Chapter 2 - The Rules of Being Adrian Moretti’s Fiancée
By nine that morning, I had acquired a security detail, a diamond ring, and the strong suspicion that rich criminals had never heard the phrase “reasonable response.”
The ring arrived first.
Mrs. Russo carried it into the breakfast room on a black velvet tray.
I stared.
“No.”
Adrian continued drinking coffee.
“You haven’t seen it.”
“I can see it from another zip code.”
His grandmother, Isabella, leaned forward.
The diamond looked large enough to affect local tides.
“It belonged to Adrian’s mother.”
That silenced me.
Adrian’s expression became still.
“I can wear something cheaper,” I said.
“It needs to be recognizable.”
“To whom? Astronauts?”
Isabella laughed.
Adrian almost smiled.
Almost.
I looked at the ring again.
“If this belonged to your mother, I’m not wearing it.”
Adrian set down his coffee.
“Why?”
“Because this isn't real.”
Something unreadable crossed his face.
“My mother would have appreciated the distinction.”
I expected explanation.
None came.
He pushed the ring toward me.
“Wear it outside your room.”
“My room?”
“You’re moving into the east guest suite.”
“I’m not sleeping here again.”
“I assumed.”
Isabella murmured, “Tragic.”
“Mrs. Moretti.”
“Isabella.”
“Isabella, please stop encouraging this.”
“Absolutely not.”
Despite everything, I almost laughed.
That scared me.
I had been inside the Belladonna estate less than twenty-four hours, and already the building was beginning to feel less like a villain’s castle and more like a dysfunctional mansion filled with people who happened to own bulletproof SUVs.
Then Marco, Adrian’s chief of security, entered.
His face erased the humor.
“We confirmed the apartment intrusion.”
Adrian stood.
“What did they take?”
“Nothing.”
“Cameras?”
“Disabled for nine minutes.”
Adrian’s jaw tightened.
Marco placed a clear evidence bag on the table.
Inside was a photograph.
My mother and me.
Christmas, three years earlier.
It had been taken from my bedroom.
A red X covered my face.
I forgot how to breathe.
Adrian moved around the table.
“I want her mother relocated.”
“No.”
He looked at me.
“My mother has no idea any of this is happening.”
“She does now.”
“What?”
He handed me his phone.
A message from my mother.
Elena, two very serious men just arrived and said you sent them. Should I be worried?
I stared at him.
“You sent armed men to my mother before asking me?”
“They arrived after the photograph.”
“You promised not to lie.”
“I didn’t.”
“You forgot to mention deploying an army to Connecticut.”
“She’s safer.”
I stood so fast my chair scraped backward.
“You don't get to take over my life.”
Adrian’s voice remained infuriatingly calm.
“Someone marked your photograph.”
“Then call the FBI.”
Marco looked away.
That told me more than words could.
“What?”
Adrian rubbed his jaw.
“One of the people we suspect has law-enforcement contacts.”
“So everyone is corrupt?”
“No.”
“But enough.”
“Yes.”
I paced to the window.
Outside, snow covered acres of gardens.
A black SUV moved beyond the hedges.
“What happened to Lydia?”
Marco answered.
“Her passport was used at Logan.”
“Destination?”
“Montreal.”
“Can you prove she left?”
“No.”
Adrian leaned on the table.
“Find out who paid her.”
Marco nodded and left.
I looked at Adrian.
“You already believe she was paid?”
“She sent you into a private area using instructions that made no operational sense.”
“Maybe she hated me.”
“She did.”
“That was fast.”
“I had her background checked.”
“Of course you did.”
“Three complaints from former assistants. Wage theft. Harassment. One civil settlement.”
“That sounds like Lydia.”
“And yesterday she deposited forty thousand dollars.”
I went quiet.
“Forty thousand?”
“Cash.”
I sat down again.
Adrian watched me.
“Someone needed you in that hallway.”
“But why me?”
“That’s the question.”
Isabella tapped one finger on the table.
“Perhaps not.”
We both turned.
She studied me.
“Who are your parents?”
“My father died when I was twelve. My mother is a nurse.”
“Names.”
“Daniel Brooks and Catherine Brooks.”
Something changed in Isabella’s face.
Very small.
But Adrian saw it.
“Nonna?”
She looked away.
“What?”
“You reacted.”
“I did not.”
“Who was Daniel Brooks?”
“My father repaired commercial heating systems.”
