"No. I think someone might have killed him because of it."
The words settled between them.
Adrian glanced toward the staircase.
"Not here."
"Why?"
"Because this house has ears."
Isabella looked around the magnificent hall.
The paintings. The marble columns. The servants moving quietly between rooms.
"You're telling me I can't trust anyone in your own home?"
"I'm telling you that trust is expensive."
She shook her head.
"You always do this."
"Do what?"
"You give me just enough truth to keep me close, but never enough to let me understand what is happening."
Adrian stepped toward her.
"I am trying to keep you alive."
"I didn't ask you to make that decision."
"No. You didn't."
His voice softened.
"And that is the problem."
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Isabella closed the folder.
"Sometimes I wonder whether you love me or simply want to control everything around you."
Adrian looked at her for a long time.
"I know how to control a room. I know how to control a business. I know how to make men who hate me shake my hand."
He reached for her hand.
"But I have never learned how to control what happens when you walk away."
Isabella's expression changed.
She wanted to remain angry.
She wanted to remind him that love was not an excuse for secrecy.
But his hand was warm around hers, and there was something unguarded in his eyes that she rarely saw.
"Then stop giving me reasons to walk away," she whispered.
Adrian lifted her hand and kissed her knuckles.
"I'll try."
It was a promise he would spend the next two days struggling to keep.
***
The following morning, Marco Bellini entered Adrian's private office carrying a tablet and a black envelope.
The office occupied the western wing of the estate. Its windows overlooked the river, and its walls were lined with books that Adrian rarely had time to read.
Marco closed the door.
"We have a problem."
Adrian did not look up from the papers on his desk.
"How large?"
"Large enough that I wouldn't bring it here unless I was certain."
Marco placed the envelope on the desk.
Adrian opened it.
Inside were photographs.
The first showed Isabella leaving a café in Manhattan.
The second showed her entering a parking garage.
The third showed a black SUV parked across the street from her apartment.
Adrian's expression hardened.
"How long?"
"Three days, possibly four."
"Who?"
"Unknown."
"Find out."
Marco hesitated.
"There's something else."
Adrian looked up.
"Say it."
"The vehicle is registered to a company connected to the D'Angelo organization."
Adrian leaned back.
The D'Angelos had controlled several ports and shipping contracts in the city before Adrian's father died. Their relationship with the Morettis had always been complicated.
Sometimes they were allies.
Sometimes enemies.
Recently, they had become something worse.
Unpredictable.
"Which D'Angelo?" Adrian asked.
"Salvatore."
Adrian's eyes narrowed.
Salvatore D'Angelo was fifty-seven and had inherited a criminal empire from his father. He was not particularly intelligent, but he was patient, ruthless, and surrounded by men who were willing to do things he preferred not to discuss.
He had also lost a major business arrangement to Adrian six months earlier.
Marco continued.
"Salvatore has been asking about the Romano accounts."
Adrian stood.
"Bring me everything we have on him."
"We already have it."
"Then bring me something useful."
Marco nodded.
He started toward the door.
"Marco."
The older man turned.
"Keep Isabella's name out of every report. I don't want her mentioned in any meeting, any call, or any communication."
Marco gave a small nod.
"Understood."
"And double the protection around her."
"She won't like that."
Adrian looked at him.
"I didn't ask whether she'd like it."
Marco opened the door.
Before leaving, he paused.
"You know, your father used to say the fastest way to destroy a powerful man was to make him believe he had something he couldn't afford to lose."
Adrian stared out at the river.
"Then perhaps my father should have chosen his enemies more carefully."
***
That afternoon, Isabella received a phone call from an unfamiliar number.
She was sitting in her apartment, surrounded by paperwork and half-empty coffee cups.
"Hello?"
A man's voice answered.
"Miss Romano?"
"Who is this?"
"My name is Thomas. I worked with your father."
Isabella sat upright.
"What did you say?"
"Daniel Romano. We were colleagues."
She gripped the phone.
"I don't know a Thomas."