Chapter 2 - THE PHOTOGRAPH
For several seconds, Adeline could not breathe.
Her photograph trembled between Enzo’s fingers.
She recognized the coat she had worn three mornings earlier. She recognized the dented mailbox outside her apartment. She even recognized the grocery bag tucked beneath her arm.
Someone had been standing across the street.
Watching.
Photographing.
Planning.
“Three days ago,” she whispered.
Enzo looked at her.
“What?”
“That picture was taken three days ago.”
Marco took the photograph.
“You’re sure?”
“My sister gave me that scarf on Tuesday. I wore it for the first time Wednesday morning.”
Marco turned it over again.
SHE SAW THE SWITCH.
He frowned.
“What switch happened three days ago?”
Adeline’s fear deepened.
“I don’t know.”
Enzo stepped closer.
“Think.”
“I am.”
“The words might not refer to tonight.”
“I understand that.”
“Did you see Camilla with my aunt before tonight?”
Adeline looked at the floor.
“Yes.”
Enzo became very still.
“When?”
“The day after I started working here.”
“And you didn’t tell me?”
“I didn’t know it mattered.”
“What did you see?”
Adeline wrapped Enzo’s coat tighter around herself.
She suddenly felt painfully aware that she was standing in front of one of the most dangerous men in Chicago, telling him his own household might have been lying to him for days.
“I was cleaning the upstairs sitting room.”
“Beatrice’s private sitting room?”
“Yes.”
“That room isn’t part of the normal staff rotation.”
“I know. Mrs. Talbot asked me to do it because another maid was sick.”
“Go on.”
“Miss Ashford came in with your aunt.”
“Did they see you?”
“I was in the adjoining sunroom changing flowers.”
“What were they doing?”
Adeline closed her eyes.
“Arguing.”
Marco looked interested.
“About what?”
“I couldn’t hear everything.”
Enzo’s patience tightened.
“Tell me what you did hear.”
“Miss Ashford said, ‘You promised he would sign before the wedding.’”
Enzo’s face changed.
“Sign what?”
“I don’t know.”
“Anything else?”
“Your aunt said she needed more time.”
“And Camilla?”
“She said her father was getting nervous.”
Marco swore softly.
Adeline continued.
“Then Miss Ashford said something about shares.”
Enzo’s gaze snapped toward her.
“What shares?”
“I don’t know.”
“Marchetti Holdings?”
“I didn’t hear the company name.”
Enzo paced toward the window.
Marchetti Holdings owned hotels, construction firms, logistics companies, private medical facilities, restaurants, and enough real estate to make financial reporters obsess over every rumor connected to the family.
But Enzo knew one thing outsiders did not.
The ownership structure was changing.
The next morning—less than twelve hours away—he was scheduled to sign a restructuring agreement that would transfer several legacy assets into a new trust.
Beatrice knew about it.
Camilla knew he had a business meeting.
But she was not supposed to know details.
Enzo looked at Marco.
“Call Dante.”
Marco nodded.
Adeline looked between them.
“Who’s Dante?”
“My attorney,” Enzo said.
She almost smiled at the understated answer.
Dante Russo was much more than an attorney.
In Chicago, there were lawyers who represented powerful people.
Then there was Dante Russo, the man powerful people called when normal lawyers stopped returning calls.
Marco walked away to make the call.
Enzo turned back to Adeline.
“What happened after their argument?”
“Your aunt opened a small cabinet.”
“What cabinet?”
“The antique one beside the windows.”
Enzo’s brow furrowed.
“That cabinet is locked.”
“She had a key.”
“What did she remove?”
“A folder.”
“What color?”
“Red.”
Enzo stared at her.
Samuel, who had remained silent, finally said, “You know what that was.”
“Yes.”
Adeline looked at Enzo.
“What?”
He didn’t answer her.
Instead, he asked, “Did Camilla take the folder?”
“Yes.”
“Then what?”
“She replaced it with another one.”
Silence.
Enzo’s voice lowered.
“She switched folders.”
Adeline nodded.
“I suppose so.”
SHE SAW THE SWITCH.
The words on the photograph suddenly made horrifying sense.
Marco ended the phone call.
“Dante is on his way.”
Enzo looked at him.
“Open the cabinet.”
“I’ll get the key.”
“No need.”
Enzo walked to the bookshelf, reached behind a framed photograph of his father, and removed a small brass key.
Adeline stared.
