Chapter 2 - THE WOMAN I WAS SUPPOSED TO MARRY
Vivien Rossi was not born Vivien Rossi.
She was Vivien Moretti.
In four days, she was supposed to take my name.
Until that afternoon, I thought our relationship had begun by accident.
We met eleven months earlier at a charity dinner in Manhattan.
Vivien arrived late.
I was leaving early.
She nearly collided with me near the coat room and spilled champagne onto my cuff.
She apologized.
I told her the cuff had survived worse.
She laughed.
That was how it began.
Simple.
Ordinary.
Believable.
By midnight after finding her in my study, I no longer believed in accidents.
I sat alone behind my desk while rain crossed the tall windows.
On my laptop were three open files.
Vivien Moretti.
Gabriel Rossi.
The forged insurance policy.
My family’s legitimate holdings were complex enough that people outside our world often assumed secrecy meant criminality.
Sometimes it did.
Sometimes secrecy simply meant protection.
My grandfather built businesses.
My father expanded them.
I inherited both legitimate companies and darker family obligations I had spent years trying to dismantle without igniting a war.
That history made enemies.
It also made betrayal expensive.
Gabriel knew that.
He was thirty-three.
Four years younger than me.
Charming where I was controlled.
Impulsive where I was cautious.
Growing up, everyone loved Gabriel first.
He was easy to love.
That was why I had protected him more times than I could count.
When he crashed a Ferrari at nineteen, I handled the lawsuit.
When he lost money on a disastrous nightclub investment, I covered the debt.
When our father died, I gave Gabriel a larger share of several properties than the estate required because I did not want him feeling trapped beneath my shadow.
Apparently, I had taught him the wrong lesson.
That I would always clean up after him.
At 12:14 a.m., Adrian Shaw arrived.
My attorney looked like he had dressed while walking.
His tie was crooked.
His hair was damp.
He dropped a leather case on my desk.
“You owe me sleep.”
“You bill by the hour.”
“Then you owe yourself sleep.”
I gave him the insurance policy.
He read the first page.
Then the second.
His humor disappeared.
“Where did you get this?”
“My safe.”
“You didn’t put it there?”
“No.”
He examined the signature.
“That’s good.”
“Too good.”
“Who had access?”
“Gabriel.”
Adrian looked at me.
“You’re certain?”
“I have video.”
“And Vivien?”
“Also video.”
He sat.
“This is bigger than a prenup problem.”
“I know.”
“Call the police.”
“Not yet.”
Adrian gave me a long look.
“You have a habit of saying ‘not yet’ immediately before things become expensive.”
“If I call authorities now, Gabriel stops talking.”
“And if you don’t?”
“I learn who else is involved.”
Adrian disliked it.
He also knew me well enough not to waste ten minutes arguing.
Instead, he opened his laptop.
“I ran the beneficiary company.”
“What beneficiary company?”
“The policy doesn’t pay Vivien personally.”
I looked again.
He was right.
Primary beneficiary:
VM Heritage Trust.
I had assumed it belonged to Vivien.
Adrian continued.
“Created seven months ago in Delaware.”
“Trustee?”
“Stonebridge Fiduciary.”
“Who controls Stonebridge?”
“That took some digging.”
He turned the laptop.
A corporate chain ended with a name.
Marco Moretti.
Vivien’s father.
That surprised me.
Vivien had told me she had been estranged from Marco for nearly ten years.
“He’s involved?”
“Looks like it.”
“What do we know about him?”
“Officially?”
“Start there.”
Marco Moretti owned a regional construction company.
Minor criminal history in his twenties.
Tax disputes.
Several lawsuits.
Nothing that explained a twenty-five-million-dollar insurance scheme.
Then Adrian opened another folder.
“Unofficially, he owes money.”
“How much?”
“Potentially nine million.”
“To whom?”
“Different people.”
“Anyone I know?”
“One.”
He showed me the name.
Salvatore DeLuca.
I leaned back.
DeLuca was old-school.
Not formally tied to my family, but close enough that our histories overlapped.
If Marco owed DeLuca nine million dollars, marriage to me would solve many problems.
Unless I refused.
Then my death might solve more.
“Did Vivien know about the debt?”
“I don’t know.”
I remembered her photographing the trust documents.
“She does now.”
At one in the morning, I checked Ravenwood’s full security archive.
Not just the safe.
Vivien’s movements.
Gabriel’s.
Staff entrances.
Garage cameras.
I searched backward three months.
Patterns emerged.
Gabriel visited Ravenwood more often when I traveled.
Vivien frequently met him in rooms without cameras.
The conservatory.
The lower terrace.
The old chapel.
Once, they spent forty-seven minutes together in the wine cellar.
No wine was removed.
That hurt more than I expected.
Betrayal is strange.
You can know someone may be planning your death and still find yourself wondering whether your fiancée slept with your brother.
I hated that part of myself.
At 1:43, someone knocked softly.
Nora.
She stood in the doorway wearing a navy cardigan over her sleep clothes.
“Emma won’t sleep.”
“Nightmare?”
“She wants to know if you’re safe.”
The fact that a three-year-old was worried about my safety would have been amusing under different circumstances.
“Bring her.”
Nora hesitated.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
Emma entered holding Bunny by one ear.
She climbed onto the leather chair across from my desk as though invited to a business meeting.
“Can I ask you something?” I said.
Nora immediately looked uncomfortable.
“She’s three.”
“I know.”
I kept my voice gentle.
“Emma, remember the party with all the balloons?”
“My pink dress.”
