Because I’m pregnant.
Because someone knows my real name.
Because my dead father investigated your family.
Instead I said, “Maybe you’re frightening.”
His expression changed.
The words hurt him.
I saw it.
That surprised me.
Alessandro stepped backward immediately.
“All right.”
No argument.
No threat.
He simply created distance.
“I won’t touch you.”
Something inside me twisted.
“I didn’t mean—”
“You did.”
His voice was quiet.
“And I heard you.”
That was the first moment I understood something important about Alessandro Vitali.
He was controlling.
Possessive.
Used to command.
But he was not careless with fear.
Especially mine.
He left cash beneath the coffee cup and walked away.
I almost let him.
Then I remembered the photograph.
“Alessandro.”
He stopped.
I pulled the picture from my apron.
The moment he saw it, everything warm disappeared from his face.
“Where did you get this?”
“My apartment.”
“When?”
“This morning.”
His eyes found the message.
Elizabeth Bellamy should have stayed dead.
He read it twice.
Then looked at me.
“Who is Elizabeth?”
I couldn’t answer.
His gaze moved slowly over my face.
Understanding arrived.
“You.”
I swallowed.
“Yes.”
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then he removed his phone.
“What are you doing?”
“Changing your address.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I’m not moving.”
“Someone photographed you leaving my hotel, identified a name you’ve hidden, found your residence, and delivered a threat.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m moving into one of your fortresses.”
“It does today.”
“You don’t own me.”
His eyes met mine.
“No.”
The answer came instantly.
“But someone is hunting you because of me.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I intend to.”
He called someone named Marco and issued instructions so efficiently that I wanted to strangle him.
Car.
Security.
Apartment.
No police yet.
I grabbed his phone.
He stared at my hand.
“I said no.”
“And I ignored you.”
“I noticed.”
“Give me one reason I should trust you.”
Something moved behind his eyes.
Pain.
Old and buried.
Then Alessandro leaned closer, keeping enough distance that I could move away.
“My mother died because she trusted the wrong Vitali.”
I stopped breathing.
“What?”
“I was fourteen.”
His voice had become almost expressionless.
“My father called it an accident. I learned later it wasn’t.”
“You think someone in your family killed her?”
“I know someone did.”
The diner noise seemed very far away.
Alessandro looked at the photograph again.
“My mother spent her final months collecting evidence against people carrying my surname.”
My heart pounded.
“What kind of evidence?”
“Financial records.”
I felt the floor shift beneath me.
“My father was a forensic accountant.”
Alessandro’s eyes snapped to mine.
“What was his name?”
“Jonathan Bellamy.”
For the first time since I had met him, Alessandro Vitali looked genuinely shocked.
He whispered one word.
“No.”
“You knew him?”
Alessandro reached inside his coat.
He removed an old photograph.
A woman stood beside a younger version of my father.
Behind them was a lake house.
On the back, in my father’s handwriting, were three words:
Trust Sofia Vitali.
Alessandro’s mother.
My father and his mother had known each other.
May you like
Before both of them died.
And suddenly our night together no longer felt like coincidence.
