Chapter 3 - The Woman in Pink
Marcello ended the gala twenty minutes early.
Publicly, the announcement blamed an electrical fault affecting several security systems.
Privately, Marcello ordered the second floor sealed.
Camille left in a black town car without him.
That alone generated whispers.
Elena tried to disappear with Lily through the employee entrance.
She almost succeeded.
“Ms. Morales.”
Marcello stood near the loading corridor without his tuxedo jacket, his bow tie loosened.
Elena stopped.
Lily was asleep against her shoulder.
“I really need to get her home.”
“I know. I only need two minutes.”
She looked toward the exit.
“Two.”
Marcello lowered his voice.
“What exactly did Lily tell you before she spoke in the ballroom?”
“Nothing.”
“She went upstairs alone?”
“For maybe three minutes. I thought she was in the staff break alcove with one of the pastry assistants.”
His expression sharpened.
“You lost sight of her?”
Elena bristled.
“I know how that sounds.”
“I wasn’t judging you.”
“People like you don’t have to. We do it to ourselves first.”
Marcello absorbed that.
“Did she seem frightened?”
“No. Confused.”
“Did she describe the man she saw?”
“Not really.”
Lily stirred.
Her eyes opened.
“Mommy?”
“I’m here.”
She noticed Marcello.
“Big man.”
Despite everything, he almost smiled.
“Hello again.”
Lily rubbed her face.
“Pink lady mad.”
Marcello crouched.
“Lily, do you remember the man who came upstairs?”
Elena started to object, but Lily answered.
“Shiny neck.”
Marcello frowned.
“Shiny neck?”
She touched her throat.
“Gray shiny.”
Elena looked at him.
“A tie.”
Marcello’s thoughts returned to the ballroom.
Silver-haired.
Silver tie.
Owen Mercer.
Chief financial officer of DeLuca Holdings.
A man who had worked for Marcello’s father for twenty-three years.
“You’re sure?”
Lily nodded.
“He took blue tummy.”
Marcello became still.
Elena stared at him.
“You know who she means.”
“I think so.”
“Who?”
Marcello looked toward the corridor where staff moved carts past them.
“Not here.”
That answer made Elena angrier.
“I don’t want to be part of this.”
“You already are.”
“No. My daughter saw something. That doesn’t make her your witness, employee, investigator, or whatever else your people might decide she is.”
“You’re right.”
The immediate agreement surprised her.
Marcello removed a business card.
“My personal number.”
Elena didn’t take it.
“I don’t need your money.”
“I didn’t offer any.”
“You were going to.”
“No.”
She searched his face.
He continued.
“I was going to tell you that if anyone contacts you about tonight, especially anyone offering money or asking you to change Lily’s story, call me.”
Elena finally took the card.
“And if I don’t trust you?”
“Call the police.”
That answer, at least, sounded real.
She slipped the card into her purse.
Marcello watched Lily sleep again.
“Thank you.”
Elena walked away.
He waited until the door closed.
Then he called Owen Mercer.
Owen answered on the second ring.
“Marcello. Hell of an evening.”
“Where are you?”
“Car. Heading home.”
“You left quickly.”
“My wife has a migraine.”
“Your wife is in Palm Beach.”
Silence.
Then Owen laughed.
“You caught me.”
“Why were you upstairs?”
Another silence.
“I wasn’t.”
Marcello looked toward the ceiling.
“A three-year-old saw you.”
“A three-year-old also thinks your fiancée’s stomach falls off.”
“Did you disable the cameras?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Then you won’t mind if I audit your credentials.”
Owen’s voice changed.
“Marcello, be careful.”
“Is that advice?”
“Yes.”
“It sounded like a threat.”
“Don’t be dramatic.”
The call ended.
Marcello stood alone beside the loading dock doors.
His phone immediately vibrated again.
This time Camille’s name appeared.
He answered.
She was crying.
“Are you really doing this to me?”
“To you?”
“I’m carrying your child.”
Marcello said nothing.
Camille’s breathing became uneven.
“You know what stress can do during pregnancy.”
The sentence was calculated.
He recognized it because she had used versions of it before.
Whenever he questioned the accelerated wedding.
Whenever he asked why he had never attended an ultrasound.
Whenever he resisted the changes her attorney wanted added to their marital agreement.
He had mistaken pressure for vulnerability.
Now the memories rearranged themselves.
“Camille.”
“What?”
“Tomorrow morning I want to come to your obstetric appointment.”
Silence.
“I don’t have one tomorrow.”
“We’ll schedule one.”
“That’s insulting.”
“Then insult me by proving me wrong.”
She began crying harder.
“You don’t trust me.”
Marcello closed his eyes.
Three weeks earlier, those words would have ended the conversation.
Tonight they did not.
“I want the truth.”
“You already have it.”
“Then tomorrow should be easy.”
Camille hung up.
Marcello stared at the dark screen.
A notification appeared almost immediately.
DELUCA HOLDINGS: SECURE DOCUMENT EXECUTION REMINDER.
He opened it.
The amended premarital agreement Camille had pushed him to sign was scheduled for final execution in forty-eight hours.
Under its newest revision, Camille would receive twelve million dollars and a five-percent nonvoting equity interest in DeLuca Holdings immediately upon marriage.
Marcello had agreed because she was pregnant.
Because he wanted his child protected.
Because Owen Mercer had personally told him the arrangement was financially reasonable.
Marcello read Owen’s name on the advisory memorandum.
Then he looked toward the staircase.
May you like
The mystery was no longer whether Camille’s belly had fallen off.
It was why so many powerful adults needed him to believe it could not.
