Her Rich Ex Mocked Her Pregnancy at the Grocery Store—Then the Mafia Boss Walked In and Kissed Her Spotlight8

She tried.

She lay on her side with a pillow beneath her stomach, listened to the quiet rhythm of the house, and reminded herself that anxiety was not evidence. She repeated the sentence until it became meaningless.

Anxiety was not evidence.

But Vincent's signature was.

At 1:12 a.m., she gave up and went downstairs.

The kitchen was lit. A single lamp illuminated the counter, where someone had left a plate of sliced fruit and a handwritten note from the housekeeper reminding Nora to eat before taking her prenatal vitamins.

She smiled despite herself.

For all its armed guards and locked gates, the Moretti residence still contained people who worried about ordinary things.

She took an apple and walked toward the study.

Adrian was there, sitting behind his father's desk with the missing page spread in front of him. His tie lay discarded on the sofa. His sleeves were rolled up, and his hair had fallen across his forehead.

He looked up when she entered.

"Couldn't sleep?"

"No."

"Me neither."

She took the chair opposite him.

"Have you spoken to Vincent?"

"Not yet."

"Why?"

"Because I want to know what I'm asking before I hear his answers."

Nora considered this.

"That's unusually sensible."

"I'm having a difficult week."

She almost smiled.

Then she looked at the report.

"Tell me what you think happened."

Adrian leaned back.

"I think Thomas discovered that someone had been moving money through the shipping accounts. The archive transfer was an attempt to preserve or relocate the original records. My father knew about it. So did your father and the Voss family."

"And Vincent was at the docks when Thomas was still alive."

"According to the report, yes."

"Do you think he killed him?"

"I don't know."

"Do you think your father ordered someone else to do it?"

Adrian looked at the paper.

"I don't know that either."

Nora rubbed her forehead.

"I hate that answer."

"So do I."

He turned the page toward her.

"The report says Thomas was conscious when the first responders arrived. It notes an injury to his head and signs of severe blood loss. Before the ambulance reached the dock, someone authorized his removal."

"Why?"

"The report doesn't say."

"Who was the first responder?"

"A private security officer employed by the shipping company."

"Where is he now?"

"Dead."

Nora closed her eyes.

Of course he was.

The past had become a room full of people who could no longer answer questions.

"What about Thomas's family?" she asked.

"His wife and daughter received a settlement. The wife moved out of Kingsbridge two months later."

"His daughter?"

"I haven't found a reliable record after the settlement."

Nora looked at him.

"Then we find her."

Adrian nodded.

"We'll start tomorrow."

"No. We start today."

He studied her face.

Then he pushed the report toward her.

"All right. Today."

It was a small change in wording.

But Nora noticed.

At nine the next morning, they met Adrian's lawyer in a private office overlooking the courthouse square.

The lawyer, Miriam Cole, was in her early fifties, with short gray hair and the unhurried manner of someone who had spent decades listening to people lie under oath.

She had been investigating the old shipping accounts since Adrian requested the original records.

"I've identified three separate transfers," she said, placing a folder on the table. "All occurred between September and November twenty-two years ago. Each was routed through a different company, but the money ultimately reached the same holding account."

"Who owned it?" Nora asked.

"Officially, a company registered overseas. In practice, we haven't yet established the beneficial owner."

"Can we?"

"Possibly. The original banking records may still exist."

Adrian opened the folder.

"What about Thomas Price?"

Miriam removed a second document.

"The settlement agreement was signed by his wife, Eleanor Price. The agreement included a confidentiality clause and a payment that was significantly larger than the amount normally offered for an accidental workplace death."

Nora felt her stomach tighten.

"Was she threatened?"

"I can't prove that."

"Do you think she was?"

Miriam paused.

"I think she was frightened. Whether that fear came from the company, the circumstances of her husband's death, or something else remains unclear."

Nora looked at the signature.

Eleanor Price.

A woman who had lost her husband, accepted a settlement, and left the city.

She wondered how many nights Eleanor had spent asking herself whether she had done the right thing.

"Find her," Nora said.

Miriam nodded.

"I've already started."

Adrian closed the folder.

"What about Vincent?"

"The missing report places him at the scene. It doesn't establish why he was there or what he did afterward."

"Can he be questioned?"

"Of course. But if he believes the investigation threatens him, he may refuse to cooperate."

Nora looked toward the window.

"Then we need to ask him questions he can't answer with a speech about family loyalty."

Miriam gave her a small, approving smile.

"That may be the most useful suggestion I've heard this morning."

The address on Vincent's card led them to an old private club near the river.

The building had once been a hotel, and its stone façade still carried the faint outline of the original sign. Inside, the lobby smelled of polished wood and expensive tobacco. A receptionist directed them to a private dining room on the second floor.

Vincent was waiting at the table.

He had ordered coffee.

No food.

No wine.

Nora noticed that he had chosen a chair with his back to the wall.

Adrian noticed too.

"You're early," Vincent said.

"We had questions," Adrian replied.

Vincent looked at Nora.

"And you brought her."

"I told you I would."

"I asked her to come alone."

Nora took the chair opposite him.

"And I decided not to."

Vincent studied her for a moment.

Then he gave a faint smile.

"You really are your father's daughter."

"I've heard that before. Usually from people who don't want to answer my questions."

Adrian sat beside her.

Vincent folded his hands.

"Very well. Ask."

Nora placed the copy of the missing report on the table.

"Why were you at the docks when Thomas Price was dying?"

Vincent did not look at the document.

"I was there because my brother asked me to meet him."

"Did you see Thomas?"

"Yes."

"Was he alive?"

"Yes."

"Why was he removed from the scene?"

Vincent's gaze shifted toward Adrian.

"Your father believed Thomas had information that could endanger several people."

