Chapter Three

# CHAPTER THREE

Moretti has been talking for eleven minutes.

I know because I've been counting. Watching him work the table the way men like him always do — loud, performative, filling the room so nobody else can breathe in it.

He has soft hands. I noticed that when he shook mine. The hands of a man who hasn't built anything himself in a very long time.

"Your new acquisition in the south quarter," Moretti is saying to Alfonso, cutting into his steak like he owns the knife. "I have to be honest with you, it concerns me. The infrastructure alone"

"The Meridian account," I say.

Both men look at me.

I pick up my water glass.

"The offshore account registered under Meridian Consulting Group in the Cayman Islands." I set the glass down. "The one you've been running parallel to your declared earnings since 2019."

Moretti goes very still.

"I'm sorry?" His voice drops.

"Forty-three million in undeclared assets." I tilt my head. "Moved in increments small enough to avoid automatic flagging. Smart, actually. Except you used the same routing sequence for every transfer and your compliance manager has been skimming from the top for two years, which means there's a paper trail he's been building as insurance."

The table is silent.

I look at Alfonso.

He's watching me with that expression he gets. Not surprised. Not impressed. Just recalibrating.

"I had my own concerns about the partnership," I say pleasantly. "So I did some reading."

Moretti's face has gone through four different colors in the last thirty seconds. He lands on something ugly.

"You brought your wife to a business dinner to make accusations"

"Fiancée," Alfonso says. His voice is quiet. That's the version that means stop talking. "And she asked you a question."

Moretti looks between us. The calculation is happening behind his eyes. How much does Alfonso know. How much is she guessing. Whether the denial is worth it at this table or whether it's already too late.

It's already too late.

"The partnership," Alfonso says, folding his napkin, "is done." He stands. "My lawyers will be in touch regarding the exit terms. I'd recommend being cooperative."

He holds his hand out to me.

I take it and stand up and don't look at Moretti again.

Some people you only need to ruin once.

---

The cameras are waiting outside.

I don't know how they knew we'd be here tonight. I do know that Alfonso's assistant made three phone calls this afternoon and I'm not stupid enough to think that's a coincidence.

The flashes start before we hit the bottom step.

Alfonso's hand moves to my waist. His grip is firm. Not gentle, not performative. A statement. Forty flashes go off in the first two seconds.

I don't turn my face away.

I look directly into the nearest lens.

I think about Ryan at that podium in his dark suit saying my name like it cost him something.

I think about Selena dabbing at her eyes with a tissue.

I look into the camera and I don't smile and I don't flinch. I just let them see me. Alive. Standing in a twelve-hundred dollar dress on the arm of the most powerful name in Europe.

*See me.*

"Smile," Alfonso says quietly beside me.

"I am smiling."

"That's not a smile. That's a threat."

"I know."

His hand tightens on my waist slightly. Not in warning. Something else.

More flashes. I hold the cameras' eyes until my vision is white and spotted. Until I know that somewhere in that crowd there's a photo that will be on every major news site in six hours. Rose Alexander. Alive. Untouchable. Already reborn.

*Enjoy the memorial, Ryan.*

---

**RYAN**

The bar is quiet for a Tuesday.

Ryan Angelo likes it that way. He's been coming to this place since the story broke because it's dark and the bartender doesn't watch the news and nobody here cares who he is.

He orders his third drink and scrolls his phone and tries not to think about the way Rose looked at him the night she found out. The flatness of her voice. The ring bouncing across the floor.

He's not guilty. He told himself that on day one and he's been maintaining it.

She was fragile. Everyone who knew her would confirm that. Her own board was already nervous about her leadership. It wasn't his fault that the situation escalated.

He takes a long pull of his drink.

The television above the bar is running entertainment news on mute. He's not watching it. He's watching the amber in his glass and thinking about the will documentation and the timeline Selena put together and how clean it all looks on paper.

Then the woman next to him laughs and points at the screen.

He looks up.

The photograph is high definition. The lighting is perfect. A restaurant in Milan, he'll find out later. Fifty flashes going off at once.

She's in a dark dress. Her hair is down. She's standing beside a man Ryan recognizes immediately because everyone recognizes Alfonso Tommaso.

And she's looking directly into the camera.

Not smiling. Not scared. Not missing.

Alive.

Ryan's glass hits the bar.

It doesn't shatter. It just lands hard and the bourbon goes over his hand and he doesn't feel it because he's reading the headline crawling along the bottom of the screen.

*Tommaso heir seen with mystery woman in Milan. Sources confirm: his new fiancée.*

The photograph fills the screen.

Her face. Full frame. High definition.

Ryan has not seen that face in three weeks. Three weeks of missing persons reports and carefully worded statements and Selena's hand on his chest telling him it was handled, it was done, she was gone.

He reads the headline again.

Then again.

The bartender glances over. "You alright, man?"

Ryan doesn't answer.

He picks up his phone and calls Selena. She answers on the second ring, voice loose and comfortable.

"Ryan"

"Turn on the news."

Silence.

"What"

"Turn it on." His voice is flat. Something is happening in his chest. Something cold and mechanical and spreading. "Right now, Selena. Turn it on."

More silence. Then he hears it. The faint sound of a television.

Then her sharp intake of breath.

"That's not possible." Her voice has changed completely. "That's not she was in the road, the truck"

"She's alive." He's still looking at the screen. At Rose's face. At the way she's looking into that camera like she's looking directly at him through three thousand miles and a television screen. "She's alive and she's in Italy and she's standing next to Alfonso Tommaso."

The name lands between them.

Neither of them speaks for a moment.

Because both of them know what that name means. What it costs to have it behind you. What it means for the paperwork they filed and the accounts they moved and the memorial service with the flowers and the tearful speeches that is scheduled for Friday morning.

Ryan's hand is shaking.

On the screen, Rose still isn't smiling.

She doesn't need to.

His phone buzzes in his hand.

Unknown number.

He stares at it.

It buzzes again.

He answers.

One breath of silence. Then a voice he knows better than his own heartbeat.

"Hi, Ryan." Rose's voice. Calm. Almost warm. "Miss me?"