Chapter 3 - THE PHOTOGRAPH
Hannah couldn’t breathe.
The air in the mahogany study felt as thick as velvet, pressing against her lungs until she gasped.
She stared at the tiny photograph inside the watch casing.
Her father.
She only knew his face from a single, torn Polaroid she had hidden in her sock drawer at the group home. The social workers had told her he was a deadbeat. A man who dropped his toddler off at a police station three days after her mother died, never to return.
But in this photograph, he was wearing a tailored suit, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Dominic Salerno, looking powerful. Dangerous.
“That’s my father,” Hannah whispered, her voice trembling. “Richard Brooks.”
Vincent’s jaw tightened.
He snapped the silver watch shut. The click sounded like a gunshot in the quiet room.
“His name wasn’t Richard Brooks,” Vincent corrected, his voice dangerously calm. “His name was Richard Salerno. Dominic’s older brother.”
Hannah stumbled backward, hitting the edge of a heavy leather armchair.
“No,” Hannah said, shaking her head. “No, my last name is Brooks. I was in the system. I was nobody.”
“You were hidden,” Vincent said. He didn’t step closer. He gave her space, sensing her panic. “Your mother, Clara, wasn’t just a victim of a fire, Hannah. She was my family’s chief accountant. She handled everything. The legitimate businesses. The illegitimate ones. She knew where every dime was buried.”
Vincent turned back to the fireplace, staring into the flames as if he could still see the past burning within them.
“Clara discovered that Richard and Dominic were skimming millions from the Duca family,” Vincent continued. “When she confronted Richard—her own husband—he didn’t repent. He tried to kill her.”
Hannah wrapped her arms around her chest. The champagne soaking her dress felt like ice water.
“He set the fire,” Hannah choked out.
“He locked her in the apartment and ordered Dominic to strike the match,” Vincent said softly. “I was sixteen. I was a runner for my father. I was delivering documents to Clara when I saw the smoke. I broke down the door, but the roof was already collapsing.”
Vincent looked down at his right arm, at the jagged, terrible burn scar twisting across his skin.
“I couldn’t get her out,” Vincent whispered, the guilt of twenty-four years breaking his voice. “But before the floor gave way, Clara shoved a bundle of blankets through the window into my arms. It was you.”
Tears spilled over Hannah’s eyelashes. She had always believed she was abandoned. Unwanted.
But her mother had died to save her. And this terrifying man had carried her out of the flames.
“I took you to a safe house,” Vincent said, looking back at her. “But the next morning, my father’s men were ambushed. Dominic took you from us. He dropped you in the foster system under a fake name so my family could never find Clara’s heir.”
“Why are you telling me this now?” Hannah cried. “Why did Dominic put this watch in my pocket tonight? If he wanted me hidden, why reveal me to you?”
A sharp knock on the study doors interrupted them.
Marcus stepped inside, shutting the heavy doors quickly behind him.
“Boss,” Marcus said, his face grave. “Dominic Salerno is gone.”
Vincent’s eyes narrowed into slits. “I ordered the estate sealed.”
“He didn’t leave through the gates,” Marcus explained. “He went down into the sub-basement. He used the old prohibition tunnels to exit beyond the perimeter wall. He bypassed our security completely.”
“How did he know the tunnel codes?” Vincent demanded.
Marcus hesitated. He looked at Hannah, then back to Vincent.
“Eleanor’s access card was used to open the vault door.”
Vincent didn’t shout. He didn’t throw anything. The sudden, lethal stillness that came over him was far more terrifying.
“Bring Eleanor to me,” Vincent ordered.
“I can’t,” Marcus said. “We found her in the wine cellar. She’s dead, boss. Dominic shot her before he left.”
Hannah covered her mouth to stifle a scream. The woman who had been interrogating her ten minutes ago was dead. Murdered in the basement.
“He’s cleaning house,” Vincent murmured. He looked at Hannah. “Dominic didn’t put that watch in your pocket to reveal you to me, Hannah. He put it in your pocket to frame you.”
“Frame me for what?”
“For my murder.”
Vincent walked over to his massive oak desk. He opened the top drawer and pulled out a heavy, matte-black handgun. He racked the slide with a terrifying, practiced efficiency.
“Dominic knew I would recognize you,” Vincent explained rapidly. “He knew I would bring you to a secure room, alone. He wanted you to be the last person seen with me before his men breached this study to kill us both.”
Hannah’s heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird.
“We have to call the police,” she panicked.
“The police chief is currently eating prime rib in my ballroom, and he’s on Dominic’s payroll,” Vincent said, holstering the weapon at the small of his back. “We are on our own.”
He grabbed a heavy wool coat from the coat rack in the corner and tossed it to Hannah.
“Put that on. It covers the uniform. We’re leaving.”
“Leaving? To where?”
“To get the one thing Clara left behind that Dominic still wants,” Vincent said.
Hannah shrugged on the massive coat. It smelled of cedar and rain.
“What did she leave?” Hannah asked.
Marcus opened the study door to check the hallway, but stopped dead in his tracks.
Standing in the doorway was a young girl, no older than seven.
She wore a beautiful pink party dress, her dark curls tied in a velvet ribbon. She was holding a blue crayon and a crumpled piece of paper.
“Sophia,” Vincent said, his voice instantly softening.
Hannah looked at the little girl. She was the spitting image of Vincent, with the same dark, intense eyes. Vincent’s daughter.
“Daddy,” Sophia whispered, her bottom lip trembling. “The lights went out in the playroom.”
Vincent crossed the room and knelt in front of her. “I know, piccola. Everything is going to be fine. Where is your nanny?”
“She fell asleep on the floor,” Sophia said innocently.
Marcus and Vincent exchanged a horrifying look. The nanny wasn't asleep.
“Sophia, what do you have in your hand?” Vincent asked gently.
The little girl held out the crumpled piece of paper.
“A man told me to give this to the lady who dropped the glasses,” Sophia said.
Hannah stepped forward, her hands shaking as she took the paper from the little girl.
She unfolded it.
It was a child’s drawing. A crude sketch of a house with a red roof, a tree, and two stick figures holding hands.
But it wasn’t drawn by Sophia.
At the bottom of the page, written in faded, childish handwriting, was a name:
Hannah Brooks. Age 6.
Hannah stared at the paper. She had drawn this twenty years ago, in her third foster home. A home she had burned down by accident playing with matches in the kitchen.
Or at least, she had always believed it was an accident.
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Written across the top of the old drawing, in fresh, thick black marker, were three words:
I STARTED IT.
