Chapter 2 – THE TORN PHOTOGRAPH IN THE POCKET

Natalie backed away, pressing her shoulders against the front door.

“Where did you get that?” Vincent demanded, his voice sharp with sudden panic. He lunged toward Natalie, but I stood up, holding the tiny blue coat between them.

“Don’t touch her,” I snapped at my husband. I turned back to Natalie. “You said you’ve been with my husband for two years. Does he have a child?”

“No,” Natalie cried out, tears spilling over her mascara. “It’s not his.”

“Then whose is it?”

Natalie looked at Vincent, terrified. “He told me she didn’t know. He swore to me you were out of the picture!”

“I am very much in the picture,” I said softly. “Whose coat, Natalie?”

“It belongs to Leo,” she whispered.

“Who is Leo?”

Natalie wiped her face. “Mia’s son. Your grandson.”

The floor seemed to tilt beneath my feet. I grabbed the edge of the hallway table to steady myself. Mia had a son? She had been hiding in my house with a child, and my husband had kept it from me?

“Claire, listen to me,” Vincent started, reaching out.

“Don’t,” I warned, stepping back. I looked at the tiny coat in my hands. “Mia had a baby. And you hid them in our bedroom while I thought she was in New York. Why?”

Vincent rubbed his jaw, a gesture of absolute defeat. “Because the father is Carlo Marino. She fell in love with a Marino, Claire. When Carlo found out she was pregnant, he tried to take the boy. Mia ran. I’ve been hiding them.”

I processed the shock, feeling a cold fury building in my chest. “And Natalie?”

“I was his nanny,” Natalie confessed, her voice breaking. “I wasn’t just Vincent’s mistress. He hired me to care for Leo. To pack their things. Mia and Leo were supposed to leave for Europe tonight.”

The revelation twisted the knife deeper. My husband hadn’t just brought his mistress into my home. He had brought the woman who had replaced me as a grandmother.

“But you didn’t go to Europe,” I said to Natalie. “You’re here. Where are Mia and Leo?”

“I don’t know,” Natalie sobbed. “We were at the airstrip. Vincent’s men put them in a separate car. Then the Marinos attacked. Vincent grabbed me and brought me here.”

I looked at Vincent. His eyes were dark, unreadable.

I slipped my hand into the pocket of the tiny blue coat, feeling for a pacifier or a toy. My fingers brushed against a piece of stiff paper.

I pulled it out. It was a photograph, torn down the middle.

It showed Vincent standing on a loading dock, shaking hands with Carlo Marino.

The date stamp on the bottom corner was from yesterday.

“You didn’t hide them from the Marinos,” I whispered, holding the torn photo up to my husband. “You sold them.”

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