“I’m saying the woman cleaning your house is living under a false identity.”
Vincent tapped the courthouse photograph.
“And she knew Matteo after he supposedly died.”
I stared at Elena’s face in the picture.
She did not look like a woman posing casually with an acquaintance.
Her body leaned toward Matteo. His arm curved protectively around her. His gaze was fixed on the baby in her arms.
There was tenderness there.
Possession.
Love.
My eyes dropped to the date printed in the corner.
Lily had been born exactly nine months after the last confirmed sighting of Matteo before the explosion.
I felt something dangerous stir beneath my ribs.
“Bring Elena to my study,” I said.
Vincent hesitated.
“You want Lily separated from her?”
“No.”
“Adrian—”
“No one touches the child.”
My voice hardened enough to silence the room.
“Bring Elena alone. Gently.”
Vincent nodded.
As he left, I reached for the photograph again.
Five years.
For five years, I had stood at Matteo’s grave on the anniversary of his death. I had remembered every argument we never resolved, every warning I dismissed, every time he accused me of becoming our father.
Matteo had always been the better one.
The warmer one.
He laughed easily, trusted too quickly, and believed there were parts of our family business that could still be redeemed.
I called him naive.
He called me afraid.
Our last conversation had ended with him slamming my study door.
Six hours later, his car exploded.
I had never forgiven myself.
Now I wondered whether grief had been the lie—and whether Matteo had been alive all along.
The study door opened.
Elena entered with Vincent behind her.
She had removed her apron. Her hands were clasped tightly at her waist, and her face had the careful stillness of someone walking toward judgment.
“Sit,” I said.
She remained standing.
“What happened?”
I placed the courthouse photograph on the desk.
All color left her face.
That was answer enough.
Vincent closed the door.
Elena’s eyes moved from the photograph to me.
For the first time since she entered my house, I saw real fear in them.
Not fear of my reputation.
Fear of discovery.
“Where is Lily?” she asked.
“In the kitchen.”
“Is she safe?”
The question struck me harder than it should have.
“She is safe.”
Elena exhaled, but her body did not relax.
I leaned back in my chair.
“Who are you?”
She said nothing.
“My men tell me Elena Morales did not exist three years ago.”
Still nothing.