Enzo noticed.
“My aunt doesn’t know I have a duplicate.”
They left the study.
The ballroom remained sealed.
Guests had been allowed to sit, drink water, use restrooms under supervision, and complain quietly into expensive phones.
Camilla stood near the grand staircase with her father and Beatrice.
The moment she saw Enzo emerge with Adeline still wearing his coat, her face hardened.
Beatrice watched them more carefully.
Enzo didn’t stop.
“Where are you going?” Camilla demanded.
He kept walking.
“Enzo.”
Nothing.
Camilla’s voice became sharper.
“You cannot ignore me.”
Enzo stopped halfway up the staircase.
Everyone could see him.
He turned.
“We’re no longer engaged.”
A few guests looked down to hide smiles.
Camilla’s father flushed.
“You’re enjoying this,” Camilla said.
“No.”
Enzo’s voice was flat.
“I’m wondering how long I’ve been stupid.”
That silenced her.
Beatrice stepped forward.
“Enzo, whatever you think happened tonight, I suggest you avoid making accusations while emotional.”
Enzo looked at her.
“I haven’t accused anyone.”
“No?”
“No.”
He glanced at the cane in her hand.
“But you seem worried.”
Beatrice smiled.
“Of course I’m worried. I raised you.”
“And yet you haven’t asked whether someone tried to poison me.”
The ballroom erupted into whispers.
Camilla went pale.
Harrison Ashford swore.
Beatrice froze for half a second.
Half a second was enough.
Enzo saw it.
Marco saw it.
Adeline saw it.
Then Beatrice recovered.
“Poison?”
“How interesting,” Enzo said softly. “That’s almost exactly how Camilla looked when I mentioned nothing about poison.”
Camilla’s eyes widened.
“I didn’t—”
“You didn’t say anything.”
Enzo continued up the stairs.
Behind him, the ballroom became chaos.
Marco followed.
Adeline hurried beside Samuel.
At the top of the stairs, Enzo whispered to Marco, “Nobody touches Beatrice.”
“Understood.”
“Or Camilla.”
“Understood.”
“I want them comfortable.”
Marco looked at him.
“Comfortable?”
“People make mistakes when they believe they still have control.”
Marco almost smiled.
They entered Beatrice’s private sitting room.
Adeline pointed.
“That cabinet.”
Enzo inserted the key.
The lock clicked.
Inside were old financial records, family documents, several velvet jewelry boxes, and one red folder.
Enzo removed it.
He placed it on the desk.
For a moment, he only stared at it.
Then he opened it.
The first page looked legitimate.
A trust restructuring agreement.
Marchetti Legacy Trust.
Enzo began reading.
By the second page, his expression changed.
Marco leaned closer.
“What?”
Enzo turned the document around.
A paragraph had been inserted into the transfer section.
Upon execution, controlling voting authority for three Marchetti companies would temporarily transfer to Beatrice Marchetti as trust administrator.
Marco looked up.
“This wasn’t in Dante’s draft.”
“No.”
Adeline stared.
“How much is that worth?”
Neither man answered.
Samuel did.
“Billions.”
Adeline sat down.
Enzo flipped through the pages.
There were more changes.
Arbitration clauses.
Voting rights.
Temporary succession provisions.
And one section that could become permanent under certain conditions.
One condition in particular.
If Enzo were medically incapacitated within ninety days of signing.
Marco read it twice.
“You’re kidding.”
Enzo’s eyes went cold.
“If I signed this tomorrow and something happened to me…”
“Beatrice would control the companies.”
Samuel finished the thought.
“Until you recovered.”
Enzo looked at him.
“And if I didn’t?”
Nobody answered.
Adeline suddenly remembered the glass.
She felt sick.
“Sir…”
Enzo turned.
“What?”
“The powder.”
“Yes.”
“What if it wasn’t supposed to kill you tonight?”
Samuel looked at her sharply.
Adeline continued.
“What if it was supposed to make you sick?”
Marco’s expression darkened.
“Sick enough to look natural.”
Samuel nodded slowly.
“Depending on the substance, there are drugs capable of producing cardiac symptoms, neurological symptoms, loss of consciousness…”
Enzo’s jaw tightened.
Adeline pointed toward the forged agreement.
“You sign tomorrow.”
She swallowed.
“Then later they make you sick.”
Silence.
Marco looked at Enzo.
“That’s a pretty clean sequence.”
