THE MAFIA BOSS FORGOT HIS WIFE—UNTIL HE SAW HER ULTRASOUND

For two days, I heard nothing from Vincent.

I told myself that was what I wanted. I had asked for distance, and he was finally giving it to me. But every silence now carried a question: was he respecting my boundary, or was he making plans without telling me?

I focused on work.

Daniel assigned me the townhouse project, and I spent hours measuring rooms, choosing materials, and sketching ways to restore the neglected garden. For the first time in years, my days had a shape that belonged to me.

The clients liked my ideas. Daniel said I had an eye for making a room feel welcoming without wasting space.

“You notice how people actually live,” he told me. “That's harder to teach than color theory.”

I went home smiling.

Then I found an envelope taped to Madison's door.

No name. No return address.

Inside was a photograph of my mother, taken years before she died. She stood beside a young Vincent at a charity event, one hand resting on his shoulder.

I had never seen the picture.

On the back, someone had written:

Ask your husband what happened to the missing account.

I called Evelyn immediately.

She told me not to touch anything else and sent an investigator to photograph the envelope. When he arrived, he examined the handwriting and the paper.

“Could be a warning,” he said. “Could be an attempt to make you distrust your husband. We won't know until we trace it.”

I sat at Madison's kitchen table, staring at the photograph.

My mother had died when I was sixteen. She had never spoken much about the Moretti family, though she once told me that powerful people often confused loyalty with silence.

I had assumed she meant my father's relatives.

Now I wasn't sure.

I called Vincent through Evelyn's office.

He answered with a rough, tired voice.

“Claire?”

“Did you know my mother?”

Silence.

“Of course I knew her. She attended some of the foundation events.”

“Then explain this photograph.”

I described it.

He exhaled.

“Your mother helped establish a scholarship fund before we were married. She believed families affected by organized crime deserved access to education and legal support. She worked with my father for a while.”

“Why didn't you tell me?”

“Because I didn't know how much you remembered about it.”

“That doesn't answer my question.”

He paused.

“There was an account connected to the fund. Money went missing shortly before your mother died. My father believed the matter had been settled, but I never saw the final audit.”

“Who managed the account?”

“Adrian.”

The name fell between us like a stone.

“Was my mother investigating him?”

“I don't know.”

“Vincent, someone is sending me photographs and threatening notes. Someone used my name to establish a foundation. Someone is following me. I need the truth.”

“I'll find out.”

“No. We find out through the lawyers and investigators. You don't send men to my apartment. You don't make decisions on my behalf. And you don't hide information because you think it will upset me.”

“I won't.”

I wanted to ask whether he meant it.

Instead, I said, “Goodbye.”

That evening, Madison went to pick up groceries while I worked on the townhouse plans. I had just finished a drawing when someone knocked on the door.

Three firm knocks.

I looked through the peephole.

A woman stood in the hallway, holding a canvas bag. She was in her sixties, with silver hair and a familiar face I could not place.

I opened the door only as far as the chain allowed.

“Can I help you?”

She looked at me with sudden emotion.

“Claire Bennett?”

“Yes.”

“My name is Margaret Ellis. I worked for your mother.”

My fingers tightened around the door.

“I don't remember you.”

“You were a little girl when we last met. Your mother asked me to stay away after she became frightened.”