Chapter Six
640 Words
The Search Begins
The gala had ended.
The mystery hadn't.
Long after Valenza's elite had returned to their mansions, penthouses, and private estates, one light remained on inside the De Luca residence.
It belonged to Alessandro.
His study overlooked the eastern side of the estate, where the first hint of dawn had begun to soften the horizon. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the awakening city beyond, but Alessandro wasn't watching the sunrise.
His attention rested on a single photograph lying in the center of his desk.
The woman in black.
It wasn't a perfect image.
Captured from one of the ballroom's surveillance cameras, it showed only the side of her face as she accepted a glass of champagne from a passing waiter.
Most people would have dismissed it as ordinary.
Alessandro didn't.
He picked up the photograph again.
The untouched champagne.
That detail bothered him.
People accept drinks for one of two reasons.
To enjoy them.
Or to avoid refusing.
She had done neither.
She had accepted the glass...
...And never took a sip.
His gaze shifted to the second photograph.
She wasn't looking at the orchestra.
She wasn't watching the guests.
She was studying the room.
Not casually.
Methodically.
Every exit.
Every security camera.
Every blind corner.
Like someone memorizing a map.
A soft knock interrupted his thoughts.
"Come in."
The study door opened.
Enzo Romano entered carrying a leather portfolio thick enough to suggest a sleepless night.
Judging by the faint stubble on his jaw and the untouched cup of coffee in his hand, he hadn't gone home.
"You've been here all night," Enzo observed.
Alessandro placed the photograph back on the desk.
"So have you."
Enzo crossed the room.
"I stopped home."
"Showered."
"Changed suits."
"Came back."
He placed the portfolio on the desk.
"I figured you'd still be here."
"I was right."
Alessandro looked at the folder.
"What do you have?"
Enzo opened it.
"Everything we know."
He removed the first document.
"The invitation used to enter the gala."
Alessandro scanned it.
"'Isabella Bell.'"
"A real identity," Enzo said.
"On paper."
"The passport number checks out."
"The foundation's invitation was authentic."
"The biometric verification at the entrance matched."
Alessandro looked up.
"But?"
Enzo slid another file across the desk.
"The woman isn't Isabella Bell."
A silence settled between them.
"The real Isabella Bell."
Enzo continued.
"Thirty-two years old."
"British citizen."
"Currently volunteering with Doctors Without Borders."
"Syria."
"She's been overseas for eight months."
"So whoever entered the ballroom..."
"...borrowed her life."
Alessandro leaned back in his chair.
"No."
Enzo frowned.
"No?"
"Borrowed implies temporary."
He looked once more at the photograph.
"She built one."
Enzo didn't argue.
The distinction mattered.
Temporary identities were sloppy.
Constructed identities required years.
Planning.
Resources.
Money.
Someone had invested heavily in making this woman disappear.
That alone made her dangerous.
Enzo removed another photograph.
"This was taken seventeen seconds before the cameras went offline."
Alessandro studied it carefully.
The woman stood near one of the marble columns.
Nothing unusual.
Except...
"Zoom."
Enzo activated the digital display on the wall.
The image expanded.
Sharper.
Clearer.
Alessandro stepped closer.
"There."
Enzo narrowed his eyes.
"What?"
"The waiter."
Enzo followed his gaze.
"What about him?"
"He's watching her."
"So?"
"He isn't carrying the tray correctly."
Enzo blinked.
"What?"
"Look at his left hand."
The tray rested comfortably on his right.
His left hand remained free.
Too free.
Waiters were trained to stabilize the tray with both hands while walking through crowded rooms.
This man wasn't.
He was ready to reach into his jacket at a moment's notice.
Enzo stared at the screen.
"I completely missed that."
"He isn't hotel staff."
"You think he's with her?"
"I think..."
Alessandro paused.
"...he was watching to see whether anyone else was."
The room fell silent again.
For the first time that morning...
They realized the woman hadn't worked alone.
- Writer
