Chapter 4 - A Taste of Home
Norah did not sleep.
At six in the morning, she had made coffee.
At six-ten, she forgot where she had put it.
At six-thirty, she called Liam eleven times.
No answer.
By eight, she had convinced herself the call had been a nightmare.
Then she looked at her phone history.
Four minutes and twelve seconds.
Real.
At ten, she entered the Rossy estate.
Vincent was waiting in the kitchen.
“You’re late.”
She looked at the clock.
It was 10:01.
“Fire me.”
Vincent studied her.
Something was wrong.
Her hair was tied differently, as if she had done it without looking.
There were shadows beneath her eyes.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Bad answer.”
“What do you want for breakfast?”
“The truth.”
“Toast?”
“Norah.”
She opened a cabinet.
Vincent stood.
She could feel his attention.
“I talked to my brother.”
“When?”
Her hand stopped.
She slowly turned.
“How do you know about my brother?”
Vincent did not answer quickly enough.
Norah’s expression hardened.
“Enzo.”
“He was concerned.”
“He had no right.”
“Somebody threatened a person working inside my home.”
“They threatened me.”
“Exactly.”
“You had me investigated?”
“Yes.”
No apology.
No attempt to soften it.
Norah stared at him.
“That is insane.”
“It’s practical.”
“It’s invasive.”
“Also practical.”
She stepped closer.
“You don’t get to decide everything because everyone around you is afraid to tell you no.”
Something flashed in Vincent’s eyes.
Nobody spoke to him like that.
Nobody except Enzo.
Norah suddenly realized she might have crossed a line.
Vincent surprised her.
“What did Liam say?”
She folded her arms.
“Why should I tell you?”
“Because somebody connected your debt to my house.”
Norah’s anger faded slightly.
“How much do you know?”
“Enough to know the loan originated through a bookmaking operation controlled by a man named Silas Crane.”
She had never heard the name.
“Who is he?”
“He handles gambling operations for people who prefer distance from the business.”
“People like you?”
Vincent’s jaw tightened.
“Not me.”
She waited.
“Silas used to answer to Rafael Moretti.”
“The man who poisoned you?”
Vincent’s gaze sharpened.
“Who told you that?”
Norah realized she had said too much.
“Liam.”
Vincent moved closer.
“Your brother knew Moretti?”
“I don’t know.”
“What exactly did he tell you?”
She hesitated.
Then repeated the call.
Vincent did not interrupt.
When she finished, he stood completely still.
“Why would your brother know whether Moretti acted alone?”
“I was hoping you could tell me.”
Vincent’s mind was already moving.
Rafael Moretti had been one of his underbosses.
Ambitious.
Impatient.
Dead.
Every investigation after the poisoning had pointed toward him.
The cup.
The chemical source.
The payment.
The man who carried the poison into the estate.
Everything.
Too cleanly.
At the time, Vincent had been fighting to stay alive.
He had wanted an answer.
Moretti had provided one.
Now a missing gambler was suggesting there had been another.
“Vincent?”
He looked at Norah.
“When did Liam disappear?”
“Eleven months ago.”
Five months before the poisoning.
“What did he do?”
“Construction.”
“What company?”
“Various ones.”
“Names.”
“I don’t remember.”
“Think.”
Norah’s irritation returned.
“I am not one of your employees in this conversation.”
“Technically—”
“Finish that sentence and breakfast is celery.”
Vincent stopped.
Then laughed.
Actually laughed.
Norah blinked.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re strange.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
The tension changed.
For several seconds, they simply looked at each other.
Then Norah said quietly, “Help me find him.”
Vincent’s smile disappeared.
“I already am.”
She looked away.
“Of course you are.”
“Norah.”
“What?”
“I won’t hurt him.”
Her eyes came back.
There was enough uncertainty in them to make something inside Vincent tighten.
He realized she truly did not know what kind of man he was.
Worse, he was not certain which version of the answer he wanted her to believe.
“Make breakfast,” he said.
She nodded.
That morning she made oatmeal.
Vincent hated it.
He ate half.
At lunch, tomato soup and grilled bread.
He finished both.
At dinner, roasted chicken with garlic potatoes.
He cleaned the plate.
Every meal became a quiet negotiation between his fear and her patience.
Norah never told him to take another bite.
Never celebrated when he finished.
Never watched the fork.
She talked instead.
About buses.
Bad landlords.
Her mother’s cooking.
How Liam once tried to repair a sink and flooded the apartment below them.
Vincent listened.
Sometimes he spoke.
Mostly he listened.
By the end of the week, he had gained three pounds.
The household noticed.
The organization noticed.
And Vincent began walking downstairs for meals instead of having them brought to his study.
One evening, he entered the kitchen to find Norah chopping parsley.
“You’re smiling,” he said.
“No, I’m not.”
“You were.”
“You imagined it.”
“What’s funny?”
Norah hesitated.
“Your doctor called.”
Vincent frowned.
“What?”
“He wants to weigh you tomorrow.”
Vincent’s expression immediately darkened.
Norah started laughing.
He stared at her.
“You’re enjoying this.”
“A little.”
“That’s disrespectful.”
“You’re scared of a scale.”
“I’m not scared.”
“You look terrified.”
“I dislike data.”
“You run businesses.”
“Selective data.”
Norah continued laughing.
Vincent found himself smiling with her.
And that was when Enzo appeared in the doorway.
His face killed the moment.
Vincent saw it immediately.
“What?”
“We found Liam.”
Norah dropped the knife.
It hit the cutting board.
“Where?”
Enzo looked at Vincent first.
That was enough to frighten her.
“Where is he?”
“Philadelphia.”
“Is he alive?”
“Yes.”
Norah pressed one hand to the counter.
Vincent stood beside her.
Enzo continued.
“He’s been moving between cheap motels. Somebody else is looking for him.”
“Crane?” Vincent asked.
“No.”
“Who?”
Enzo placed a photograph on the counter.
A black sedan.
Two men standing near it.
Vincent recognized one.
His expression became ice.
Norah looked at him.
“Who is that?”
Vincent did not answer.
“Vincent.”
He pointed toward the taller man.
“That is Martin Vale.”
“Who?”
“My financial adviser.”
Norah stared.
Vincent looked again at the photograph.
Martin Vale had managed Rossy money for nine years.
He had access to accounts.
Schedules.
Properties.
And, six months earlier, the private medical information that had been used to predict exactly when Vincent would drink his morning espresso.
Vincent slowly lifted his eyes toward Enzo.
“Bring Liam in alive.”
Norah flinched at the wording.
Vincent noticed.
“Safe,” he corrected.
Then looked again at Martin Vale.
For six months, Vincent had believed the man who poisoned him was dead.
Now he was beginning to wonder whether the real enemy still entered his house every Monday carrying a briefcase.
May you like
And tomorrow was Monday.
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