Chapter 2 - The Woman Who Was Supposed to Be Resting
Two mornings before Matteo's honeymoon with another woman, his pregnant wife stood in the servants' hallway listening to a guard tell someone she was asleep.
“Mrs. Rossi hasn't come down,” the young man said into his radio. “Housekeeping says she's resting.”
Norah waited until the radio crackled again. Then she stepped out with her suitcase and said, “I'm not resting. I'm leaving.”
The guard, Ben, was twenty-three and still looked startled whenever she remembered his name. His fingers closed around the radio. “Ma'am, I need to call Arthur.”
“Call him. Tell him I am walking out under my own power and I do not consent to being followed.”
“Mr. Rossi gave strict orders—”
“Mr. Rossi is on a plane. I am right here.” She showed him her driver's license, not because she owed him identification but because she wanted no misunderstanding in the security log. “Please open the gate.”
Arthur DeLuca arrived before the gate finished moving. He had managed the estate's security for eleven years, long enough to know Matteo's temper and Norah's habit of thanking the night cleaners by name. He saw the suitcase, the swollen ankles, and the car from a licensed service waiting outside the property.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“Somewhere I chose.”
“Let me put someone in another vehicle, at a distance.”
“No.”
“There are threats against Matteo.”
“Then protect Matteo.” She glanced at the house. “Tell the staff they are not to lose their jobs for telling the truth. I gave everyone the weekend off. Nobody helped me get into anything.”
Arthur looked as though he wanted to argue. Instead, he stepped aside. “I'll document that you're leaving voluntarily.”
“Good. Document this, too.” She touched the suitcase handle. “If anyone from this house calls my doctor or asks where I am, I want to know.”
The car carried her through the gates. Only then did she let herself cry. Not loudly. Tears simply ran down her face as the estate disappeared behind the trees. She had slept beside a man she loved and woken knowing she might never sleep beside him again.
In Santorini, Matteo was trying to enjoy breakfast. Harper sat across from him wearing a white dress and sunglasses large enough to hide her expression. Their private terrace looked over bright blue water. She moved her plate aside and raised her phone for a photograph.
“Come closer,” she said. “The view is perfect.”
“It's a cliff.”
“It's romance, Matteo.”
He stood, looked at the silent screen of his private phone, and said he had a call to make. Arthur answered on the third ring.
“Is Norah eating?” Matteo asked.
A long pause. “Mrs. Rossi left the property voluntarily at eight fourteen two days ago. I told her I would document it.”
Matteo gripped the terrace railing. “You let her walk out?”
“She is your wife. Not a prisoner.”
“Where did she go?”
“I don't know.”
For the first time all morning, Matteo forgot Harper was standing behind him. He dialed Norah. Voicemail. The second call went unanswered. His third attempt reached a disconnected greeting: the number had been deactivated.
Harper came to the doorway. “Your wife knows where we are, right? Maybe she wants you to chase her.”
Matteo looked at her. “Don't speak about her.”
Harper flinched. He was suddenly angry at her for being precisely the person he'd chosen to bring. He knew the unfairness of it, and it made him angrier.
In Boston, Evelyn Park met Norah at a small office above a dentist's surgery. No marble lobby, no men in black suits. A printer coughed behind a half-open door. Evelyn made tea and put a footstool beneath Norah's ankles before asking for the flash drive.
“I moved money,” Norah confessed. “Twenty percent from four accounts. I thought I was taking back a future he could steal from us.”
Evelyn set down the teapot. “Do you still have it?”
“It's in the holding account.”
“Then it stays there. No purchases, no withdrawals, no disappearing under someone else's name. We need a forensic accountant and independent counsel for you. Those funds may be proceeds of crimes. You could also be accused of taking them.”
Norah folded both arms around her belly. “I know.”
Evelyn examined the notice bearing Norah's name from eleven days earlier. “This authorization isn't yours?”
“No. And I didn't send myself that message.”
“Save it. Don't answer. We'll report the threat and have the underlying records preserved.”
They contacted law enforcement and arranged a consultation with a financial-crimes attorney. Norah wanted to feel triumphant for getting away. Instead, she sat at Evelyn's scratched oak desk and explained why she was frightened of both her husband and whoever had accessed his accounts.
That afternoon, Dr. Evans called after receiving a request for Norah's prenatal records. The caller had identified himself as an estate employee and claimed Matteo was arranging a private flight. Dr. Evans had refused to release anything and contacted Norah directly.
“Did Matteo ask?” Norah said.
“I can't confirm that,” the doctor replied. “I wanted you to know.”
Norah wrote down the time and caller information. Somebody was looking for her through the baby now.
She used her own name to rent a short-term apartment near Evelyn, changed her emergency contact, and asked the building manager not to reveal her unit. Nothing felt heroic. It felt like completing ten small tasks while afraid.
Two days later, at the clinic, the baby was healthy, her heartbeat strong. Norah stared at the small moving shape on the monitor until she could finally breathe. Dr. Evans printed an image. “You don't have to settle every part of your life before she arrives,” she said.
Norah slipped the photograph into her purse. Outside, she found a message from a number she knew better than her own.
MATTEO: I didn't know you had left. Tell me you're safe. I won't send anyone if you say no.
She wrote: I'm safe. You chose your trip. Please speak to Evelyn about practical matters. Do not contact my medical team.
For a full minute, three little dots appeared and vanished. At last his reply came.
Understood.
Norah almost believed the danger had shrunk to manageable size. Then Evelyn called from her office.
“The original transfer we found under your name?” the lawyer said. “The receiving company was formed last month.”
“Who owns it?”
“The paperwork leads to someone listed as the Rossi company's chief financial officer.”
May you like
“Anton Bellini?”
“Yes.” Evelyn hesitated. “And Norah, one of its disclosed beneficiaries is Harper Wynn.”
