"We met once, years ago. You were younger."
"Why are you calling me?"
A brief silence followed.
"Because your father left something behind."
Isabella looked at the folder on her desk.
"What?"
"A recording."
Her heartbeat quickened.
"What recording?"
"Something he made shortly before he died. He was afraid the documents would disappear."
"Where is it?"
"Not over the phone."
"Then tell me where to meet you."
"Tomorrow. Twelve-thirty. The Bellgrave Hotel."
Isabella frowned.
"Why there?"
"Because it is one of the few places where people still believe they can speak privately."
The call ended.
She remained seated.
For several minutes, she stared at the screen.
Then she picked up her phone and called Adrian.
He answered after two rings.
"Isabella."
"Someone just called me."
"Who?"
"He says he knew my father."
Adrian became silent.
"What did he want?"
"He says my father left a recording."
"Where is this man?"
"The Bellgrave Hotel. Tomorrow at twelve-thirty."
"No."
She closed her eyes.
"Adrian."
"You're not going."
"You don't even know what he has."
"I know enough."
"Then tell me."
He exhaled.
"Isabella, listen to me carefully. Do not meet this man."
"Why?"
"Because I think you're being watched."
The room seemed to grow smaller.
"What?"
"I have people checking something. Until I know who is behind it, you stay where you are."
She stood and walked to the window.
Across the street, a black SUV was parked beside a delivery truck.
It had been there when she arrived home.
She had assumed it belonged to a neighbor.
Now she was no longer sure.
"Adrian?"
"I'm here."
"Someone is outside my building."
He said nothing for a moment.
Then his voice changed.
"Go away from the window."
"Adrian—"
"Now."
She stepped back.
"Don't leave the apartment. Lock the door. I'll send someone."
"You're frightening me."
"I know."
His voice became gentler.
"I'm sorry."
She sat on the edge of the sofa.
"Why is this happening?"
Adrian did not answer immediately.
Because he knew.
Because he had spent years convincing himself that the sins of his family could be kept separate from the people he loved.
And because he was beginning to understand that the past had finally found a way into Isabella's life.
"Your father discovered something," he said.
"Something about you?"
"Something about my family."
She closed her eyes.
"Adrian, what did he find?"
"Tomorrow, I'll tell you everything."
"Promise?"
"Yes."
Neither of them knew how much that promise would cost.
***
At eleven the following morning, Marco Bellini entered the estate's underground garage.
Adrian was waiting beside a black Mercedes.
"Where is she?"
"At home. Two men outside, one inside."
"Good."
Marco handed him a photograph.
"Thomas Hale."
The picture showed a thin man in his early fifties, wearing glasses and a dark coat.
"Former accountant at Romano Financial?"
"That's what his employment records say."
"Does he exist?"
Marco hesitated.
"That's the problem."
Adrian looked at him.
"Explain."
"Thomas Hale died seven years ago."
Adrian stared at the photograph.
"Then who called Isabella?"
"We don't know."
Marco opened the car door.
"I think the meeting is a trap."
Adrian slipped the photograph into his jacket.
"Then we'll make sure whoever arranged it regrets choosing the location."
"You're going?"
"Of course."
"Adrian, if Salvatore is involved—"
"Then I want him to know I've arrived."
He got into the car.
Marco followed.
The convoy left the estate shortly after eleven-thirty.
***
The Bellgrave Hotel stood in the center of Manhattan, occupying a restored nineteenth-century building with polished brass doors and a lobby filled with white orchids.
It was a place where wealthy people came to disappear from public attention.
Executives held private meetings there. Politicians entertained discreet guests. Foreign businessmen paid extraordinary amounts for rooms that overlooked the park.
And occasionally, men like Salvatore D'Angelo used its elegant surroundings to conduct business that would never survive daylight.
At twelve twenty, Isabella arrived.
She wore a white blouse, black trousers, and a fitted coat. Her hair was tied back, and a small leather bag hung from her shoulder.
A receptionist greeted her.
"Good afternoon, Miss Romano."
Isabella stopped.
"How do you know my name?"
The receptionist smiled.
"Your guest is waiting."
Isabella looked toward the elevators.
She should have left.
Adrian's warning was still fresh in her mind.
But the thought of her father's final recording kept her moving.
She stepped into the elevator.
On the sixth floor, the doors opened onto a quiet corridor.