Chapter 3 - THE PHOTOGRAPHS OF THE FORMER WIFE
For several long seconds, Luca didn't move an inch, his tall frame silhouetted against the glowing computer monitor like a statue carved from dark stone.
Then, slowly, his head turned toward the heavy mahogany staircase leading up to the second-floor bedrooms.
"Find out exactly what he was investigating for her," Luca ordered, his voice cold enough to freeze boiling water.
"We're already digging into his firm's digital footprint, boss. I'll have answers before midnight," Daniel replied before the line clicked shut.
Before Luca could even set the secure phone back down onto its cradle, a soft, tentative knock echoed at his study door.
He turned sharply, expecting Mrs. Carter or one of the security guards.
Instead, the heavy door slowly creaked open, and I appeared on the threshold.
The house doctor had finished examining my swollen cheek, applied a medicated compress, and strictly advised me to rest for the remainder of the week.
I wore my simple gray service cardigan over my uniform dress, looking small and entirely out of place in the opulent, book-lined sanctum of the city's most feared underworld boss.
Luca turned his dark eyes away from the monitor and looked directly at me.
"Olivia," he said, his tone softening just a fraction. "Come in and close the door."
I hesitated, my hand trembling as I pulled the heavy oak door shut behind me, locking myself inside the lions' den.
Then I slowly stepped forward onto the thick Persian rug until I stood a few feet from his massive desk.
Luca reached out and swiveled the large computer monitor around so the paused security footage of William Mercer faced me directly.
"Is this the man you saw inside the guest room with Vanessa this afternoon?" he asked quietly.
My face went completely pale, and I instinctively reached up to touch the tender skin near my healing bruise.
"Yes, sir," I whispered. "That's him."
"What was he doing with Vanessa? What were they discussing before she pushed you?"
I looked anxiously toward the closed study door, as if expecting the bride-to-be to materialize through the wood at any second.
Then, with shaking fingers, I slowly reached into the deep pocket of my gray cardigan.
I pulled out a folded, heavy-stock manila photograph and placed it gently on the center of his spotless desk.
Luca stared down at the glossy paper as if it were a venomous snake.
The photograph showed him stepping out of an exclusive downtown Chicago seafood restaurant late last Tuesday night.
Walking right beside him, holding an umbrella against the autumn drizzle, was an elegant woman in a cream-colored wool coat.
Luca recognized her face instantly, without needing a single second of hesitation.
It was his former wife, Elena.
A woman he hadn't spoken to, seen, or shared a word with in nearly four agonizing years following their bitter, silent divorce.
Luca slowly raised his head, his dark eyes burning into mine with an intensity that made me want to step backward.
"Where on earth did you get this?" he demanded, his voice dangerously low.
My voice trembled so badly I could barely form the syllables.
"Vanessa had a whole folder of them hidden inside the bottom drawer of the antique writing desk in the sunroom," I confessed, my chest heaving.
"What kind of photographs?" Luca asked, his fists clenching on either side of the desk.
"Pictures of you coming and going from your office," I stammered, listing the items as my chest tightened. "Pictures of this house. Pictures of your car parked in various neighborhoods around the city."
I swallowed hard, tasting copper in my mouth.
"And pictures of your former wife entering her apartment building downtown."
Luca went completely, unnaturally still, the air in the room dropping to freezing temperatures.
"What in God's name did Vanessa want with pictures of Elena?"
"She told the private investigator that she needed undeniable proof that you were secretly meeting your ex-wife behind her back," I whispered, the words tumbling out of my mouth before I could stop them.
Luca stared fixedly down at the photograph on his desk, his mind racing through timelines and possibilities.
Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, he reached out and turned the glossy photograph over.
A handwritten date and time had been scribbled across the back in black ink.
Last Tuesday, 9:44 PM.
He remembered that specific afternoon and evening with crystal clarity.
He had met Elena downtown at a neutral Italian bistro not to rekindle any romance, but to finally finalize the legal paperwork regarding the sale of the remote vacation cabin they had purchased together during their first year of marriage.
It was purely a business transaction handled by lawyers, lasting less than twenty minutes.
Nothing more, nothing less.
He raised his dark eyes from the photograph and looked straight into my fearful face.
"Is that the exact reason Vanessa attacked you and had that man corner you?"
I shook my head slowly from side to side.
"No, sir. That wasn't why she hit me."
"Then why?" he pressed, leaning over the desk.
My voice finally broke, a sob catching in my throat.
"Because I accidentally walked into the room while she was telling the private investigator what to do with those photographs after he gathered them."
Luca leaned forward until his face was inches from the edge of the mahogany desk.
"What did she tell him to do with them?"
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I glanced nervously back toward the locked study door, then whispered the terrifying words I had been losing sleep over all evening.
"She told him to make sure the complete folder of photographs was delivered directly to your former wife's doorstep forty-eight hours before our wedding," I breathed out. "And she instructed him to tell Elena that you and Vanessa had been carrying on a secret, passionate affair for the last five full years behind closed doors."
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