Chapter 4 - THE PORTRAIT IN THE SILVER WATCH
Vivienne spun around so fast her emerald silk skirt whipped against the stainless-steel table.
Noah stood just inside the butler's pantry doorway, his small shoulders hunched in his tailored navy suit. In his palms rested the antique silver pocket watch Damian had left on the dining table when Judge Cross spilled his wine.
Noah had pressed the tiny release catch on the side of the casing—the secondary inner lid that protected the movement.
Except it didn't just protect the gears.
"Noah," Vivienne said, her voice tight and pitched low. "Give that to me right now. You know you aren't supposed to touch your father's things."
Noah didn't move toward her. He took two quick steps sideways and pressed his back against my hip.
"Look, Miss Natalie," he whispered, holding the open silver watch up toward the kitchen lights.
I looked down.
Fitted neatly inside the tarnished silver lid was a faded, circular photograph cut from an old Polaroid. It showed a young woman in her mid-twenties with warm hazel eyes, dark curly hair blowing across her cheek, and a gap-toothed smile. Behind her was the painted wooden railing of a Lake Michigan charter boat.
I knew those hazel eyes.
I looked at them every morning when I served Noah his scrambled eggs and toast.
"That's my mom," Noah said, his thumb trembling near the edge of the glass. "Her name was Clara. She died when I was seven. Why does Mr. Damian have her picture in his brother's watch?"
My chest tightened.
When Damian adopted Noah two years ago through the St. Jude Youth Foundation, everyone—including Damian himself—believed it was a random match made by the charity board after Damian donated a wing to their shelter.
Damian had loved the boy because Noah was quiet, brave, and fiercely protective of a little sister he couldn't find.
Did Damian know Noah was related to the woman in Marco's watch?
No. I remembered the way Damian had gone white as chalk ten minutes ago when he saw the Taranto fisherman's knot on Noah's red string. That hadn't been the face of a man keeping a secret. That had been the face of a man getting hit by a freight train.
"Vivienne," I said, my voice barely steady. "What is going on here?"
Vivienne reached for the watch, her manicured nails grazing Noah's wrist. "Give it to me, Noah! If Damian sees that open right now—"
"Don't touch him," I said, stepping fully in front of the boy and shielding him with my body.
"You stupid girl," Vivienne hissed, glancing frantically toward the dining room door. "You have no idea what Marco Valenti did before he died. My father sealed those files to stop a war between Damian and his own blood!"
"What did Marco do?"
Before Vivienne could answer, the heavy oak door swung all the way open.
Damian stood there.
Behind him, through the wide archway of the dining room, I could see Judge Arthur Cross dabbing sweat from his forehead with a wine-stained napkin while the twenty-four guests tried desperately to pretend they were still eating their salad course.
Damian's dark eyes swept from the five-thousand-dollar envelope sitting on the stainless-steel prep counter, to Vivienne's flushed face, to Noah standing behind my apron holding the open silver watch.
"Noah," Damian said quietly. "Come here, son."
Noah didn't hesitate with Damian. He walked over and held the watch up with both hands, as if offering something fragile and sacred.
"You knew my mom?" the ten-year-old asked, his voice cracking on the last word.
Damian looked down into the open inner lid of his brother's watch.
For a second, he looked confused.
"What are you talking about, buddy? There's no picture in this watch. The inner dust cover has been jammed shut since the coast guard pulled Marco's coat out of the harbor six years ago."
Damian took the watch.
When he saw the faded circular Polaroid of the woman with hazel eyes inside the hidden compartment, his tall frame went rigid.
"Elena," Damian breathed.
Noah shook his head. "No. Her name was Clara. Clara Miller."
"To you, maybe," Damian whispered, his thumb tracing the edge of the silver casing. "To my brother Marco, her name was Elena Ross. He told me she died in a clinic fire in Milwaukee seven years ago. That's why he started drinking. That's why he took his boat out in a November gale and never came back."
I stared at Damian, the pieces clicking together with terrifying speed.
Noah was ten years old.
Zoe was eight now—six when they were separated two years ago.
If Marco died six years ago, and Clara was the woman in Marco's watch...
Noah and Zoe weren't orphans from a random charity program.
They were Marco Valenti's children.
They were Damian's biological nephew and niece.
"Wait," I said softly, looking at Damian. "If Marco thought she died seven years ago, how could she have been raising Noah and Zoe until three years ago?"
Damian slowly lifted his head. His dark eyes didn't go to me.
They went straight to the white envelope sitting on the stainless-steel counter beside Vivienne's hand.
"What is on that table, Vivienne?" Damian asked.
His voice wasn't loud. It was terrifyingly calm—the kind of quiet that made Chef Enzo at the far end of the kitchen drop his tongs and back silently into the dishwashing room.
"It's a bonus," Vivienne said quickly, her chin lifting. "Natalie mentioned her sister's college tuition earlier. I wanted to do something generous to celebrate our engagement."
Damian walked over to the counter, picked up the envelope, and weighed it in his palm. Then he looked at me.
"Is that true, Natalie?"
I looked at Vivienne. Her eyes were begging me—half threat, half raw panic.
Then I looked down at Noah, who was still clutching his wrist where the faded red string sat.
"No, sir," I said clearly. "She offered me that money to walk out the back door right now and not tell you what I saw inside her evening bag when her father spilled his wine."
Vivienne let out a sharp breath. "Damian, she's lying! I scolded her at the table for interfering with Noah, and she's trying to get even with me!"
"What did you see inside her bag, Natalie?" Damian asked, never breaking eye contact with me.
"A clear plastic evidence sleeve from a courthouse," I said. "And inside it was a small wooden bead, just like the one on Noah's bracelet. Only it had the letter N carved into it."
Noah gasped, his whole small body jolting. "Zoe's bead! We traded letters so I'd have hers and she'd have mine!"
He spun toward Vivienne, tears spilling instantly over his dark lashes.
"You have Zoe's bracelet? Where is she? What did you do with my sister?!"
Damian didn't yell. He simply held out his tattooed hand toward his fiancée.
"Give me your purse, Vivienne."
"Damian, don't do this here," she whispered, her voice trembling for the first time all night. "Please. Come into the study with my father and me. If you open that door right now—"
"Give me the bag."
She didn't hand it over. Damian reached out, took the emerald silk clutch from under her arm, and popped the gold clasp.
He reached inside.
And his hand came out empty.
Except for a silver tube of lipstick and a compact mirror.
The clear plastic sleeve and the wooden bead were gone.
Vivienne let out a shaky, triumphant breath. "I told you. The girl is unstable."
I stared at the empty silk lining, my heart slamming against my ribs. She hadn't left the room since I saw it—except for the thirty seconds it took me to walk into the pantry before she followed me.
May you like
Then I looked past Vivienne, through the gap in the swinging oak door.
Out in the dining room, Judge Arthur Cross was rising hurriedly from the banquet table, his right hand shoved deep into the pocket of his tuxedo jacket, heading straight for the front foyer.
