Chapter 2 - The Name in Her Father’s Hand

Natasha read the sentence three times.

If anything happens, find Rossi.

“My father hated criminals.”

Matteo’s expression did not change. “So did mine.”

“That makes no sense.”

“Most true things don’t, at first.”

Elena quietly closed the office door again.

Natasha picked up the photograph. Her father, Adrian Voss, looked exhausted but alive. She remembered that suit. Gray pinstripe, one sleeve slightly too long because he refused to pay for tailoring after her mother died. She remembered the briefcase even better.

“Where did you get this?”

“From him.”

“When?”

“Three weeks before his car went off the Rickenbacker Causeway.”

Her throat closed.

The police had called it an accident. Rain. Hydroplaning. No witnesses.

“You knew him before he died?”

“Yes.”

“And you waited nine years to tell me?”

“I did not know where the photograph belonged until recently.”

“You knew my name.”

“Not then. He called you Tasha.”

She hated that the detail sounded true.

“What did he want from you?”

“Protection.”

“For himself?”

“For evidence.”

Natasha lowered the photograph. “What evidence?”

Matteo’s jaw tightened. “That is where this becomes complicated.”

“It became complicated when you sat at my table.”

“No. It became complicated years before that.”

She turned to Elena. “Can I leave?”

“Yes.”

“Will he stop me?”

“No,” Elena said.

Matteo nodded once.

Natasha put the photograph into her purse. “Then I’m leaving.”

“I’ll have a car take you.”

“I’ll call a taxi.”

“Richard knows your apartment.”

She stopped.

“Then I’ll go somewhere he doesn’t know.”

“He will check your friends, cards, phone, and usual routes.”

“You sound very experienced.”

“I am.”

The admission was colder than any boast.

Natasha folded her arms. “What do you want?”

“To keep you alive long enough to decide whether you want the truth.”

“Why would Richard come after me because of something my father did nine years ago?”

Matteo looked at her purse.

“Because he believes Adrian left something with you.”

A laugh escaped her, brittle and unbelieving. “Richard has been with me six years.”

“Yes.”

The room tilted.

“No.”

Matteo said nothing.

“No. You don’t get to walk into my life and say that.”

“I know.”

“You think he dated me because of my father?”

“I think that possibility has to be considered.”

“He met me at a charity auction.”

“Hosted by the Castellano Foundation.”

“He didn’t even know my last name when we met.”

“Are you certain?”

Natasha opened her mouth.

Closed it.

Richard had spilled red wine on her program and joked that fate had ruined his introduction. He had known she was on the junior preservation committee. He had known her university. He had known she worked in architectural restoration.

Had he known her name?

She could not remember.

Elena pulled a chair closer. “Sit.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re white as the wall.”

Natasha sat.

Matteo stayed standing.

“What did my father leave?”

“I don’t know.”

“Convenient.”

“If I knew, I would tell you.”

“Would you?”

A beat passed.

“Yes.”

She studied him. “That sounded expensive.”

“It was.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I spent years believing secrecy kept people safe. I have evidence that it did not.”

Before she could ask, Elena’s phone vibrated.

She read the screen. “Mr. Rossi.”

“What?”

“Richard didn’t go home.”

Matteo’s expression hardened. “Where?”

“Security picked up his car at the marina garage. Then nothing.”

Natasha stood. “He has access to my apartment.”

“Do you have anything there from your father?”

“Boxes. Books. Some clothes.”

“Documents?”

“No.”

“Jewelry?”

“My mother’s.”

“Anything he insisted you keep?”

The question unlocked a memory.

Her father’s last birthday gift had been a wooden music box, ugly and heavy, carved with tiny birds. Natasha had almost donated it after moving in with Richard. Richard had stopped her.

Keep it, he had said. It matters to you.

At the time, she had thought it was tenderness.

Now her stomach turned.

“The music box.”

Matteo became still. “What music box?”

“It’s in my apartment.”

Elena was already reaching for her radio.

Natasha stood so quickly the chair hit the wall. “No.”

Matteo looked at her.

“I’m going.”

“That is a terrible idea.”

“It’s my home.”

“And Richard may be inside it.”

“That is why I’m going.”

Matteo stepped closer, not blocking her. “Natasha.”

“If that box has anything to do with my father, I’m not letting another man decide what happens to it.”

Something flickered across his face.

Respect, perhaps.

“Then we go with police.”

“No police.”

“Why?”

“Because Richard’s uncle is Deputy Chief Castellano.”

Matteo’s mouth flattened.

Natasha stared. “You knew that.”

“Yes.”

“Of course you did.”

Elena said, “We can send private security ahead.”

“No. I want to see what he does when he thinks I’m gone.”

Matteo considered her.

“You are not what he thinks you are.”

“You don’t know what I am.”

“No,” he said. “But I know what frightened men do when they think they’re losing control.”

They left through the restaurant’s service entrance.

Matteo’s sedan was black, armored, and offensively discreet. Natasha sat beside Elena in the back while Matteo rode in front.

Her phone lit up twelve times during the drive.

Richard.

Richard.

Richard.

Then a message.

I’m sorry.

Another.

You scared me.

Another.

Come home and we’ll talk.

Then:

Do not involve Rossi.

Natasha showed Matteo.

He read it over his shoulder.

“Answer him,” he said.

“What?”

“Tell him you’re going to Miriam’s.”

“How do you know Miriam’s name?”

“You said it in the office.”

She had.

Her nerves were inventing enemies now.

She typed: I need space. I’m staying with Miriam.

Richard replied immediately.

Okay. I love you. We’ll talk tomorrow.

Matteo stared at the screen.

“He believed it too quickly,” Natasha said.

“Yes.”

The car turned onto her street.

Her apartment building was three blocks ahead.

Halfway there, Elena’s phone buzzed.

She listened, then looked at Natasha.

“Our people entered your apartment.”

“And?”

“They found Richard.”

Natasha’s hands went cold.

Elena continued.

“He was in your bedroom.”

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Matteo looked back.

“With the music box open.”