Dominic ordered everyone out except Victoria, security chief Marcus Reed, and me.
“Start talking.”
Victoria took a breath.
“Somebody inside this family helped kill Isabella.”
Dominic went still.
“Proof.”
“Nine years ago, Isabella called me before she called you. She had overheard two men talking. One worked for your father. She recognized his voice.”
“Who?”
“She wouldn’t say over the phone.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I was twenty-seven, working for your father, and terrified. By the time I understood, Isabella was dead.”
“You let me believe I failed her.”
“I was afraid they would kill me too.”
I asked, “What changed?”
Victoria looked at me.
“You.”
“Me?”
“For nine years, this house had the same routines and alliances. Then you arrived and made Dominic unpredictable. He changed meetings. Ate in the kitchen. Entered rooms he hadn’t visited since Isabella died.”
Dominic understood.
“And somebody reacted.”
“The photograph of Marin wasn’t sent by a rival.”
“Who sent it?”
“I don’t know. But the envelope contained a phrase.”
Victoria swallowed.
“Yellow tie.”
Dominic’s face lost color.
Isabella’s birthday gifts.
Only a few people knew.
“So whoever sent Marin’s picture knew Isabella,” I said.
“And wanted Dominic to understand the threat,” Victoria replied.
“Then why were you trying to get me fired?”
“I thought removing you would keep you alive.”
“You humiliated me.”
“I needed you to quit.”
“You could have told me.”
“And if you were involved?”
“You thought I was spying?”
“At first.”
Dominic’s expression hardened.
“I trusted her because she never asked me for anything.”
He looked at me.
“And because she made this place feel less like a tomb.”
Security searched the estate until sunrise.
Three listening devices.
One hidden camera.
A cloned access card.
A deleted security log from the night my photograph was taken.
The cloned card belonged to Victoria.
She denied making it.
Later, I visited her while she was confined to a guest suite.
“Did you actually hate me?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“You accomplished in two weeks what none of us could do in nine years.”
“Make Dominic laugh?”
“Make him want tomorrow.”
That silenced me.
“Who do you suspect?”
“Anthony Castellano.”
Dominic’s uncle.
Victoria produced a photograph of Isabella with Anthony, taken three days before her death.
On the back Isabella had written:
If anything happens to me, ask why Uncle Anthony needs Pier 17.
Records revealed millions had moved through shell companies controlled by Anthony.
Isabella had discovered it.
She threatened to tell Dominic.
Then she died.
“I built everything with him,” Dominic whispered.
Then he looked at me.
“You’re leaving tonight.”
“No.”
“I’m sending you somewhere safe.”
“I’m not disappearing.”
“He already threatened you.”
“You think protecting somebody means deciding everything for them.”
“It means keeping them alive.”
“It means trusting them too.”
“I buried my sister!”
“And I’m standing right here!”
Silence.
“I am not Isabella,” I said. “I’m Marin. Stop treating me like something you’ve already lost.”
Dominic crossed the room and kissed me.
Nine years of restraint seemed to break at once.
When he pulled away, his forehead rested against mine.
“This is exactly why you have to go.”
“That might be the worst post-kiss line in human history.”
He laughed softly.
Then the lights went out.
An alarm screamed.
“Marin, down!”
Someone grabbed me from behind.
Emergency lights flashed red.
For one second, I saw the guard holding me.
And behind him stood Anthony Castellano.
Smiling.