“Where?”
“All over Massachusetts before we moved to Connecticut.”
“Companies?”
“I was twelve. I have no idea.”
Isabella stood.
“I need to make a call.”
Adrian blocked her path.
“Nonna.”
Her eyes flashed.
“Move.”
“Tell me.”
She gripped her cane.
For the first time, she looked old.
Not weak.
Just burdened.
“Your father once employed a Daniel Brooks.”
Adrian’s expression changed.
“When?”
“Twenty years ago.”
I stared at her.
“That isn't possible.”
“Why?”
“My father never mentioned your family.”
“No,” she said. “He probably wouldn’t have.”
Adrian’s voice hardened.
“What did he do?”
Isabella looked at me.
“He maintained heating and ventilation systems in several warehouses.”
“What warehouses?” I asked.
She hesitated.
“Moretti warehouses.”
The room seemed to tilt.
“My father worked for you?”
“Briefly.”
Adrian stepped closer.
“What happened?”
“I do not know.”
He laughed once without humor.
“You know everything.”
“Not everything.”
“You remember a contractor from twenty years ago.”
“Because,” Isabella said quietly, “Daniel Brooks was there the night your mother died.”
Silence.
The statement landed like a physical blow.
Adrian’s face emptied.
I looked between them.
“What?”
Isabella closed her eyes.
“There was a fire.”
Adrian’s hand curled into a fist.
“I know how my mother died.”
I looked at him.
His mother.
The ring.
The fire.
Suddenly the enormous diamond on the table felt less like jewelry and more like evidence.
Isabella continued.
“The official report blamed an electrical fault. But Daniel Brooks told one of our people he believed the ventilation system had been deliberately altered.”
My skin went cold.
“My father?”
“Yes.”
“What happened to him?”
“He disappeared from our records.”
“He didn’t disappear. We moved.”
“When?”
I calculated.
“About six months after my father died.”
Isabella looked sharply at me.
“How did he die?”
“Car accident.”
Adrian’s eyes found mine.
“When?”
“2008.”
He went very still.
“That was four months after the warehouse fire.”
I suddenly wanted to leave the room.
“No.”
“Elena.”
“No. My father’s death had nothing to do with your family.”
“I didn’t say it did.”
“You're thinking it.”
“So are you.”
I hated him for being right.
Memories came back.
My father locking the front door twice.
My mother telling me not to answer unknown phone calls.
The sudden move after his funeral.
The cardboard boxes.
My mother crying in the kitchen when she thought I was asleep.
Had I misunderstood my childhood?
I stood.
“I’m calling my mother.”
Adrian nodded.
I dialed.
She answered on the first ring.
“Elena?”
“Mom, are you okay?”
“Your friends are frightening the neighbors.”
“They’re not my friends.”
A pause.
“What happened?”
“I need to ask you something.”
Another pause.
“Okay.”
“Did Dad ever work for the Moretti family?”
Silence.
Not confusion.
Silence.
My stomach dropped.
“Mom?”
“Who told you that?”
My knees weakened.
“So he did.”
“Elena, where are you?”
“At their estate.”
“What?”
Her voice changed completely.
“You need to leave.”
Adrian heard.
He moved closer.
“Mom, why?”
“Leave now.”
“I can't.”
“You can.”
“Someone broke into my apartment.”
She stopped speaking.
“Mom?”
“Listen to me.”
Her voice trembled.
“Your father made me promise never to tell you.”
My throat tightened.
“Tell me what?”
She started crying.
I hadn't heard my mother cry like that since the funeral.
“Before Daniel died,” she whispered, “he gave me something.”
Adrian’s eyes narrowed.
“What?”
“A small metal key.”
My pulse jumped.
“What does it open?”
“I don't know.”
“Where is it?”
Another silence.
Then my mother whispered words that made Adrian reach for the phone.
“I hid it inside your old music box.”
I stared at him.
The music box was in my apartment.
The same apartment someone had entered hours earlier.
Adrian pressed the speaker button.
“Mrs. Brooks, did anyone know about the key?”
My mother went silent.
“Who is this?”
“Adrian Moretti.”
Her breathing changed.
“You stay away from my daughter.”
“Mom—”
“No. Elena, you don't know what his family did.”
Adrian's face turned hard.
“What did my family do?”
“You took everything from us.”
Isabella lowered herself slowly into a chair.
My mother continued.
