Vincent moved before I could ask another question.
He crossed the kitchen, opened a concealed cabinet, and pressed a button beneath the shelf.
A quiet alarm sounded somewhere upstairs.
Elena took my hand.
"Come with me."
I followed her into the hallway.
"Is someone inside?"
"Not yet."
"How do you know?"
She glanced at Vincent.
"Because he wouldn't still be standing here if they were."
We reached a narrow staircase leading to the upper floor.
Behind us, Vincent spoke into his phone.
"Nobody approaches the front entrance. I want the east gate covered."
His voice was calm.
Too calm.
It reminded me of Dylan.
The difference was that Vincent had looked directly at me before ordering anyone to move.
As if my safety mattered more than maintaining his authority.
Elena led me into a bedroom and locked the door.
Then she opened a drawer and removed a small medical bag.
I stared at her.
"What are you doing?"
"Making sure we have what you need if we have to leave quickly."
She checked the contents.
Water.
A flashlight.
A phone charger.
Basic first-aid supplies.
Then she looked at me.
"Any pain? Dizziness? Bleeding?"
I shook my head.
"Just scared."
She touched my shoulder.
"That's understandable."
I sat on the bed.
For several minutes, we listened to the quiet movement of footsteps below.
Then Vincent knocked.
"Elena?"
She opened the door.
He entered alone.
"It's over."
I stood.
"What happened?"
"Two men tried to access the service entrance. My security team stopped them."
"Who were they?"
"Renzo's men."
My knees weakened.
Vincent caught my elbow before I fell.
I pulled away almost immediately.
"Sorry."
He released me.
"You don't have to apologize."
I looked at him.
"How did they find me?"
He hesitated.
Then he held out a small device.
It was no larger than a coin.
"Your handbag."
I stared.
"What?"
"There's a tracker sewn into the lining."
I looked toward the chair where my ivory handbag rested.
Dylan had given it to me three months earlier.
I remembered the afternoon perfectly.
He had returned from a business trip to Milan and placed the box on my dressing table.
I had been so happy that he'd thought of me.
Now I felt sick.
"Did Dylan put it there?"
Vincent's expression was grim.
"I don't know."
I shook my head.
"No. He wouldn't."
But the words sounded weak even to me.
The following morning, Vincent brought me into his study.
The room was lined with bookshelves and overlooked the townhouse garden.
A large wooden desk stood beneath the window.
On it lay a leather folder.
Vincent gestured toward the chair opposite him.
"There's something you need to understand about your marriage."
I sat down.
He opened the folder.
Inside were photographs, financial records, and copies of correspondence.
The first photograph showed my mother standing beside a younger Vincent Romano.
I stared at it.
She looked exactly as I remembered her.
Warm brown eyes.
Dark blonde hair.
A gentle smile.
But she was standing outside a building I didn't recognize.
"When was this taken?"
"Nine years ago."
"Where?"
"A community center in Brooklyn."
I looked at him.
"Why were you with her?"
Vincent sat across from me.
"Your mother helped establish a legal aid program for families affected by the waterfront conflict. I funded part of it anonymously."
I studied the photograph.
"You were involved in charity work?"
"Not everything I did was worth being proud of."
He paused.
"But that program mattered."
I looked down at my mother's face.
"She never told me."
"She was trying to keep you away from the people who threatened her."
I raised my eyes.
"What people?"
Vincent opened another document.
It was a copy of a financial transfer.
Millions of dollars had moved through companies I recognized as belonging to the Hartwell and Marchetti families.
But the final account belonged to a corporation called Bellwether Holdings.
"Renzo controlled this company," Vincent explained.
"Why was my father sending him money?"
"Because Renzo was secretly financing both sides of the conflict."
I stared at him.
"Both sides?"
Vincent nodded.
"He arranged attacks, blamed them on rival families, and profited from the retaliation."
I felt cold.
"My father knew?"
"Not at first."
"And later?"
Vincent's silence answered before his words did.
"Later, your father discovered enough to become dangerous."
I looked at the records again.
"Then why would he marry me to Dylan?"
"Because Renzo needed a reason to bring you into the Marchetti household."
I shook my head.
"That doesn't make sense."
Vincent leaned forward.
"Your mother found evidence of Renzo's financial network before she died. She hid the original records somewhere Renzo couldn't reach."
"Where?"
"We don't know."
"Then why does he need me?"
"Because he believes your mother left you the key."
I stared at him.
"I don't have a key."
"Maybe not a literal one."
My mind raced.
My mother's jewelry.
Her letters.
The books she had given me.
The little wooden music box I kept beside my bed.
Then I remembered something.
A silver locket.
My mother had given it to me shortly before she died.
She told me never to lose it.
I reached beneath my dress.
The locket rested against my chest.
Vincent noticed.
"What is that?"
I closed my fingers around it.
"Something my mother gave me."
His expression changed.
"May I see it?"
I hesitated.
Then I unclasped the chain.
The locket was small, oval, and engraved with a delicate rose.
Vincent studied it carefully.
"Did she ever tell you what was inside?"
"A photograph."
"Of whom?"