“Yes.”
“Bunny wore bow.”
“Very handsome.”
Emma smiled.
“Did you see Mr. Gabriel in this room?”
She nodded.
“What was he doing?”
“Making your drink yucky.”
Nora closed her eyes.
“What did he put in it?”
Emma thought.
“Little bottle.”
“What color?”
“Brown.”
“Did he see you?”
“No. I hide.”
“Where?”
She pointed toward the narrow book alcove beside the fireplace.
The “little book room.”
An old reading recess hidden by shelving.
A child could disappear inside it easily.
“What happened after he put it in?”
“You came.”
“Did I drink it?”
She nodded.
“Did anyone else come in?”
“Aunt Vivien.”
My chest tightened.
“What did she say?”
Emma rubbed Bunny’s ear.
“Don’t remember.”
“Try.”
“Luca sleepy.”
Nora went pale.
“What?”
Emma repeated, imitating an adult voice.
“Luca gets sleepy.”
That could have been anything.
A joke.
A comment.
Or evidence.
I did not push further.
“Thank you.”
Emma looked serious.
“Are you mad?”
“No.”
“Mommy says mad makes tummy hurt.”
“Your mother is smart.”
Nora gave me a look I could not read.
I asked Emma one final question.
“Have you seen Aunt Vivien do anything else strange?”
Emma nodded immediately.
“Red box.”
“What red box?”
“She gave Mr. Gabriel red box.”
“When?”
“Yesterday.”
“Where?”
“Pretty room.”
The drawing room.
“What was inside?”
Emma whispered dramatically.
“Money.”
Adrian looked at me.
“How much money can a three-year-old identify?”
Emma answered for herself.
“Lots.”
Fair enough.
Nora took her upstairs.
I reviewed yesterday’s drawing-room camera.
Vivien entered at 11:08 a.m.
Gabriel arrived nine minutes later.
They remained twenty-three minutes.
The camera angle did not show the sofa clearly.
But when Gabriel left, he carried a red leather document box.
I zoomed in.
Embossed on the side was my father’s crest.
I knew that box.
It had disappeared after his funeral.
For six years, I assumed it had been misplaced during estate inventory.
Inside had been handwritten ledgers documenting every private agreement my father ever made.
Names.
Debts.
Promises.
Not all criminal.
All dangerous.
If Gabriel had those ledgers, he held enough history to start wars among men who preferred history buried.
“Why would Vivien have my father’s box?”
Adrian stared at the screen.
“Maybe she didn’t.”
I looked at him.
“Maybe Gabriel gave it to her first.”
That possibility was worse.
We pulled archive footage from months before Vivien moved into Ravenwood.
Gabriel knew every camera blind spot because he grew up here.
But he did not know I had upgraded the exterior system.
Fourteen months earlier, a camera recorded Gabriel entering Ravenwood through the west service door at 2:36 a.m.
He left forty minutes later carrying nothing.
The next morning, the red box was missing from storage.
Gabriel had stolen it.
Months before I met Vivien.
Which meant my brother’s betrayal started before my engagement.
Possibly before Vivien entered my life.
At 2:30 a.m., Adrian found another connection.
Marco Moretti’s construction company had received a twelve-million-dollar investment eighteen months earlier.
The investor:
GR Holdings.
Gabriel Rossi Holdings.
I stared at the screen.
“Gabriel funded Marco.”
“Looks like it.”
“Why?”
Adrian followed the transfers.
Most money disappeared within months.
Debt payments.
Offshore accounts.
A casino development that never happened.
Gabriel had apparently lost millions.
Maybe more.
Then we found the worst transaction.
Eight million dollars transferred from a Rossi family reserve account.
Authorization:
Luca Rossi.
My signature.
Again.
Forged.
The transfer occurred ten months earlier.
One month before I met Vivien.
My brother had already stolen from me.
Vivien had not recruited Gabriel.
Gabriel had likely recruited Vivien.
I stood and walked toward the window.
Rain ran down the glass.
Behind me, Adrian said quietly, “You need to cancel the wedding.”
“No.”
“Luca.”
“If I cancel now, they disappear.”
“You have enough evidence.”
“Of financial crimes.”
“And conspiracy.”
“Not enough to explain why someone created a policy on my life.”
Adrian said nothing.
I turned.
“Saturday continues.”
“What exactly are you planning?”
“A wedding.”
“With the woman possibly planning your death?”
“No.”
I picked up the forged policy.
“With the woman who thinks I still trust her.”
At breakfast the next morning, Vivien entered wearing cream cashmere.
She kissed my cheek.
“Sleep well?”
“Perfectly.”
She smiled.
“Four days.”
“Until?”
“Our wedding.”
She sounded excited.
Maybe she was.
That was the disturbing thing.
People can betray you and still believe they love you.
Then Gabriel walked in.
Uninvited.
He opened his arms.
“There he is. Groom of the year.”
I looked at my brother.
Same dark eyes as mine.
Same father.
Same childhood.
And perhaps the man who had put something into my whiskey.
I smiled.
“Gabriel.”
He hugged me.
Over his shoulder, I watched Vivien.
For one second, their eyes met.
A silent exchange.
Tiny.
Almost invisible.
But I saw it.
Then Gabriel leaned back.
“Big weekend.”
“Very.”
“You nervous?”
“No.”
He grinned.
“You should be.”
Maybe it was a joke.
Maybe it was not.
I put one hand on his shoulder.
May you like
“I’m starting to think you’re right.”
And the first crack appeared in his smile.
