Chapter 4 - The Secret Ricardo Kept for Twelve Years
I kept the door locked.
Ricardo stayed on the other side.
Neither of us spoke for several seconds.
Finally, I asked, “Did you kill her?”
His answer came immediately.
“No.”
I hated that I was relieved.
“Then why did she disappear?”
“Open the door.”
“No.”
“Claire.”
“I’m comfortable with this arrangement.”
He exhaled.
“I could have the door opened.”
“And if you do, I’ll scream loud enough for all six floors to hear.”
A pause.
Then, unexpectedly:
“Fair.”
I sat against the door.
“You said everyone blamed you.”
“Because everyone assumed what you assumed.”
“You’re a mafia boss.”
“I own legitimate businesses.”
“That isn’t exactly a denial.”
Another silence.
“No,” he admitted. “It isn’t.”
I closed my eyes.
At least he wasn’t pretending.
“The woman’s name was Elena Russo,” he continued. “She worked for my family.”
“Girlfriend?”
“For a short time.”
“She rejected you?”
“She left me.”
“And disappeared?”
“Three days later.”
I swallowed.
“What happened?”
“I spent two years trying to find out.”
That didn’t sound like the story Gabriella wanted me to believe.
“Did you?”
“Yes.”
I waited.
Ricardo didn’t continue.
“That’s it?”
“That’s the part I’m willing to tell through a locked door.”
Against my better judgment, I opened it.
Ricardo stood alone in the hallway.
No guards.
No dramatic posture.
He looked tired.
Older than he had at the hotel.
I stepped aside.
He entered slowly.
I placed the photograph on the kitchen counter.
“Elena?”
“No.”
“Gabriella?”
“Yes.”
I studied the younger Ricardo in the picture.
He looked harder back then.
Less human.
“How old is this?”
“Twelve years.”
“You were together?”
“Occasionally.”
“That sounds romantic.”
“It wasn’t.”
“Did she think it was?”
His jaw tightened.
“Probably.”
There it was again.
That careless brutality.
I folded my arms.
“Ricardo, Gabriella is responsible for her behavior. But if you spent years treating her like she mattered only when you wanted something, you helped create this mess.”
His eyes hardened.
“You’re lecturing me in your kitchen.”
“Yes.”
“People have been shot for less.”
I stared.
He stared back.
Then his mouth curved.
“That was a joke.”
“Work on those.”
He looked around my apartment.
Small couch.
Stacks of art books.
One dying plant.
A framed photograph of my mother.
“You live alone.”
“Yes.”
“Family?”
“Mother died six years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.”
“Father?”
“Florida.”
“You don’t speak.”
“Rarely.”
Ricardo nodded.
Maybe he understood strained families better than most.
“What happened to Elena?” I asked again.
He looked toward the rain sliding down my windows.
“She discovered someone inside my organization was using my shipping companies to move narcotics without my approval.”
I stiffened.
“You expect me to believe a mafia boss objected to narcotics?”
“I don’t expect you to believe anything.”
“Did you?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
His gaze met mine.
“Because drugs destroy neighborhoods that don’t get invited to private lounges.”
Something about the answer felt personal.
“Elena had documents,” he continued. “Before she could give them to me, she disappeared.”
“And?”
“Her car was found near Philadelphia.”
“Body?”
“No.”
“Ever?”
“No.”
“So she might be alive.”
“I believed that for years.”
“And now?”
“I think someone killed her.”
The room felt colder.
“Who?”
“I never proved it.”
“Gabriella knows?”
“She knows enough to manipulate the story.”
I looked at the photograph.
“She wants me afraid of you.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Ricardo’s expression became unreadable.
“You know why.”
“No, I don’t.”
“She saw me defend you.”
“That’s all?”
“To Gabriella, attention is ownership.”
I remembered her expression when Ricardo entered the lounge.
Not heartbreak.
Possession.
“She thinks I took something from her.”
“Yes.”
“But you weren’t together.”
“No.”
“Then why does she still care?”
“Because twelve years ago I told her there would never be anything permanent between us.”
I winced.
“How kindly?”
He didn’t answer.
“Exactly.”
Ricardo rubbed his jaw.
“I wasn’t a good man at thirty-eight.”
“And now?”
“I’m better at appearing civilized.”
That answer should have frightened me.
Instead, it made me smile.
He noticed.
“You think that’s funny.”
“A little.”
His phone rang.
He checked it.
His expression changed instantly.
“What?”
He listened.
Then looked at me.
“Stay inside.”
“No.”
He pointed toward me.
“That wasn’t—”
“Don’t.”
He stopped.
“Right.”
He changed his wording.
“Please stay inside.”
“Why?”
“Jason Cole was found.”
“Where?”
“Parking garage.”
“Alive?”
“Yes.”
Relief hit me.
“Can we talk to him?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because someone talked to him first.”
Twenty minutes later, I was in Ricardo’s SUV despite his objections.
Jason Cole had been found unconscious beside his car. No graphic injuries, but he had been frightened enough that paramedics took him to the hospital.
By the time we arrived, he was awake.
Ricardo stayed outside the room.
I noticed.
“You’re not coming?”
