Chapter 2 - THE LADY IN RED
The silence in the grand ballroom was absolute.
Three hundred of the city’s most powerful people held their breath. The clinking of champagne flutes had ceased. The soft jazz playing in the background suddenly sounded agonizingly loud.
Vincent’s dark eyes never left Vanessa’s face.
The silver key rested in his broad, tattooed palm. It was small, tarnished, and unmistakably authentic. The Romano crest—a lion wrapped in thorny vines—was etched perfectly into the metal.
“Vincent, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Vanessa stammered, her voice losing its previous venom. She took another step back, her red silk gown brushing against the marble pillars. “She’s a maid. A clumsy, lying maid. She obviously stole that key from somewhere in the house!”
“Don’t lie to me,” Vincent’s voice was dangerously quiet. “This key hasn’t been in this house since I was eleven years old. It belonged to the east wing study. Matteo’s study.”
He turned his gaze back to me.
I was still kneeling on the floor, holding Grace tightly against my chest. My knees ached from the hard marble, and a tiny sliver of broken crystal had cut into my palm, but I didn’t dare move.
“Hannah,” Vincent said, his tone softening just a fraction, though the authority in it remained absolute. “Stand up.”
I hesitated.
“Stand up,” he repeated. “No one in this house will force Matteo’s daughter to her knees.”
I slowly rose, pulling Grace up with me. She buried her face in my shoulder, her little fingers clutching the collar of my cheap catering uniform.
“She’s playing you!” Vanessa shrieked, dropping her elegant facade entirely. She pointed a perfectly manicured finger at me. “Look at her! She’s trash! She brought a brat to a high-society event to extort us. Security, get her out of here now!”
The head of security, a towering man named Briggs, stepped forward.
“Don’t take another step, Briggs,” Vincent warned without even looking at him.
Briggs froze.
Vincent walked slowly toward Vanessa. He stopped inches from her, his towering frame casting a shadow over her trembling figure.
“I asked you a question, Vanessa. How does a man who vanished nearly three decades ago know to warn my uncle's granddaughter about the 'lady in red'?”
Vanessa swallowed hard. Her pale skin was flushed with panic.
“It’s a coincidence. A lucky guess. Red is my signature color, everyone knows that—”
“He didn’t just say the lady in red,” I interrupted.
My own voice surprised me. It was shaky but loud enough to carry through the breathless room.
Vincent turned to me. “What else did he say, Hannah?”
I took a deep breath. My father had made me memorize these words in case this day ever came. He told me to run if I saw her, but tonight, cornered and publicly humiliated, I had no place left to run.
“He said to look for the woman wearing his mother’s stolen rubies,” I said.
A collective gasp rippled through the guests.
Vanessa’s hand flew to her throat. Resting against her collarbone was a heavy, antique necklace featuring three massive, blood-red rubies surrounded by diamonds.
Vincent stared at the necklace.
“That’s impossible,” he whispered.
“Vincent, my grandmother gave me this necklace!” Vanessa cried, tears spilling over her mascara. “You know that! I wore it tonight for you!”
“My grandmother’s rubies were stolen the night Matteo disappeared,” Vincent said, his voice turning hollow. “The police searched everywhere. We assumed Matteo took them to fund his escape.”
“He didn’t take them,” I said firmly. “He told me the person who drove him out of this family took them as a trophy.”
Vincent looked at Vanessa’s neck, really looking at the jewels for the first time. He reached out and caught the heavy pendant between his fingers.
“Vincent, stop it, you’re hurting me,” she whimpered.
He flipped the center ruby over.
There, etched into the gold backing, was a tiny, unmistakable symbol. A lion wrapped in thorny vines.
Vincent dropped the necklace as if it burned him.
“The party is over,” Vincent announced, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceilings. “Everyone, leave. Now.”
The guests didn't need to be told twice. The wealthy and powerful scrambled for the coat check, eager to escape the wrath of the Romano family's current head.
Within minutes, the ballroom was empty save for Vincent, Vanessa, me, Grace, and the stone-faced security guards blocking the exits.
“Vincent, please,” Vanessa begged, reaching for his arm.
He stepped away, leaving her grasping at empty air.
“Briggs,” Vincent ordered. “Take Vanessa to the library. Lock the door. Do not let her make any phone calls.”
“You can’t do this!” Vanessa screamed as Briggs grabbed her elbow. “We’re getting married! My father will destroy you!”
Vincent ignored her screams as she was dragged down the hall.
He turned his attention back to me. His eyes were a storm of confusion, anger, and a desperate, fragile hope.
“Come with me,” he said.
He led us away from the ballroom, down a long, dimly lit corridor that felt miles away from the party’s glamour. Grace held my hand tightly, her small footsteps echoing on the hardwood floors.
He brought us to a massive set of oak doors and pushed them open. It was a private study, smelling of old paper, leather, and cigar smoke.
“Sit,” he told me, pointing to a plush leather sofa.
I sat down, pulling Grace onto my lap.
Vincent walked over to a heavy mahogany desk. He unlocked a bottom drawer and pulled out a small, ornate wooden box. It was covered in dust, clearly untouched for years.
He set it on the coffee table in front of us.
“The key,” he said, holding out his hand.
My heart hammered against my ribs. I had carried that key sewn into the lining of my coat for five years. I gently took it from Grace’s hand and placed it in Vincent’s palm.
He slid the tiny silver key into the brass lock on the box.
It clicked.
Vincent opened the lid.
Inside sat a stack of old letters, a tarnished pocket watch, and a single, faded Polaroid photograph.
Vincent picked up the photograph and his face went completely pale.
He slowly turned it around to show me.
It was a picture of my father, Matteo, looking young and terrified. He was holding a duffel bag, standing by the docks.
But he wasn't alone.
Standing next to him, holding a gun directly to his ribs, was a young man with blonde hair and cruel eyes.
“Do you know who that is?” Vincent whispered, pointing to the man with the gun.
May you like
I shook my head.
“That,” Vincent said, his voice trembling with a rage that terrified me, “is Vanessa’s father.”
