The Twin in the Shadows

I stared at the photograph of the two women. My mother and Eleanor Moretti.

“If anything happens to me, find his twin.”

My hands shook so badly the photo slipped from my fingers, landing face up on the floorboards. I barely had time to pick it up before the heavy knock echoed through the empty house.

I walked to the front door. I didn't open it.

"I have the letter," I said through the wood.

The door didn't open, but a voice spoke from the porch. It wasn't the man with the briefcase. It was Vincent Moretti.

"Open the door, Grace. Or I will have my men take it off the hinges. And I don't want to ruin Thomas's nice cedar woodwork."

I unbolted the lock. Vincent stood on the porch, wearing the same charcoal suit from the restaurant. But the cold, calculating aura was gone. He looked desperate.

He stepped inside, his eyes immediately scanning the dustless furniture. "Your father kept a clean house. He always did, even when he drove for my family."

"You didn't come here to talk about my father," I said, backing away. I held my purse tightly against my chest. "You came for the letter."

Vincent reached into his coat pocket. My breath caught, expecting a weapon. Instead, he pulled out a delicate silver rosary.

I gasped. The silver cross was missing its left arm. It was my mother’s rosary. She had lost it the year before she died.

"Where did you get that?" I whispered.

"Your mother gave it to me," Vincent said, his voice dropping to a harsh gravel. "Twenty-seven years ago. Right before she smuggled my brother out of this city."

Answer One, Open Two. The boy my parents raised wasn't just Anthony Moretti. He was Vincent's twin brother.

But my mind spun. If Anthony was Vincent's twin, why had I never met him? I was an only child.

"I don't know where Anthony is," I said defensively. "My parents never told me I had an adopted brother. They raised me alone."

Vincent stepped closer, his pale gray eyes—the exact same eyes as the baby Isabella held—locking onto mine. "Anthony died, Grace. Eight months ago. In a car accident that wasn't an accident."

My stomach dropped.

"Then whose baby is Isabella protecting?" I asked.

Vincent looked at the rosary in his hand. "That baby isn't my son, Grace. He's Anthony's. He is my nephew. And the man who killed my brother is now trying to kill his son."

Before I could process the shock, my cell phone vibrated violently in my pocket.

It was a text from an unknown number.

Daniel Whitmore has Isabella. Bring the letter to the old Foundation building. Come alone, or the baby dies.

Vincent saw my face drain of color. "Who is it?"