Chapter 2 - The Blue BoxEmma's father had been dead for two years.
At least, that was what her mother, Elena, had told everyone.
A car accident outside Newark.
No body recovered.
No funeral.
No questions.
Elena had been hired at Ravenwood shortly afterward.
She rarely talked about her husband.
I had never pushed.
Until now.
I took Emma to the kitchen.
Elena was preparing dinner.
The moment she saw us, she smiled.
Then she saw my face.
Her smile vanished.
“Mr. Duca?”
“Where's Emma's father?”
The knife slipped from her hand.
It struck the cutting board.
Emma looked at her mother.
Elena looked at me.
“Why are you asking?”
“Because your daughter says he told her something.”
Elena's face became pale.
“Emma doesn't remember her father.”
“She remembers enough.”
Silence.
Then Elena whispered:
“Please.”
“Tell me.”
She looked toward the doorway.
“Not here.”
We moved into the servants' sitting room.
Elena closed the door.
“You're getting married soon.”
“Yes.”
“Then you need to know.”
I waited.
“My husband didn't die.”
I stared.
“What?”
“He disappeared.”
“Why?”
“Because he found something.”
“What?”
Elena looked at Emma.
Then back at me.
“A ledger.”
My stomach tightened.
“About my family?”
She nodded.
“Your father had been keeping records.”
“Of what?”
“Payments.”
“To whom?”
“Politicians. Judges. businessmen.”
“That isn't exactly news.”
“These weren't normal payments.”
She leaned closer.
“They were payments to people who helped your father bury problems.”
I didn't speak.
My father had been a complicated man.
Brilliant.
Dangerous.
Sometimes ruthless.
But I had never believed he maintained a secret network.
Elena continued.
“My husband found the ledger and tried to take it.”
“What happened?”
“He disappeared.”
“And the blue box?”
Her eyes widened.
“You know about it?”
“Emma mentioned it.”
Elena looked terrified.
“Where is it?”
“I don't know.”
“Then why are you afraid?”
“Because your father hid it.”
“My father?”
“Yes.”
She swallowed.
“He told my husband that if anything happened, the box would go to you.”
I thought about the safe.
The blue folder.
The black envelope.
The forbidden room.
Then I remembered something.
My father had once told me:
When you marry, make sure you know which family you're marrying into.
At the time, I had assumed he meant money.
Maybe he meant something else.
That night, I didn't sleep.
At 2:15 a.m., I entered my study alone.
I moved the painting.
Opened the safe.
The blue folder was still there.
But something had changed.
One page was missing.
A single photograph.
My mother.
My father.
And Vivien.
Taken twenty years earlier.
I had never seen it.
On the back was one handwritten sentence.
She knows where the box is.
I heard footsteps behind me.
I turned.
Vivien stood in the doorway.
“What are you doing?”
I closed the safe.
“Couldn't sleep.”
She smiled.
“Wedding nerves?”
“Maybe.”
She walked toward me.
“You don't trust me.”
It wasn't a question.
I stared at her.
“Why would you say that?”
“Because you've been distant.”
She touched my face.
“I love you.”
I looked into her eyes.
For eleven months, I had wanted to believe those words.
Now I wondered whether she had ever meant them.
She kissed me.
I let her.
Then she whispered:
“Everything will be different after the wedding.”
I asked:
“How?”
She smiled.
“You'll see.”
She left.
I waited until the door closed.
Then I called Mara.
“Find everything on Vivien Rossi.”
Mara was silent.
“Everything?”
“Birth records. Family. Schools. Jobs. Travel. Financial history.”
“And if I find something ugly?”
“Especially that.”
An hour later, my phone rang.
Mara's voice was unusually quiet.
“Lorenzo.”
“What?”
“You're not going to like this.”
May you like
“What did you find?”
“Vivien Rossi was never her real name.”
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