Chapter 2 - THE MAN WHO HAD NO LAST NAME
Victor arrived at my apartment building forty minutes after the police left.
He didn't come upstairs uninvited.
He waited in the lobby with his driver while I spoke to the landlord about changing my locks.
When I finally came downstairs, he stood near the front windows, wearing the same charcoal coat from the restaurant.
He looked at my swollen wrist.
Then at my face.
"Did he hurt you again?"
"No."
"Good."
I crossed my arms.
"Who are you really?"
Victor studied me.
"Why?"
I showed him the photograph and message.
His expression changed.
For the first time, I saw something behind those cold eyes that wasn't anger.
Grief.
"Where did you get this?"
"Someone sent it to me."
"Trent?"
"Probably."
Victor looked toward the street.
Then back at me.
"My name is Victor Romano."
I knew the name.
Everyone in Chicago knew it.
Romano Shipping.
Romano Properties.
Luxury restaurants.
Private security companies.
And rumors about an organization that had controlled parts of Chicago's criminal underworld for decades.
I stared.
"You're that Victor Romano?"
"Yes."
My stomach tightened.
"You're involved with organized crime."
He didn't insult me by pretending otherwise.
"I have been."
I took a step back.
"Wonderful."
His mouth twitched.
"That's one reaction."
"I escape one dangerous man and immediately meet another?"
Victor's expression sobered.
"You're right to question me."
I hadn't expected that.
He continued.
"I intervened because Trent was hurting you. That doesn't mean you owe me trust."
I looked down at the photograph.
"What happened to your wife?"
Victor was silent for several seconds.
Then he answered.
"Her name was Elena."
"Was?"
"She died seven years ago."
My anger softened slightly.
"I'm sorry."
He nodded.
"So am I."
"How?"
His jaw tightened.
"A car accident."
Something about the way he said it made me think there was more to the story.
But I didn't push.
Instead, I asked whether he thought Trent had sent the photograph.
"Possibly," Victor replied. "But Trent may be working with someone else."
My heart began pounding.
"Why?"
Victor looked at the image again.
"Because this photograph of Elena was taken the night before she died."
I stared.
"What?"
He pointed toward the background.
A reflection appeared in the restaurant window.
A black sedan.
Two men standing beside it.
Victor's face hardened.
"That photograph was never released publicly."
I swallowed.
"Then who had it?"
Victor answered quietly.
"Only the people who investigated my wife's death."
May you like
Then he looked directly at me.
"And one of those investigators disappeared six years ago."
