Chapter 3 - THE FIANCÉE WHO FEARED A HOSPITAL ROOM|
By nine that morning, Vanessa Rossi had arrived at Mercy General wearing a cream designer coat, carrying white roses, and looking every inch the woman who belonged beside Roman Ferrara.
She found him standing outside Evelyn's room with his tie loosened and dark circles beneath his eyes.
“Roman, darling.”
She moved toward him with open arms.
He didn't embrace her.
Vanessa stopped just short of touching him.
“What happened? I called you all night.”
“My wife almost died.”
Vanessa's expression softened in a way that might have fooled anyone who didn't know her.
“I'm so sorry. Evelyn has always had a fragile constitution.”
Roman looked at her.
“Did you know about the airway damage?”
“I knew she had some lingering problems after the fire.”
“Some problems?”
Vanessa glanced toward the room.
“Roman, please. This isn't the place.”
“That's interesting. You had no trouble discussing my divorce in the mansion's vestibule.”
Her face tightened.
“Evelyn told you?”
“I saw her sitting on the floor beside a bag containing everything she owned.”
Vanessa drew a slow breath.
“She insisted on leaving. I was trying to help her preserve her dignity.”
“By leaving her in the cold?”
“She was asleep. I thought she was waiting for a car.”
“Did you check whether she was breathing?”
“Don't be absurd.”
Roman stepped closer.
Vanessa had known him long enough to recognize the warning in his silence. The Ferrara men rarely shouted when they were truly angry. They became quiet, and everyone around them learned to pay attention.
“What's going on?” she asked.
“I've reopened the Pier 14 investigation.”
For the first time, her expression cracked.
Only for a second.
Then she laughed softly.
“Why would you do that now?”
“Because the official report doesn't match the story you've told me.”
“Your wife has spent years filling your head with lies.”
“Then the evidence should clear you.”
Vanessa studied him carefully.
“What evidence?”
“The photograph.”
The color drained from her cheeks.
Roman noticed.
“You've seen it?”
“No.”
“Then why are you frightened?”
“I'm not frightened. I'm offended that you would question me after everything I've done for you.”
She lowered her voice.
“I sat beside you when you couldn't remember your own name. I helped you walk again. I listened to you wake up screaming for months. And now, because Evelyn has suddenly become sick, you're treating me like an enemy?”
Roman remembered the hospital room after the fire. He remembered Vanessa holding his hand and telling him that Evelyn had run.
But he also remembered something else: the smell of smoke, a woman's voice shouting his name, and the sensation of being dragged across concrete.
He had always assumed the voice belonged to Vanessa.
Now he wasn't sure.
“You should go home,” he said.
Vanessa stared at him.
“Are you throwing me out?”
“I'm asking you to leave.”
Her jaw tightened.
“You're making a mistake.”
“Perhaps.”
She placed the roses on a nearby table with deliberate care.
“When Evelyn wakes up, ask her why she never told you about the money.”
Roman's eyes narrowed.
“What money?”
“The money she took from your father's company after the fire. Hundreds of thousands of dollars transferred through her father's workshop. She used the accident to make herself look like a victim.”
Roman said nothing.
Vanessa smiled faintly.
“See? You don't know everything about your wife.”
She turned and walked away.
Roman immediately called Dante.
“Find every financial transfer involving Evelyn, the workshop, and my father's company.”
Within an hour, the first records arrived.
There had been payments from Ferrara Holdings to a company registered under Evelyn's father's name. The transfers were labeled emergency restoration costs, but the amounts were inconsistent with the workshop's reported expenses.
Roman felt the familiar chill of suspicion.
Had Vanessa told the truth about the money?
He entered Evelyn's room and found her awake, watching rain trail down the window.
“I need to ask you something.”
She turned toward him.
“About the workshop?”
“Yes.”
Her expression changed.
“Did Vanessa tell you I stole money?”
Roman didn't answer quickly enough.
Evelyn gave a small nod.
“Of course she did.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
“Then explain the transfers.”
Evelyn's hands tightened around the blanket.
“My father discovered that someone had been using the workshop's shipping account to move equipment from Pier 14. He reported it to your father. Three days later, the warehouse burned.”
Roman felt his stomach tighten.
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“I tried.”
“When?”
“Every time you accused me of lying.”
She reached toward the bedside table and pulled out a small notebook.
“My father kept records. He was afraid something would happen to him, so he wrote down every payment, every shipment, every name he could verify.”
Roman took the notebook.
On the last page, beneath a list of dates and invoice numbers, was a name written in dark blue ink.
Claudia Ferrara.
His stepmother.
Evelyn watched his reaction.
“Your father didn't die believing the wrong people were innocent,” she whispered. “He died trying to expose them.”
Roman looked at the notebook again.
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For years, he had believed his father's death was the natural consequence of a life built on violence and betrayal.
Now he wondered whether the man who raised him had been murdered by the very people who inherited his empire.
