Chapter 7 - The Woman in the PhotographEmma did not sleep well.
Every time she closed her eyes, she heard Vincent's voice telling her that someone might have been involved in Isabella's death.
She had known, of course, that the girl had died young. She had understood that Vincent carried grief, regret, and questions that had no easy answers.
But the possibility that Isabella's death had not been an accident changed everything.
It transformed Vincent's sorrow into something more dangerous.
It gave his enemies a reason to lie, his employees a reason to keep secrets, and his past a reason to follow him into every room he entered.
Emma lay awake until dawn, staring at the ceiling.
At six thirty, she got out of bed, showered, and made coffee.
At seven, she called her landlord.
At seven fifteen, she left a message for her supervisor explaining that she would arrive late.
At seven twenty, she called Vincent.
He answered immediately.
"Emma?"
"We need to talk."
"I know."
"Today."
"Of course."
"And I want to meet somewhere public."
"Name the place."
She looked out of the kitchen window.
"Rose's Diner. Ten o'clock."
There was a brief pause.
"All right."
She hung up before he could say anything else.
Then she sat down at the table and pressed both hands against her forehead.
She was frightened.
She was also angry.
And beneath both emotions was a feeling she found far more difficult to admit.
She was worried about him.
Not Vincent Duca, the man whose name appeared in newspapers and whose business dealings were discussed in hushed voices.
She was worried about the man who had laughed at her stories, who had shown her a photograph of his daughter, and who had admitted that he did not know how to live with what had happened.
She was worried about the man who had promised to tell her the truth.
And she was beginning to understand that promises were easy to make when nothing important depended on keeping them.
Vincent arrived at the diner at nine fifty-five.
Emma was already seated in the corner booth, a cup of coffee in front of her.
He looked tired.
There were shadows beneath his eyes, and the silver at his temples seemed more pronounced than before. He wore a dark coat and carried no briefcase, no folder, and no visible sign of the life he had built around himself.
He slid into the booth opposite her.
"Good morning."
"Is it?"
He accepted the question without protest.
"No. Not particularly."
Emma wrapped her hands around her mug.
"Tell me everything."
Vincent looked at her.
"Everything?"
"Everything that affects me. Everything that might put me in danger. Everything you know about Isabella's death that you haven't told me."
He lowered his gaze.
"I can't tell you everything about my business."
"Then tell me what you can."
He nodded slowly.
He explained the transfers from the Duca Foundation, the questions surrounding Adrian Cole, and the discovery that Thomas Bell had been seen near the hospital on the day Isabella died.
He told her about the possibility that someone had been seeking financial records connected to his businesses.
He did not explain the nature of every business he controlled, nor did he pretend that all his dealings had been legitimate.
Emma listened without interrupting.
When he finished, she stared at him for several seconds.
"Was Isabella involved in any of this?"
"According to Adrian, she had been asking questions about the foundation."
"What kind of questions?"
"I don't know."
"Did she ever tell you about them?"
Vincent's face tightened.
"No."
Emma looked away.
"Because you weren't there."
He flinched.
She immediately regretted the words, but she did not take them back.
"Yes," he said quietly. "Because I wasn't there."
For a moment, the diner seemed unbearably silent.
Rosa had gone into the kitchen, leaving them alone.
Emma looked at Vincent again.
"I don't want you to misunderstand me. I'm not blaming you for what happened to Isabella."
"You have every right to."
"No. I don't know enough to do that. But I think you need to understand that the things you regret about your relationship with her are not separate from what's happening now."
He frowned.
"What do you mean?"
"You keep saying you wanted to protect her. You gave her a beautiful home, expensive schools, and people to take care of her. But if she was worried about something and didn't feel she could come to you, then perhaps the problem wasn't that you failed to protect her from the world."
Emma took a breath.
"Perhaps she didn't believe you had time to listen."
Vincent looked as though she had struck him.
For a moment, Emma feared he would become angry.
Instead, he bowed his head.
"I think you're right."
She had not expected him to say that.
"I'm not trying to hurt you."
"I know."
"I'm trying to understand."
"So am I."
He looked up.
"And I think I have spent a very long time confusing control with protection."
Emma felt her anger soften, though it did not disappear.
"That sounds like something you need to work on."
"I suspect it is."
She reached across the table and placed her hand over his.
"Vincent, I care about you. More than I expected to after such a short time. But I cannot be another secret you keep because you think the truth is too dangerous for me."
He turned his hand beneath hers, holding it gently.
"You won't be."
"Then we need boundaries."
"Tell me."
"If you discover something that could affect my safety, you tell me immediately. You don't send someone to follow me without explaining why. You don't make decisions about my life without asking me."
He nodded.
"And if I decide that this is too much for me, you let me walk away."
His fingers tightened slightly around hers.
Then he released her hand.
"Yes."
The answer cost him something.
Emma could see it.
But he gave it anyway.
"Thank you," she whispered.
He looked at her for a long moment.
"Can I ask you something?"
"Of course."
"Why are you still here?"
Emma considered the question.
"Because I like you."
He seemed surprised by the simplicity of the answer.
"And because I know what it feels like when people decide that your problems are too inconvenient to deal with."
She looked down at their hands.
"I don't want to become another person who walks away simply because things have become difficult. But that doesn't mean I'll stay if staying means losing myself."
Vincent nodded slowly.
"That's fair."
She smiled faintly.
"I'm glad you think so."
He almost smiled in return.
Then his phone vibrated.
He looked at the screen, and the warmth disappeared from his face.
"What is it?" Emma asked.
"Daniel."