“Daniel tried to warn your father.”
Adrian froze.
“Warn him about what?”
“The fire wasn't meant for your mother.”
A chill moved across my body.
Adrian’s voice went dangerously quiet.
“Then who was it meant for?”
My mother answered.
“Your father.”
Nobody moved.
The truth rearranged the room.
His mother had died in a fire meant for his father.
My father had discovered sabotage.
And four months later, he had died in a car accident.
Adrian looked at Isabella.
She seemed devastated.
“Who knew?” he asked.
Isabella shook her head.
“I don't know.”
“You knew Brooks suspected sabotage.”
“I knew afterward.”
“And you never told me.”
“You were seventeen.”
“I’m thirty-six now.”
“I was trying to keep you alive.”
He slammed his palm against the table.
The sound made me jump.
“By hiding the truth?”
“By preventing you from starting a war before you were old enough to survive one.”
His voice dropped.
“Who knew my father would be at that warehouse?”
Isabella’s face went pale.
“Family.”
Adrian looked toward the door.
“How many?”
“Five people.”
“Names.”
She hesitated.
“Your father. Me. Your uncle Salvatore. Matteo Ricci. And—”
She stopped.
“And who?”
Her eyes filled with something I hadn't expected.
Fear.
“Your brother.”
Adrian stared at her.
“My brother was thirteen.”
“He overheard us.”
Adrian turned away.
He walked to the window.
I knew almost nothing about him, but I had heard rumors that his younger brother, Luca, had died years ago.
“How did Luca die?” I asked.
Adrian didn’t turn.
“Overdose.”
Isabella looked down.
“Seven years ago.”
I felt suddenly sick.
My mother spoke through the phone.
“Elena.”
“Yes?”
“The key.”
“What about it?”
“Daniel said if anything ever happened to him, I should give it to someone named Gabriel.”
Adrian turned around.
His expression became lethal.
“Gabriel who?”
My mother swallowed.
“Gabriel Vale.”
Isabella’s cane slipped from her hand.
It struck the floor.
Adrian stared at his grandmother.
“You know him.”
She didn’t answer.
“Nonna.”
Her voice came out barely above a whisper.
“Gabriel Vale was your mother’s brother.”
I looked at Adrian.
His face had gone completely still.
“Was?”
“He vanished after the fire.”
“Everyone told me my mother had no living brother.”
“She didn't.”
“Apparently she did.”
“He was supposed to be dead.”
“Supposed by whom?”
Before Isabella could answer, a deafening boom shook the windows.
I screamed.
Adrian moved instantly, knocking me to the floor beneath the table as glass exploded inward from the far side of the room.
Guards shouted.
Someone pulled Isabella down.
Another explosion thundered outside.
Adrian covered my head with his body.
“Stay down!”
Gunfire cracked somewhere beyond the gardens.
My ears rang.
A security alarm began screaming.
Marco burst through the door.
“East perimeter breach!”
Adrian lifted his head.
“How many?”
“Unknown.”
“Lock the estate.”
“They’re retreating.”
“Then follow them.”
“We have another problem.”
Adrian looked at him.
Marco’s face was grim.
“The apartment search team found Elena’s music box.”
I pushed myself upright.
“And?”
Marco looked at me.
“The key is gone.”
My heart stopped.
Adrian slowly stood amid broken glass.
Someone had known exactly where to look.
Someone who knew my father.
Someone who knew about the fire.
And, somehow, someone who had been watching my family for eighteen years.
Adrian held out his hand.
I took it.
“You wanted the truth,” he said.
“Yes.”
His gray eyes moved toward the shattered window.
“Then we find it.”
He tightened his grip.
“But from this moment on, you do exactly what I say when bullets start flying.”
Despite my terror, I stared at him.
“Only when bullets are flying?”
A brief smile touched his face.
“Negotiable.”
It disappeared just as quickly.
Because outside the ruined window, carved into the snow beneath the shattered glass, someone had left a symbol.
A circle.
A vertical slash.
And a small black wolf.
Isabella saw it.
Her face lost all color.
“What does that mean?” I whispered.
Adrian stared down at it.
“My mother used that symbol.”
“For what?”
His eyes found mine.
“To mark things she never wanted my father to find.”
And suddenly the story of Adrian Moretti’s dead mother was no longer just a tragedy.
May you like
It was a secret.
One someone had been willing to kill my father to keep buried.
