Nothing dangerous.
Or so they had assumed.
“She stayed away from me to protect a child.”
Rachel nodded.
Lorenzo turned toward the window.
He felt something break inside him.
Not anger.
Something worse.
The knowledge that while he had been drinking beside her photograph, his wife had been cold, injured, terrified, and refusing to call him because she believed his world would kill a three-year-old girl.
Five days later, a volunteer at Saint Matthew’s shelter called police.
A woman matching Isabella’s description had arrived with a large black dog.
Rachel went inside first.
Mason followed.
Lorenzo remained in the car because everyone agreed that an armed procession of DeLuca men entering a church shelter was not the ideal image.
Fourteen minutes later Rachel returned.
“She’s alive.”
Lorenzo stopped breathing.
“She asked for you.”
He opened the door.
His legs shook when he stood.
Mason touched his shoulder.
“Go.”
Inside a small office, a woman sat wrapped in a gray blanket.
Bruno lay beneath her chair.
The dog saw Lorenzo first.
He stood.
Whined.
Then charged.
Lorenzo dropped to his knees as eighty pounds of Cane Corso slammed into him.
Bruno licked his face frantically.
Lorenzo buried both hands in the dog’s fur.
Then looked past him.
Isabella was crying.
Her hair had been cut unevenly to her jaw.
She had lost nearly twenty pounds.
A pale scar crossed her temple.
Her wrists carried fading marks.
But she was alive.
“Isabella.”
She stood.
Lorenzo approached.
Stopped one step away.
She looked surprised.
He whispered:
“May I?”
Her face collapsed.
She nodded.
He pulled her into his arms.
Lorenzo had imagined this moment every night since Emma entered his study.
He had imagined strength.
Silence.
Relief.
Instead he sobbed against his wife’s shoulder like a child.
Isabella clung to him.
“I’m sorry.”
“No.”
“I couldn’t call.”
“I know.”
“They said Emma—”
“I know.”
“I didn’t know who inside the house belonged to them.”
“I know.”
She pulled back.
Her hands touched his face.
“You buried me.”
Lorenzo closed his eyes.
“Yes.”
A strange sound escaped Isabella.
Half laugh.
Half sob.
“God, Lorenzo.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You thought I was dead.”
“I watched them put dirt over you.”
She pressed her forehead against his.
For a long time neither spoke.
Then Bruno began growling.
Low.
Dangerous.
Everyone turned.
Mason had just entered the doorway.
The dog’s lips curled.
Mason stopped.
“Easy, boy.”
Bruno barked.
Isabella grabbed his collar.
“Bruno!”
The dog continued staring at Mason.
Rachel frowned.
“Does he usually do that?”
Isabella swallowed.
“He’s been frightened of men since we escaped.”
Mason slowly stepped backward.
Bruno quieted.
Lorenzo barely noticed.
He was holding his wife again.
Nothing else seemed important.
Not yet.
Vincent Moreau was arrested two days later.
He denied everything.
When Lorenzo visited him under tightly controlled circumstances, Vincent looked exhausted rather than afraid.
“You believe I did this?”
“The evidence says you did.”
Vincent laughed once.
“The evidence said Isabella was dead.”
Lorenzo froze.
Vincent leaned forward.
“Think.”
“Careful.”
“You think I stole nine million dollars?”
