Chapter 4
He nodded.
“Neither am I.”
I looked at him.
“That might be the most reassuring thing you’ve ever said.”
We rode downtown in silence.
Not the old silence.
This one was different.
It did not feel like absence.
It felt like two people standing at the edge of something they had not yet named.
The bank occupied a quiet stone building near the river.
My father had already called ahead.
An employee led us downstairs to a private viewing room.
She placed a narrow metal box on the table.
“Take as much time as you need.”
The door closed.
I stared at the box.
Adrian remained near the wall.
“You’re not coming closer?”
“You said you wanted me here.”
“I did.”
“You didn’t say you wanted me looking over your shoulder.”
I pulled out the chair beside me.
“Sit.”
He sat.
My hand trembled slightly as I inserted the key.
The lock turned.
Inside were several folders, two envelopes, a small jewelry case, and another sketchbook.
My mother’s handwriting covered the first envelope.
For Elena.
My vision blurred.
Adrian looked away, offering privacy without moving.
I opened it carefully.
There was only one page.
My darling Elena,
If you are reading this, then something I hoped would remain simple has probably become complicated.
That sounds like me, doesn’t it?
I laughed softly despite myself.
Tears filled my eyes.
I kept reading.
There are documents in this box that belong to a story involving both our family and the Valentino family. They concern choices made long before you were old enough to understand them.
Please do not mistake money for the most important thing contained here.
Trust is.
Trust carefully.
Ask questions.
And remember that a person can make a terrible mistake without being a terrible person.
I stopped.
My father.
Perhaps Adrian.
Perhaps someone else.
At the bottom, my mother had written one more sentence.
If Lucia is gone when you read this, give the blue envelope to her son.
I looked into the box.
There was a blue envelope beneath the folders.
Adrian saw it.
For the first time since I had known him, his composure disappeared completely.
He whispered, “That’s my mother’s handwriting.”
I handed it to him.
He didn’t open it immediately.
His fingers rested over his name.
ADRIAN.
The ink had faded.
He looked at me.
“Are you sure?”
“It says it belongs to you.”
He opened it.
I watched his eyes move across the page.
Once.
Then again.
His face went pale.
“What?” I asked.
He did not answer.
“Adrian.”
Slowly, he lowered the letter.
“There’s something wrong.”
“With what?”
“The date.”
I leaned closer.
The letter had been written three months before Lucia Valentino died.
“What about it?”
He looked at me.
“My mother says Daniel Mercer came to see her.”
I waited.
“She says he admitted your father’s company was being used to hide transfers.”
My heart began pounding.
“So Daniel was responsible?”
Adrian shook his head.
“No.”
He handed me the letter.
My eyes found the final paragraph.
And everything inside me went still.
Daniel is frightened, but I believe him. He says Thomas Hale did not authorize the transfers. Neither did he. Someone inside Valentino Group gave the orders.
I looked at Adrian.
“Who?”
His expression was grim.
“There’s a second page.”
He unfolded it.
Only half a sheet remained.
The lower section had been torn away.
But three handwritten lines were still visible.
I know who authorized the account.
I should have recognized the signature sooner.
If anything happens to me, Adrian must not trust—
The sentence ended there.
I stared at the torn edge.
“Must not trust who?”
Adrian said nothing.
Then something slipped from between the pages and landed on the table.
A photograph.
Older than the one upstairs.
In it, my mother and Lucia stood beside two men outside an office building.
One was my father.
The other man had his arm around Adrian’s mother, smiling directly at the camera.
Adrian picked up the photograph.
His expression changed so subtly that I almost missed it.
But I did.
Recognition.
“Who is he?” I asked.
Adrian remained silent for several seconds.
Then he turned the photograph over.
Someone had written a date and four names on the back.
Isabel Hale.
Thomas Hale.
Lucia Valentino.
And the fourth name made Adrian stare at the photograph as if the past had suddenly stepped into the room.
I read it aloud.
“Marco Bellini.”
My pulse stumbled.
“Marco?”
Adrian looked toward the closed door.
The same Marco who had worked beside him for years.
The same man who had brought the first aid kit.
The same man who was waiting upstairs for us.
But Adrian slowly shook his head.
“No.”
“What?”
“This can’t be Marco.”
“Why not?”
He turned the photograph toward me.
“This was taken twenty-seven years ago.”
I looked again.
The man in the photograph was at least thirty.
Too old.
Far too old.
“Then who is he?”
Adrian’s eyes returned to the name on the back.
And when he finally answered, his voice was barely above a whisper.
