Chapter 2 - THE NAME I NEVER WANTED TO HEAR AGAIN
I woke with the taste of blood in my mouth and Vincent Castellano sitting beside my hospital bed.
That was enough to make me wonder whether I had died.
“You’re awake,” he said.
I touched my swollen cheek.
“Apparently.”
“Doctor says you have a concussion. No fracture.”
“Good.”
“You need rest.”
“I need my shift tomorrow.”
“No.”
The word came too quickly.
My body stiffened.
Vincent saw it.
Something in his expression changed immediately.
He leaned back.
“You’re right. That wasn’t mine to decide.”
I stared at him.
Men like Caleb never corrected themselves.
They doubled down.
Vincent didn’t.
“The doctor recommends rest,” he said instead. “What you do is your choice.”
I looked toward the window.
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“Not pretending you didn’t notice.”
He knew what I meant.
The flinch.
The tension.
The instinctive fear triggered by a man making decisions for me.
Vincent folded his hands.
“I know more about Derek now.”
My stomach tightened.
“What?”
He placed the burner phone on the table.
He showed me the photographs.
My hands began shaking before I reached the third image.
“No.”
“Do you recognize where they were taken?”
“My apartment.”
“How long has Caleb known where you live?”
“He doesn’t.”
I looked at Vincent.
“At least, he shouldn’t.”
“Tell me about him.”
I hated those words.
But I hated the photographs more.
“Caleb Ward. Forty. Financial consultant. Charming in public.”
“And privately?”
I looked at my hands.
“Different.”
Vincent waited.
He didn’t demand details.
That helped.
“He started deciding what I wore. Who I saw. Where I went. Then he started checking my phone.”
My throat tightened.
“When I pushed back, things got worse.”
Vincent’s jaw flexed.
“I left three years ago while he was traveling.”
“You pressed charges?”
“I tried.”
“What happened?”
“His attorney convinced everyone I was unstable.”
I laughed bitterly.
“Caleb had photographs of my bruises too. He said I’d done them to myself.”
Vincent looked away for a moment.
That was when I realized my story was affecting him personally.
“Sophia?” I asked.
He looked back.
“Rosa told me you had a daughter.”
Silence.
“She died eight years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
“So am I.”
His voice was almost too quiet to hear.
Then his phone vibrated.
One of his men had traced Caleb’s company history.
Vincent read the message twice.
“What?”
I asked.
He turned the screen toward me.
Caleb had not always been an independent financial consultant.
Nine years earlier, he had worked for DeLuca Holdings.
I didn’t recognize the name.
Vincent did.
“Who are they?”
“My consigliere’s family.”
My blood went cold.
May you like
Vincent’s most trusted adviser was Carlo DeLuca.
And Caleb had worked directly beneath him during the final year of Sophia Castellano’s life.
