Chapter 8
Z
The ocean breeze carried the faint, sweet scent of ocean salt through the Miami penthouse, but my hands were freezing as I stared at the dark envelope lying on the granite island.
It had been delivered not by mail, but tucked under the windshield wiper of my car inside our high-security underground garage. No stamp. No return address. Just my full name written in thick, black calligraphy that looked chillingly familiar.
Vincent came out of his study, adjusting his watch. "Claire? The boat is fueled and ready—" He stopped dead when he saw my face. "What happened?"
Without a word, I pushed the envelope toward him.
He picked it up, his brow furrowing as he pulled out a single sheet of heavy parchment paper. On it was a high-resolution photograph taken less than an hour ago. It showed Lucas and Leo playing at their private school's playground, viewed through a long telephoto lens.
On the back, three words were written in red ink: NOTHING IS BURNT.
Vincent’s face drained of color, his posture instantly shifting into the terrifying, razor-sharp edge I hadn't seen in six months. He pulled his phone from his pocket, dialing rapidly.
"Marcus," he growled into the receiver. "Lock down the school. Right now. Activate team alpha. Nobody enters or leaves the premises until I am standing at the front gates."
He slammed the phone down and looked at me. "Julian is in a federal prison hospital. Blake is in maximum security. Who took this photo?"
"Look at the bottom corner of the envelope, Vincent," I whispered, my voice trembling as I pointed to a tiny, embossed wax seal in the shape of a silver rose.
Vincent went completely still. His eyes widened in absolute shock—a look not of anger, but of visceral, unadulterated horror.
"That's impossible," he breathed, stepping back as if the envelope itself were venomous. "She's dead. She's been dead for four years."
"Who, Vincent?" I begged, reaching out to touch his arm. "Whose seal is that?!"
"Isabella," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the hum of the air conditioner. "My wife."
My heart stopped.
The house fell into a suffocating silence. Isabella Moretti—the woman whose tragedy had cast a shadow over the entire Moretti family, the mother the boys barely remembered, the woman whose death had broken Vincent—was the only person who used that silver rose seal on her personal correspondence.
"She died in a car crash in Italy, Vincent," I said, trying to anchor us both to reality. "You identified her! You had a funeral!"
"I identified a burned car at the bottom of a ravine near Lake Como!" Vincent slammed his hand against the counter, his breathing jagged and furious. "The local police said the body was charred beyond recognition! I matched the dental records provided by her private physician!"
"Dr. Blake," I realized, the cold horror cascading down my spine. "Blake was her doctor back then too."
Vincent stared at me, the terrifying puzzle pieces assembling into a nightmare far bigger than anything Julian had orchestrated. Julian hadn't been the mastermind; he had merely been a pawn playing with fire he didn't understand.
"If Isabella is alive..." Vincent’s voice cracked with an overwhelming mix of grief and betrayal, "...then she abandoned her sons. She let them suffer. She let Blake poison them."
Before we could utter another word, my phone vibrated on the counter. An unknown number.
I looked at Vincent. He nodded grimly, tapping the speakerphone button.
"Claire," a woman's voice chimed through the speaker. It was soft, melodic, and possessed an eerie, effortless sophistication that chilled me to the bone. "I must compliment you. You were a remarkably efficient nanny. But play-time in Miami is over now. I want my sons back."
May you like
"Isabella," Vincent roared, stepping toward the phone. "Where are you?!"
"Hello, Vincent darling," she purred, completely unbothered by his rage. "You look so handsome in Miami. But you really shouldn't have left the children at school today. The security guards you hired... well, they were so easily persuaded by a mother's touch."