“I don’t know.”
A knock sounded on the door.
Three quiet taps.
Adrian and I looked at each other.
Then a bank employee spoke from the hallway.
“Mrs. Valentino? There’s a gentleman upstairs asking for you.”
My hand closed around my mother’s letter.
“Who?”
A brief pause.
“He says his name is Daniel Mercer.”
“He asked for me.”
“That concerns me more, not less.”
I could hear the familiar authority returning to his voice, but this time it didn’t feel dismissive.
It felt protective.
Still, I shook my head.
“I want to speak to him.”
Adrian studied me.
“Elena—”
“You promised.”
His expression changed.
“I promised not to keep things from you.”
“And I’m holding you to it.”
A pause.
Then he nodded.
“All right.”
He pulled out his phone.
“Marco.”
He waited.
“Come downstairs. Quietly.”
He ended the call and looked at me.
“We meet him here. Bank security nearby. Door stays open.”
I almost smiled.
“You negotiate everything, don’t you?”
“Occupational habit.”
“And if I disagree?”
“Then I become extremely persuasive.”
“That sounds suspiciously like another word for annoying.”
This time, his smile appeared fully.
It lasted only a moment.
But it was real.
Then footsteps approached outside.
Marco entered first.
The man who had been part of Adrian’s life for years looked from us to the photograph on the table.
“What happened?”
Adrian turned the photograph over and pushed it toward him.
Marco read the names.
His forehead creased.
“Marco Bellini?”
“You know the name?” Adrian asked.
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
Marco looked almost offended.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Because your first name is Marco.”
Marco stared at him.
“That is not exactly rare.”
Under any other circumstances, I might have laughed.
Instead, Adrian rubbed a hand over his jaw.
“Fair point.”
Marco looked at me.
“What does this have to do with Daniel Mercer?”
“He’s upstairs,” I said.
Marco became completely still.
“What?”
“He asked for me.”
Adrian moved toward the door.
“I want you beside the hallway. Not inside unless I call.”
Marco’s expression tightened.
“Adrian—”
“Elena wants answers.”
Something passed between the two men.
A disagreement.
Then Marco nodded.
“So do I.”
Five minutes later, Daniel Mercer walked into the room.
He looked nothing like the memory I carried from childhood.
The Daniel I remembered had worn neat gray suits and silver-framed glasses. He had always smelled faintly of peppermint and coffee. He had kept wrapped chocolates in his desk drawer and pretended not to notice when I stole them.
The man before me was thinner.
His hair had gone almost completely white.
The glasses were different.
But the eyes were the same.
Kind.
Tired.
And afraid.
He stopped when he saw me.
“Elena Hale.”
“Valentino now.”
A faint smile touched his face.
“Yes. I heard.”
Adrian remained beside me.
Daniel’s gaze shifted to him.
The smile disappeared.
“Adrian.”
“You’ve been difficult to find.”
“I had reasons.”
“Eight years’ worth?”
Daniel pulled out the chair across from us.
“More.”
He didn’t sit until I did.
Adrian remained standing.
I placed my mother’s letter on the table.
“You knew her.”
Daniel looked down.
His face softened.
“Your mother was one of the bravest people I ever knew.”
Emotion rose so quickly that I had to look away.
People always said my mother had been kind.
Warm.
Generous.
No one had ever called her brave.
“What did she do?”
Daniel folded his hands.
“She asked questions when people told her not to.”
Adrian finally sat beside me.
“Start at the beginning.”
Daniel looked at him.
“The beginning happened before either of you understood what your families were involved in.”
He pointed toward the photograph.
“May I?”
I handed it to him.
Daniel studied it for a long time.
“That was taken outside the offices of the Bellini Foundation.”
“Foundation?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Who was Marco Bellini?”
Daniel exhaled.
“Lucia Valentino’s closest adviser.”
Adrian frowned.
“My mother never mentioned him.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“Why?”
“Because after he disappeared, your father removed almost every reference to him from the company.”
Adrian’s eyes narrowed.
“My father?”
Daniel nodded.
“Victor Valentino.”
There was something in Adrian’s face I had rarely seen.
Not fear.
Something more complicated.
Disappointment remembered from long ago.
“My father retired from the company before my mother died.”
“Yes.”
“But you’re saying he removed records?”
“I’m saying his office ordered them removed.”
“That isn’t the same thing.”
“No.”
Daniel gave him a meaningful look.
“And learning the difference is part of what got me into trouble.”
I leaned forward.
May you like
“What happened to my father’s company?”
Daniel looked at me.