“He’ll talk more freely without me.”
That was surprisingly thoughtful.
I entered with a hotel attorney.
Jason looked pale.
“I didn’t destroy your painting,” he said immediately.
“I believe you.”
His eyes filled with relief.
“But you disabled the cameras.”
He looked away.
“Gabriella paid me.”
“How much?”
“Ten thousand.”
“For seventeen minutes?”
“She said she needed privacy.”
“Did she damage the portrait?”
“I didn’t see.”
“Did she enter my workshop?”
His face changed.
That was enough.
“Jason.”
“She copied my master access card.”
My stomach dropped.
“So yes.”
“She said she only wanted to scare you.”
“Why?”
He swallowed.
“Because Santoro looked at you.”
I stared.
“That’s insane.”
Jason’s voice lowered.
“You don’t know her.”
Apparently, everyone kept saying that about everyone else.
Before leaving, Jason grabbed my wrist lightly.
“There’s something else.”
“What?”
“She kept saying Ricardo ruined her life.”
“How?”
“I don’t know.”
“But?”
“She said if she couldn’t have what she deserved, neither could the woman he chose.”
My heart stumbled.
“He didn’t choose me.”
Jason gave me a look that made me uncomfortable.
When I returned to the hallway, Ricardo was waiting.
“What did he say?”
“That Gabriella paid him.”
His face stayed calm.
“And?”
“That she copied his access card.”
“And?”
I hesitated.
“Nothing.”
Ricardo’s eyes narrowed.
“You’re lying.”
“So?”
“You’re terrible at it.”
“So are you.”
He leaned closer.
“What else did he say?”
“That she thinks you chose me.”
The hallway went silent.
Ricardo’s expression changed so subtly I almost missed it.
“And did I?”
I should have laughed.
Instead, I looked away.
“You barely know me.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
I turned toward him.
“You don’t get to ask questions like that.”
“Why?”
“Because people like you confuse wanting something with having a right to it.”
His expression hardened.
“I have never claimed a right to you.”
“No.”
“Have I touched you without permission?”
“No.”
“Ordered you into my life?”
I raised an eyebrow.
“You tried.”
“And you told me no.”
“Yes.”
“And I’m still listening.”
That silenced me.
He stepped back.
“I know what people say about me, Claire.”
“What do they say?”
“That Ricardo Santoro always gets what he wants.”
He looked directly at me.
“They’re wrong.”
For the first time, there was no arrogance in his voice.
Only something almost sad.
“Some things have to be given.”
My heartbeat became painfully noticeable.
The elevator opened.
Paul hurried toward us.
“Mr. Santoro.”
He held a tablet.
“There’s been another incident.”
He handed it to Ricardo.
Security footage showed my apartment hallway.
A woman in a dark coat.
Black hair.
Gabriella.
Timestamp: thirty-eight minutes earlier.
While we had been at the hospital, she had entered my apartment.
I grabbed Ricardo’s arm.
“My mother’s painting.”
“What?”
I was already running.
Ricardo followed.
When we reached my apartment, the door was open.
Nothing seemed disturbed.
I rushed to the bedroom.
The framed landscape my mother painted before she died was gone.
In its place sat one black envelope.
Inside were five words.
COME ALONE OR IT BURNS.
Below that was an address.
Ricardo read over my shoulder.
His face became lethal.
“You’re not going.”
I turned.
“Yes, I am.”
“Claire—”
“That painting is all I have left of her.”
“It’s bait.”
“I know.”
“She wants you alone.”
“I know.”
His hands curled into fists.
“Then why would you go?”
Because grief doesn’t care about logic.
Because memories become priceless when the person who made them is gone.
Because Gabriella had finally discovered the one thing she could take from me that I couldn’t replace.
I grabbed my coat.
Ricardo caught my wrist.
Not hard.
But firmly.
I looked down.
He released me instantly.
“Sorry.”
That stopped me more effectively than force would have.
His voice softened.
“Let me help.”
I stared at him.
“No men storming in.”
“Agreed.”
“No threats.”
“Agreed.”
“No weapons.”
He hesitated.
“Ricardo.”
“Fine.”
“And if Gabriella wants to talk, we listen.”
His eyes met mine.
“You’re asking a lot.”
“I’m asking you to prove you’re not the man everyone says you are.”
He looked at me for a long moment.
Then nodded.
“Okay.”
The address led to an abandoned oceanfront restaurant north of the boardwalk.
I entered alone.
Or appeared to.
Gabriella stood near the shattered windows.
My mother’s painting rested on a chair beside her.
She held a lighter.
“You came.”
“Put that down.”
Gabriella smiled.
“I knew you’d understand eventually.”
“Understand what?”
“That Ricardo destroys every woman who gets close to him.”
The lighter clicked.
A flame appeared.
And from somewhere behind the dark kitchen, Ricardo stepped forward.
Gabriella’s smile vanished.
I turned toward him.
He had broken the first promise.
“You followed me inside.”
“No.”
His gaze stayed on Gabriella.
“I was already here.”
Gabriella went white.
Then Ricardo said something that changed the entire night.
May you like
“Elena Russo isn’t dead.”
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