Chapter 2 - The Woman in the PhotographI had never been more afraid in my life.
Not when the rent notice arrived.
Not when my car broke down on the highway.
Not even when my father disappeared without warning when I was twelve.
None of those moments compared to standing in a locked restaurant surrounded by armed men while Ricardo Moretti stared at my face.
He lowered the gun.
“Take her upstairs.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
Two guards dragged me through the kitchen.
I fought.
“Let go of me!”
One guard tightened his grip.
“If you keep fighting, you’ll make this worse.”
I looked toward Leo.
He was crying again.
“Leo!”
The boy reached toward me.
“Clara!”
Ricardo lifted his hand.
“Enough.”
The boy immediately stopped.
That scared me more than the gun.
Ricardo Moretti wasn’t simply feared.
He controlled people with silence.
I was taken into a private office above the restaurant.
The door closed.
Five minutes later, Ricardo walked in alone.
He placed a photograph on the table.
A woman stood beside a black SUV.
She was elegant, dark-haired, smiling.
My heart stopped.
I knew her.
Not from real life.
From a memory.
A photograph.
One of the few things my father had left behind.
I pointed at the image.
“Her name was Sofia.”
Ricardo froze.
“You know her.”
“No.”
“You just said her name.”
I stared at the photograph.
“I think I’ve seen her before.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know.”
Ricardo grabbed the back of the chair.
“You have ten seconds.”
I shook my head.
“I’m not lying.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“No. I expect you to believe that I’m terrified.”
For the first time, his expression changed.
Not softer.
More uncertain.
He sat down.
“Where did you see her?”
“In my father’s things.”
“What was your father’s name?”
“Daniel Vance.”
Ricardo’s face went blank.
The room became strangely quiet.
“You’re Daniel Vance’s daughter?”
I nodded.
“You knew him?”
Ricardo didn’t answer.
“That means something,” I whispered.
He stood.
“Where is your father?”
“He’s dead.”
“How?”
“I don’t know.”
Ricardo stared at me.
“My father disappeared when I was twelve.”
“And you never looked for him?”
“I was twelve.”
His jaw tightened.
“What did he leave you?”
“Almost nothing.”
“Almost?”
I remembered the small wooden box.
The one I had kept under my bed for years.
Inside was an old key.
A silver ring.
And a photograph of a woman I was told never to ask about.
Sofia.
Ricardo stepped toward me.
“Where is the box?”
“I don’t have it.”
That was a lie.
It was in my apartment.
And suddenly I realized he was watching my eyes.
He knew.
He smiled without warmth.
“Bring me the box.”
“I don’t know what you're talking about.”
Ricardo reached for his phone.
“Search her apartment.”
My stomach turned.
“You can’t.”
“I can do much worse.”
He walked to the door.
Then stopped.
“One more question.”
I waited.
“Why did Leo recognize you?”
“I don't know.”
Ricardo turned.
“My son has rejected every woman who tried to care for him since Sofia died.”
He looked at me.
“But he touched your face.”
He pulled out another photograph.
This one was older.
It showed Sofia holding a baby.
A much younger Leo.
Beside her stood another woman.
The woman was smiling.
I stared.
My mouth went dry.
Because the woman beside Sofia was me.
At least she looked exactly like me.
Same face.
Same scar.
Same eyes.
Impossible.
“I’ve never seen this before.”
Ricardo's voice dropped.
“Then who is that?”
I couldn’t answer.
He placed the photograph on the table.
On the back, written in Sofia’s handwriting, were four words.
Clara will protect him.
My hands began shaking.
Ricardo saw it.
“You knew my wife.”
“No.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not!”
The door suddenly burst open.
One of Ricardo’s men ran inside.
“Boss, the apartment.”
Ricardo turned.
“What?”
“We found someone inside.”
“Who?”
The guard swallowed.
“She was waiting for us.”
Ricardo’s face hardened.
“Describe her.”
The guard looked at me.
Then at Ricardo.
“She looks exactly like Clara.”
I felt the blood drain from my face.
May you like
Ricardo slowly looked back at me.
And for the first time that night, he looked genuinely afraid.
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