"Is something wrong?"
"I don't know yet."
He answered.
Emma watched his expression change as he listened.
First came concentration.
Then disbelief.
Finally, something that looked remarkably like fear.
"Where?" Vincent asked.
A pause.
"When?"
Another pause.
Vincent stood.
"Don't touch anything. I'm coming."
He ended the call.
Emma rose immediately.
"What happened?"
Vincent looked at her.
"Adrian has disappeared."
Adrian's apartment was on the thirty-second floor of a luxury building overlooking the East River.
When Vincent arrived, Daniel was waiting beside the elevators.
The apartment door stood open.
Inside, everything appeared orderly. The furniture was in place, the kitchen was clean, and the curtains had been drawn halfway across the windows.
But Adrian was gone.
His phone lay on the kitchen counter.
His wallet was inside a drawer.
His passport was missing.
Daniel led Vincent into the study.
"Security footage shows him leaving at four twelve this morning. He took the service elevator and exited through the underground garage."
"Who was waiting for him?"
"We're still checking."
"Did he leave voluntarily?"
"Possibly."
Vincent stared at the empty desk.
"Did he contact anyone?"
"His lawyer. At three forty-eight."
"Get the call records."
"Already requested."
Vincent walked toward the window.
Adrian had not left because he was frightened of an investigation.
He had left because he knew something.
Something important enough to abandon his apartment, his accounts, and the life he had built in New York.
"Find him," Vincent said.
Daniel nodded.
Then he hesitated.
"There is another thing."
Vincent turned.
Daniel held out a photograph.
It showed Emma leaving Rose's Diner the previous evening.
A man stood several yards behind her.
He wore a dark jacket and carried a phone in one hand.
Vincent felt the air leave his lungs.
"Who is he?"
"We don't know. He appears in two other photographs taken near the diner."
Vincent looked at the image.
The man was not one of his employees.
He was not a member of Daniel's security team.
And he was not someone Vincent recognized.
"When were these taken?"
"The first was three days ago. The second was yesterday."
Vincent's jaw tightened.
"Why wasn't I told?"
"We didn't know he was connected to anything until this morning."
Vincent stared at the photograph.
The man had been watching Emma.
Perhaps following her.
Perhaps waiting for an opportunity.
For the first time in years, Vincent felt an emotion that had nothing to do with business or grief.
Fear.
Not fear for himself.
Fear of losing someone else because he had failed to recognize a threat in time.
"Find out who he is," Vincent said.
Daniel nodded.
"And Daniel?"
"Yes?"
"From now on, no one approaches Emma without her permission unless there is an immediate threat to her life."
Daniel studied him.
"Understood."
Vincent looked at the photograph once more.
He had promised Emma that he would tell her the truth.
Now he had to decide how much truth she could bear.
And whether he had the courage to let her make her own decisions, even when those decisions frightened him.
Emma was closing the diner when the stranger appeared.
He entered at eight thirty, wearing a dark jacket and a gray scarf.
He looked ordinary enough. Middle-aged, clean-shaven, with a face that might have disappeared into any crowd in New York.
But he did not look at the menu.
He looked directly at Emma.
"Emma Harris?"
She felt her stomach tighten.
"Can I help you?"
The man smiled.
"I hope so."
Rosa emerged from the kitchen.
"We're closing soon."
"I won't take long."
He approached the counter and placed a small envelope beside the register.
Emma did not touch it.
"What is that?"
"Something you should see."
"Who sent you?"
The man's smile faded slightly.
"Someone who knew Isabella."
Emma went still.
Rosa stepped closer.
"Emma, don't—"
But Emma was already staring at the envelope.
"What's inside?"
"A photograph."
"Of Isabella?"
"Yes."
The man glanced toward the door.
"She was trying to tell her father something before she died. Something he hasn't understood yet."
Emma felt cold.
"Who are you?"
"Someone who believes Vincent Duca deserves to know the truth."
"Then why not tell him yourself?"
The man looked at her for a long moment.
"Because Vincent has spent years making enemies. Some of those enemies are closer to him than he realizes."
He pushed the envelope toward her.
"Tell him to look at the date on the back."
Then he turned and walked out.
Emma remained motionless until the door closed.
Rosa reached for the envelope.
"Don't touch it."
Emma pulled it toward herself.
"Why?"
"Because we don't know what it is."
Emma stared at the plain white paper.
Every instinct told her to call Vincent immediately.
Instead, she opened the envelope.
Inside was a photograph of Isabella standing in front of a Christmas tree.
She was wearing a red sweater.
Her dark curls fell over her shoulders, and she was holding the small wooden house Vincent had shown Emma.
But there was something written on the back.
A date.
December 18.
And beneath it, in a child's handwriting, four words.
Ask Dad about Thomas.
Emma felt the room tilt.
She took out her phone and called Vincent.
He answered on the first ring.
"Emma?"
"Someone came to the diner."
Silence.
"What happened?"
She looked at the photograph.
"He said he knew Isabella. He gave me a picture of her."
Vincent's voice changed.
"Where are you?"
"At the diner."
"Are you alone?"
"Rosa is here."
"Don't leave the building. I'm coming."
"Vincent—"
"Please, Emma."
She stopped.
It was the first time he had ever asked her for something in that tone.
Not commanded.
Not instructed.
Asked.
"All right," she whispered.
He ended the call.
Emma looked down at the photograph again.
Ask Dad about Thomas.
For the first time, she wondered whether Isabella had known she was in danger.
May you like
And whether the people who had failed to protect her were still walking freely through the city.
End of Chapter 7
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