Enzo closed the folder.
“But it still doesn’t explain the dead waiter.”
A voice came from the doorway.
“Maybe I can.”
They turned.
A tall man in a midnight suit stood there.
Dante Russo.
He was forty-five, silver beginning at his temples, with the permanently unimpressed expression of a man who had spent twenty years listening to wealthy people lie.
Marco waved him inside.
Dante closed the door.
“I heard we’re having an engagement party.”
“Not anymore,” Enzo said.
“So Marco mentioned.”
Dante picked up the forged agreement.
He read quickly.
His face lost every trace of humor.
“Where did you get this?”
“Beatrice’s cabinet.”
Dante looked at Enzo.
“You have a bigger problem.”
“How much bigger?”
“This document isn’t just forged.”
Dante turned to the final page.
“It has a notary seal.”
Enzo frowned.
“So?”
“The notary is real.”
“Who?”
Dante pointed at the name.
“Rebecca Sloan.”
Marco knew it immediately.
“City clerk’s office?”
“She resigned six months ago.”
“Why?”
Dante looked toward Adeline.
“Because she disappeared.”
Adeline’s stomach tightened.
Dante continued.
“Her car was found near Lake Michigan. They never found her.”
Samuel whispered, “Jesus.”
Enzo stared at the seal.
“One forged trust.”
Dante nodded.
“One missing notary.”
“One poisoned drink.”
“Yes.”
“One dead fake waiter.”
“Yes.”
“And my former fiancée and the woman who raised me standing downstairs.”
Dante carefully closed the folder.
“That about sums it up.”
Enzo walked to the window.
Below them, black cars lined the circular drive.
Beyond the iron gates, cameras from television stations had already begun appearing.
Word was leaking.
Adeline rose slowly.
“I should go.”
Every man in the room looked at her.
Enzo turned.
“No.”
“I’ve caused enough trouble.”
“You prevented me from drinking that champagne.”
“You don’t know what was in it.”
“No.”
His voice softened.
“But somebody killed a man carrying a photograph of you.”
Adeline looked away.
“I have a sister.”
Enzo immediately understood.
“Where?”
“At my apartment.”
“How old?”
“Twenty.”
“Name?”
“Lucy.”
Enzo looked at Marco.
“Bring her here.”
Adeline shook her head.
“No.”
“Why?”
“She hates people like you.”
Marco coughed.
Dante’s mouth twitched.
Enzo stared at Adeline.
“People like me?”
“Rich people.”
“Ah.”
“And terrifying people.”
“That narrows it down.”
Despite everything, Adeline almost laughed.
Almost.
Then Marco’s phone vibrated.
He answered.
“Bellini.”
His expression changed.
“Repeat that.”
Everyone watched him.
Marco ended the call.
“What?” Enzo asked.
“Someone already went to Adeline’s apartment.”
Her face drained.
“Lucy?”
“They didn’t find her.”
Adeline took a step forward.
“What do you mean they didn’t find her?”
“The apartment door was open.”
She stopped breathing.
Marco continued carefully.
“There were signs of a struggle.”
Adeline’s knees weakened.
Enzo caught her elbow.
“No.”
Her voice cracked.
“No, no, no.”
“Adeline.”
“She was supposed to be studying tonight.”
“Marco will find her.”
“You don’t understand.”
She pulled away.
“My sister has nothing to do with this.”
Enzo’s voice became dangerously quiet.
“She does now.”
Adeline looked at him.
Then Dante’s phone rang.
He checked the number.
Blocked.
He answered on speaker.
“Russo.”
A distorted male voice filled the room.
“Tell Marchetti to return the red folder.”
Nobody moved.
Dante looked at Enzo.
The voice continued.
“And tell the maid that if she wants her sister alive, she’ll remember what poor people are paid to do.”
Adeline began trembling.
The caller paused.
“Stay invisible.”
Then the line went dead.
Enzo stared at the phone.
The entire room seemed to wait for him.
Adeline whispered, “They have Lucy.”
Enzo looked at the forged documents.
Then at the photograph.
Then at the frightened young woman standing in his coat.
When he spoke, there was no anger in his voice.
That was worse.
“Marco.”
“Yes?”
“Close every gate.”
“They’re already closed.”
“Not ours.”
Marco’s eyes narrowed.
“Whose?”
May you like
Enzo looked toward the ballroom below.
“The Ashfords’.”
