Chapter 1 - The Ghost of the Past
The name dropped from Dominic Moretti’s lips like a weighted anchor sinking into dark, freezing water.
“Julian Vance.”
The sound of my late husband’s name spoken in the low, gravelly timbre of a Manhattan mob boss felt less like a revelation and more like a physical blow to my chest. I staggered back a fraction of an inch, my fingers gripping Lily’s small red coat so tightly my knuckles turned chalk-white. The ambient noise of Beluchi’s upscale dining room—the clinking of crystal glasses, the murmur of hushed conversations, the distant hum of jazz from the speakers—seemed to mute entirely, swallowed up by the sudden, roaring blood rushing in my ears.
Julian.
My husband, the brilliant corporate architect who had supposedly died in a fiery, single-car collision on the wet asphalt of the bridge four years ago—just weeks before Lily was born. The man I had mourned in candlelight, whose ghost I had whispered to in the dark of my tiny Queens apartment, whose memory I had protected like a sacred relic.
How did Dominic Moretti know Julian Vance?
"You're surprised," Dominic said softly. He hadn't sat back down. Instead, he remained standing across the white-cloth booth, his tall frame cutting a sharp silhouette against the warm Italian lighting, his dark eyes boring into mine with an intensity that made it difficult to draw a breath.
"I don't know what you're talking about," I lied, my voice shaking in spite of my best efforts to project an air of ER-nurse composure. I pulled Lily closer to my side, her small frame radiating innocent warmth against my thigh. "My husband died in an accident years ago. If you've heard some kind of rumors—"
"Accident?" Dominic cut me off, a humorless, tight smile flickering across the corners of his mouth. He reached slowly into his tailored jacket pocket, his movements deliberate and unhurried, commanding the attention of every eye in the radius. He didn't pull a weapon; instead, he laid a small, yellowed photograph face-down on the pristine white tablecloth.
"Julian didn't die on a bridge, Clara," Dominic murmured, his voice dropping an octave, carrying a weight that made the air in the room feel heavy. "Men like Julian don't just vanish because of bad steering. Not when they owe the Moretti syndicate three million dollars in unpaid development loans for real estate fronts that went up in smoke."
I froze. The world tilted sideways.
"What... what are you saying?" I whispered, my throat tightening until speech was a painful struggle.
"I'm saying your husband was a very talented liar," Dominic replied smoothly, sliding the photograph across the table with the tip of his finger. "And it appears he lied to you about a great deal more than just his financial portfolio."
Lily blinked up at us, oblivious to the ticking bomb detonating between the adults. "Mommy, Mr. Dominic said my daddy was a very busy man who had to go on a very long business trip."
My heart hammered violently against my ribs. I looked down at the photograph. Slowly, with trembling fingers, I reached out and flipped it over.
It was a picture taken outside an upscale hotel in Miami, dated just six months ago.
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And standing right there in the center of the frame, laughing with a glass of champagne in hand and a stunning blonde draped over his arm, was Julian. Alive. Breathing. And looking right at the camera with a smirk I would know anywhere.
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