Chapter 2 - The Woman Who Came Back Without a Mask

Alessandro reached the gallery before anyone else.

I followed several steps behind.

Rosalie came after me.

Henry stayed near the staircase.

Mr. Quinn did not move.

The woman behind the glass opened the gallery door.

For a moment, Alessandro stopped.

She was smaller than the photographs made her look.

Silver hair.

Black dress.

Hands trembling.

But her eyes were the same as his.

Dark.

Steady.

Unmistakable.

She whispered:

“Alessandro.”

He stared at her.

“Nineteen years.”

“I know.”

“You had nineteen years.”

“I know.”

His jaw tightened.

“You knew where I was.”

“Yes.”

“You knew what I had been told.”

“Yes.”

“And you stayed away.”

Her eyes filled.

“Yes.”

Rosalie stepped into the gallery.

The woman looked at her.

Her expression changed.

Not anger.

Disappointment.

Alessandro noticed.

“My mother has a name.”

The woman looked back at him.

“Isabella.”

He repeated it quietly.

“Isabella Vale.”

She nodded.

He looked at Rosalie.

“You told Isabella I hated her.”

Rosalie lowered her eyes.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I thought if she came back, everything would collapse.”

Alessandro almost smiled.

“It already has.”

Isabella moved closer.

“I came anyway.”

“Why tonight?”

She looked at Henry.

The old photographer answered.

“Because yesterday I showed her the photograph of the gala poster.”

Alessandro frowned.

“That was enough?”

“No.”

Henry pulled a second photograph from his jacket.

Alessandro’s uncle stood outside the mansion that morning.

Victor Vale.

Sixty-one.

Gray suit.

Black cane.

The man who had raised Alessandro after his father died.

Beside Victor stood a younger man in a chauffeur’s uniform.

Isabella whispered:

“I know that driver.”

Alessandro looked at her.

“Who is he?”

“The man your uncle used nineteen years ago.”

“For what?”

She swallowed.

“To follow me.”

Silence.

Alessandro turned toward the ballroom below.

Victor stood near the balcony.

Watching them.

No mask.

No smile.

Isabella stepped backward.

Alessandro noticed.

“You’re still afraid of him.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because your father was never the person I was running from.”

Alessandro stared.

“But you left with my father.”

“At first.”

“What happened on the train?”

Isabella looked at Mr. Quinn.

He entered the gallery slowly.

“I can answer that,” he said.

Alessandro faced him.

“Then answer.”

Mr. Quinn removed his mask.

“My name is Thomas Quinn.”

“I know your name.”

“No. You know the name I used after that night.”

Rosalie looked at her father.

“What?”

Thomas continued.

“Nineteen years ago, I worked for Victor Vale.”

Alessandro’s expression hardened.

“As what?”

“Security.”

Rosalie froze.

“You told me you worked in private transport.”

“I lied.”

Alessandro glanced at Isabella.

“He was sent after you.”

“Yes.”

Thomas nodded.

“Victor ordered me to find Isabella after she left the train.”

Alessandro frowned.

“Left the train?”

Isabella looked at him.

“Your father and I never reached Vienna together.”

The room became quiet.

Alessandro stared.

“Henry said you did.”

Henry shook his head.

“I photographed them boarding.”

“Not arriving.”

“No.”

Isabella continued.

“At the second stop, your father received a telephone message.”

“From Victor?”

“Yes.”

“What did he say?”

She hesitated.

Then:

“That if your father continued traveling with me, you would be taken.”

Alessandro’s face changed.

“I was fourteen.”

“You were fourteen and asleep in this house.”

He looked toward the ballroom again.

Victor had disappeared.

Alessandro turned back.

“My father returned for me.”

“Yes.”

“And you kept going.”

“No.”

Isabella opened her handbag.

She removed a small silver key.

“I got off the train too.”

Alessandro stared at it.

“What is that?”

“The reason Victor has watched me for nineteen years.”

She placed the key on the table.

“Before I disappeared, I copied records from three Vale accounts.”

Alessandro said nothing.

“Your uncle was moving family money through shell companies.”

“How much?”

“At the time?”

“Yes.”

“Forty-eight million dollars.”

Rosalie inhaled sharply.

Alessandro remained still.

“And my father?”

“He discovered it with me.”

“Then why did he lie?”

“Because Victor gave him a choice.”

“What choice?”

Isabella looked at her son.

“Expose Victor and risk losing you.”

“Or?”

“Tell you I abandoned the family.”

Silence.

Alessandro’s voice dropped.

“He chose me.”

“He chose to keep you alive.”

Alessandro looked at the key.

“Where are the records?”

“A railway storage locker.”

“Still?”

“Yes.”

“Nineteen years?”

“The locker is not public.”

Thomas answered.

“It belonged to an old station photography club.”

Henry nodded.

“My club.”

Alessandro looked at him.

“You knew?”

“Only that Isabella had left something there.”

“Not what?”

“No.”

Isabella pushed the key toward Alessandro.

“Locker 214.”

Rosalie stared at it.

Then at her father.

“Did Victor know?”

Thomas nodded slowly.

“He knew there was a key.”

“Did he know where?”

“No.”

A voice came from the gallery entrance.

“Yes.”

Everyone turned.

Victor Vale stood there.

Gray suit.

Black cane.

Calm face.

His eyes settled on the key.

“I do now.”

Alessandro stepped between him and the table.

Victor smiled.

“You always were quick.”

Alessandro removed his jacket.

The black dagger tattoo on his forearm showed beneath his cuff.

“You raised me.”

“I did.”

“You lied to me.”

Victor tilted his head.

“So did everyone in this room.”

Isabella whispered:

“Victor.”

He looked at her.

“Nineteen years.”

She said nothing.

Victor smiled.

“And you still make dramatic entrances.”

Alessandro picked up the silver key.

Victor’s smile disappeared.

“That belongs to the family.”

Alessandro closed his fist around it.

“No.”

He looked at his mother.

“It belongs to the truth.”

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Then he faced Victor.

“And this time, I’m going to see it before you do.”