"Me."
I opened it.
There was a tiny picture of me as a child.
Behind the photograph, the silver backing appeared slightly uneven.
Vincent leaned closer.
"May I?"
I handed it to him.
He examined the edge.
Then he looked at me.
"There's a second compartment."
My heart began to pound.
He pressed a tiny catch beneath the hinge.
The backing opened.
Inside was a folded piece of paper.
I stared.
Vincent carefully removed it.
The paper contained six handwritten words.
The truth sleeps where the roses bloom.
I recognized the handwriting immediately.
My mother's.
I covered my mouth.
Vincent looked at me.
"Does that mean anything?"
Tears filled my eyes.
"Yes."
My mother had loved roses.
At our old family estate in Connecticut, she maintained a private garden behind the greenhouse.
It was the only place my father never entered.
She called it her little kingdom.
When I was a child, she would take me there after difficult family dinners.
We would sit beneath the climbing roses while she told me stories.
Sometimes she would let me help plant bulbs.
Other times, she would simply hold my hand.
After she died, my father locked the greenhouse.
He told me the property was being renovated.
But the renovations never happened.
"Her rose garden," I whispered.
Vincent nodded slowly.
"Then that's where we start."
I looked at him.
"Renzo knows about the garden?"
"Possibly."
"Then why hasn't he searched it?"
"Perhaps he has."
I stared at the note.
"Or perhaps he doesn't know what he's looking for."
Vincent leaned back.
"We need to be careful."
I shook my head.
"No."
He frowned.
"Leslie—"
"I've spent my entire life letting powerful men decide what I should know, where I should go, and whom I should marry."
I stood.
"My mother left that message for me."
Vincent watched me.
"I'm going to find out what she wanted me to know."
He remained silent for a moment.
Then he nodded.
"All right."
I looked at him.
"You're not going to tell me it's too dangerous?"
"It is dangerous."
"Then why are you agreeing?"
"Because you're right."
The simplicity of his answer almost made me cry.
That afternoon, Dylan called from an unfamiliar number.
I answered before I could reconsider.
"Leslie."
His voice sounded different.
Tired.
Angry.
Afraid.
"Where are you?"
I looked out the townhouse window.
"Somewhere you can't order me around."
"Did Romano take you?"
I closed my eyes.
"Nobody took me."
"Then why are you with him?"
"Because someone threatened our baby."
Silence.
Then Dylan said, "What?"
I swallowed.
"Your uncle knows I'm pregnant."
Another silence.
"What did Renzo say to you?"
"Enough."
"Leslie, listen carefully. Whatever Romano told you—"
"He showed me a recording."
Dylan stopped speaking.
I continued.
"Renzo said he wanted to move before you started asking questions."
I heard something strike a hard surface.
"Dylan?"
"Where are you?"
"Answer me first."
His breathing was heavy.
"Did Renzo touch you?"
"No."
"Did he give you anything? Food? Medicine?"
My stomach tightened.
"Why?"
"Leslie."
"Why are you asking me that?"
He didn't answer.
And suddenly, I understood.
Dylan knew something.
Something he had never told me.
"How long have you known your uncle was dangerous?"
His voice dropped.
"Come home. I'll explain everything."
"No."
"Leslie—"
"You don't get to keep me in the dark anymore."
I ended the call.
My hands were shaking.
When I turned around, Vincent stood in the doorway.
He had heard enough to understand.
"What did he say?"
I looked at him.
"He asked whether Renzo had given me food or medicine."
Vincent's expression hardened.
He reached for his phone.
"Elena."
She appeared moments later.
"Yes?"
"Call Dr. Bennett. Tell her we need a private appointment for Leslie today."
I pressed a hand against my stomach.
"What's happening?"
Vincent looked at me.
"We're making sure you and the baby are healthy."
For the first time since learning I was pregnant, I was afraid to imagine the future.
That evening, Dr. Bennett examined me at a private medical clinic.
She asked about my symptoms, reviewed my medications, and performed an ultrasound.
I lay on the examination table staring at the monitor.
Then I heard it.
A heartbeat.
Fast.
Steady.
Beautiful.
My eyes filled with tears.
Dr. Bennett smiled.
"Your baby looks healthy."
I covered my mouth.
Vincent stood near the door, giving me privacy.
But when I looked toward him, I saw the relief on his face.
For one strange moment, I wished Dylan had been there.
Then I remembered his words.
A child doesn't change anything.
I turned back toward the monitor.
My baby moved.
And I made another promise.
Whatever happened next, this child would never be treated like a complication again.
When we returned to the townhouse, Vincent's phone rang.
He answered in the hallway.
I heard only fragments.
"Are you certain?"
A pause.
"Where?"
Another pause.
Then his voice turned cold.
"Don't let him leave."
He entered the sitting room.
I stood.
"What happened?"
Vincent looked at the silver locket in my hand.
"Your father has been meeting with Renzo."
I stared at him.
"Why?"
"Because they believe you've found what your mother hid."
My throat tightened.
"And?"
Vincent hesitated.
Then he said, "They've ordered someone to search your mother's grave."