Chapter 12 - THE SHADOW OF COMO
Z
Two weeks later.
The sun was setting over Lake Como, turning the water into a shimmering sheet of liquid gold. The magnificent Villa Romano sat quietly on the hillside, surrounded by olive groves and ancient stone walls.
The war for the Romano empire was over. With Vittoria in an Italian federal prison and the corrupt factions dismantled, David had officially liquidated seventy percent of the Romano corporate holdings, transferring billions into legitimate charitable foundations, pediatric medical research funds, and employee pensions across Europe and America.
He had kept only enough to ensure our family—and Logan’s future—would never have to worry about a single bill ever again.
I sat on the wide stone terrace, sipping tea, watching Logan play on the lush green grass with a small golden retriever puppy Alessandro had bought him as a recovery gift. Captain Bear sat proudly on a stone bench nearby, wearing a tiny red silk ribbon.
David walked out onto the terrace, wearing a comfortable linen shirt, holding two glasses of lemonade. He sat down beside me, handing me a glass and pulling my legs over his lap.
"The final papers were signed in Milan this morning," David said softly, looking out over the peaceful lake. "The Romano name is officially retired from the international shipping registries. It's done, Cathy."
I leaned back against his chest, feeling the steady, warm beat of his heart against my shoulder. "No more ghosts?"
"No more ghosts," David promised, kissing my cheek. "Just us."
Alessandro emerged from the villa’s French doors, walking slowly with the aid of a wooden cane. He looked remarkably better, the color having returned to his cheeks, though he had officially retired from all business, content to spend his remaining years quietly in Como.
He walked over to Logan, watching the little boy laugh as the puppy chased its own tail.
"He has your eyes, Catherine," Alessandro said, leaning on his cane. "And his father's stubbornness."
"He gets his courage from his mother," David added, smiling up at me.
A maid walked onto the terrace, carrying a silver tray with the morning mail. "Signore Winters, a package arrived for you from the United States Postal Service. It was forwarded through three security routing centers."
David frowned slightly, setting his glass down. "A package?"
He took the small, padded brown envelope from the tray. There was no return address. Just David’s name written in dark black ink.
My heart gave a nervous twitch. "David... what is it?"
"I don't know," David muttered, tearing open the top of the envelope.
He reached inside and pulled out a single item.
It was a small, ancient leather-bound notebook with yellowed pages. Tucked inside the front cover was a photograph.
David pulled the photograph out and turned it over.
My breath hitched.
The photo showed a young Alessandro Romano, standing in front of an old brick building in Baltimore thirty years ago. Beside him stood a stunning woman with dark hair and bright blue eyes—David’s mother.
But standing behind them, half-hidden in the shadows of the doorway, was a man wearing a dark suit, his face clearly visible.
It was Victor Vance. The man who was supposed to have died in the warehouse fire in Philadelphia three months ago.
Across the back of the photograph, written in fresh blue ink, were five words:
Dead men tell no lies.
David’s hand went completely rigid. The color drained from his face once again.
I looked at the photograph, then looked at David, my throat going dry as a cold breeze swept across the sunlit terrace, chasing away the warmth of the afternoon.
May you like
Victor Vance was not dead.
And the ledger David thought he had destroyed was only the first chapter of a much larger, much darker book.