"So he was taken somewhere else?"

"Yes."

"Where?"

Vincent hesitated.

"An office belonging to one of the shipping companies."

"Was he given medical treatment?"

"Yes."

"By whom?"

"A doctor."

"Which doctor?"

"I don't remember his name."

Nora stared at him.

"You remember the location of a meeting twenty-two years ago, but not the name of the doctor who treated a dying man?"

Vincent's jaw tightened.

"I remember what matters."

"Apparently not to Thomas Price."

Adrian remained silent.

Nora continued.

"Did Thomas die at the office?"

Vincent looked down at his hands.

"Yes."

"Was it an accident?"

"He fell at the docks."

"That wasn't my question."

Vincent's eyes hardened.

"You have no idea what happened that night."

"Then explain it."

He looked at Adrian.

"Your father was trying to prevent a war."

"Between whom?" Adrian asked.

Vincent took a breath.

"Your father had discovered that one of the shipping accounts was being used to move money for people outside the organization. They were using the company to finance operations that had nothing to do with legitimate business."

"What kind of operations?" Nora asked.

"Arms shipments. Political payments. Bribes. Things that could have brought down everyone connected to the company."

"And Thomas discovered the transfers?"

"Yes."

"What did he do?"

"He copied the records."

"Why?"

"Because he believed the money was being used to finance something far worse than tax evasion."

Vincent looked toward the window.

"He came to your father with the evidence. He wanted the transfers stopped and the people responsible exposed. Elias promised to investigate. But the men behind the accounts had friends in the police, the port authority, and the courts. If the records became public, they would have known who had exposed them."

"So my father helped hide them," Nora said.

"Your father helped preserve a copy."

"That isn't the same as hiding them."

"No. It isn't."

"Then why didn't he go to the authorities?"

Vincent's face grew tired.

"Because the authorities were involved."

The words settled over the table.

Nora felt the old story of her father begin to collapse. The man she remembered had been stubborn, occasionally reckless, and devoted to his business. She could imagine him refusing to destroy evidence. She could imagine him hiding a copy because he believed the truth might eventually save someone.

What she could not imagine was how he had lived afterward.

"Why did he keep the records for so long?" she asked.

"Because he believed the people behind the transfers would eventually lose their protection."

"And did they?"

Vincent gave a humorless laugh.

"No."

"Then what happened to Thomas's family?"

"The settlement was arranged to keep them alive."

Nora's eyes narrowed.

"Alive?"

Vincent looked at her.

"Thomas had a wife and a young daughter. The people behind the accounts believed his family might know where the records were hidden. They were threatened. Elias arranged money, new identities, and a way for them to leave the city."

"Did Eleanor Price know what had happened to her husband?"

"Not everything."

"Did she know he had survived the accident long enough to be taken away?"

Vincent looked away.

Nora understood.

"She was told he died at the docks."

"Yes."

"And the settlement was the price of her silence."

"Partly."

"Partly?"

Vincent's expression hardened.

"You want the truth? The truth is that everyone made compromises. Your father kept the records. My brother kept the organization alive. Margaret Voss arranged the financial transfers. Edward Voss helped move the money. Thomas tried to expose them. And when he died, each of us decided that protecting the living mattered more than explaining the dead."

Nora's voice was quiet.

"That wasn't your decision to make for Thomas."

"No," Vincent admitted. "It wasn't."

For the first time, she believed that he understood what he had done.

It did not make her forgive him.

"Where are the original records?" she asked.

Vincent reached inside his jacket and removed a folded sheet of paper.

He placed it on the table.

"Your father hid them in a place Elias couldn't access."

Nora opened the paper.

It contained an address.

A disused office building in the old printing district.

Calloway Press had occupied a neighboring building before the business closed.

"My father knew where the records were," she whispered.

"Yes."

"And you knew he knew."

"Yes."

"Why didn't you tell us this sooner?"

Vincent looked at her for a long moment.

"Because I was afraid."

Nora felt an unexpected surge of anger.

"You were afraid?"

"Yes."

"My father spent six years dead. Thomas Price spent twenty-two years dead. His family was forced to disappear. And you were afraid?"

Vincent did not defend himself.

"I was."

She rose from the table.

Adrian stood with her.

"Then you should have said so," she continued. "You should have admitted that you were afraid and let the rest of us decide what to do with the truth."

Vincent looked at her with something close to shame.

"You're right."

Nora turned toward the door.

Then she stopped.

"One more question."

Vincent waited.

"Who ordered the shooting outside the supermarket?"

His expression changed.

"I don't know."

"Do you suspect anyone?"

He glanced at Adrian.

"There are people who benefited from the records remaining hidden. Some are still alive. Some have children who inherited their money and their influence."

"Names."

Vincent hesitated.

Then he said, "Edward Voss is dead. Margaret Voss is dead. But the man who managed their accounts is alive."

"Who?"

"Silas Reed."

Adrian went still.

Nora noticed.

"Who is Silas Reed?"

Adrian answered without looking away from Vincent.

"My father's former financial adviser."

"Where is he now?"

Vincent stood.

"That is what you need to find out."

They left the club in silence.

The car moved along the river road, passing the warehouses where Thomas Price had worked and the bridge beneath which the city had buried so many of its old secrets.

Nora watched the water.

She was angry with Vincent, but the anger had become complicated. He had not been a stranger to the events that shaped her father's final years. He had participated in the silence. He had allowed a widow to believe that her husband died in an accident.

And yet he had finally told them where the original records were hidden.

Truth did not erase guilt.

But it gave guilt somewhere to begin.

"Are you all right?" Adrian asked.

"No."

He nodded.

"Do you want to talk?"

"Not yet."

"All right."

She turned toward him.

"Thank you for letting me ask the questions."

He looked surprised.