Chapter 3 – The Photograph in the Coat

The dining room descended into absolute chaos.

Victoria collapsed into a chair, burying her face in her hands.

Raymond looked like a man who had just signed his own death warrant.

Dominic dropped the silver watch onto the table as if it burned his skin.

“Leo isn’t your son, Raymond,” Dominic said softly, realization dawning on his face like a nightmare. “He’s Vincent’s.”

Raymond gave a bitter, hollow laugh.

“Yeah. He is. I just married her to give the kid a name after Vincent was killed. The Rossis paid me to do it.”

I gasped.

I covered my mouth immediately, but the sound echoed in the quiet room.

Dominic’s head snapped toward Raymond.

“The Rossis paid you?” Dominic repeated, his voice dangerously calm. “To marry my brother’s pregnant girlfriend?”

“They wanted leverage,” Raymond confessed, tears leaking down his wrinkled cheeks. “If the Romano family ever found out there was an heir… they knew it would tear your family apart.”

“Where is the boy?” Dominic demanded. “Where is my nephew?”

Victoria looked up, her makeup smeared across her pale face.

“He’s safe. He’s at a boarding school in Connecticut.”

Dominic turned to his security chief.

“Marco. Send a team to Connecticut. Now. Bring the boy here.”

“Yes, Boss.” Marco turned and sprinted out of the room.

Dominic looked back at Victoria.

“You let my brother’s son grow up thinking this gambling addict was his father,” Dominic whispered. “You lived in my house. You slept in my bed. And you never told me.”

“I was protecting him!” Victoria screamed defensively. “Your world is violent, Dominic! Vincent was murdered in the streets! I didn’t want Leo growing up with a target on his back!”

“So you decided to steal my father’s trust fund instead?” Dominic fired back.

He turned to the remaining guards.

“Get them out of my sight. Lock them in the guest house until the police arrive.”

As the guards dragged a kicking and screaming Victoria out of the room, Raymond was shoved toward the door.

“Wait,” Margaret said softly.

Everyone stopped.

Margaret pointed at Raymond’s heavy wool overcoat, which had been draped over a chair.

“Before he leaves,” Margaret said, “you should check his coat.”

Dominic frowned, walking over to the coat.

He reached into the deep inner pocket.

His hand emerged holding a small, crumpled photograph.

Dominic unfolded it, and the remaining color completely drained from his face.

I stepped a little closer, my heart pounding in my chest.

It was a surveillance photo.

It showed a young, smiling Victoria standing on a street corner, holding hands with a man.

But it wasn’t Raymond. And it wasn’t Vincent.

Dominic turned the photograph toward Raymond, his hands shaking with rage.

“Why,” Dominic asked, his voice cracking, “do you have a picture of my fiancée kissing the man who murdered my brother?”

Share