Chapter 65

Chapter 65
Vito's POV
The late night meeting with the Torrino family had gone better than expected. Their shipping routes through the harbor would complement our operations perfectly, and Vincent seemed genuinely committed to the alliance. Still, these negotiations always left me drained, even when they went smoothly.
"Good work tonight, boss," Tony said as he pushed my wheelchair down the hallway toward my room. "Torrino's ready to move forward with the deal."
"Vincent's smart enough to see the benefits," I replied, though my mind was already moving to other matters. The charity auction was only days away, and I still needed to arrange for Isabella's preparation materials.
As we passed the study, I heard rustling sounds from inside. Papers shuffling, drawers opening and closing. Someone was in there, and it was well past midnight.
"Stop," I told Tony, holding up a hand. "Who's in the study?"
Tony moved closer to the door, listening. "Sounds like Mrs. Romano, boss. You want me to check?"
Isabella? What's she doing up so late?
"No, I'll handle it." I gestured for Tony to wheel me closer to the study door. "Mrs. Romano? Is everything alright in there?"
There was a moment of silence, then I heard papers being quickly shuffled together.
"Oh! Vito, yes, everything's fine," came Isabella's voice, slightly breathless. "I'm just looking for some research materials."
"This late?" I asked. "Tony, take me inside."
Tony pushed the wheelchair through the doorway. I could hear Isabella moving around, the sound of books being closed and papers being gathered. She was trying to clean up quickly, probably didn't want me to see what she was working on.
But I can see perfectly well.
"What kind of research?" I asked, keeping my voice casual. "Something for the auction?"
"Yes, exactly," Isabella said quickly. "I wanted to familiarize myself with some of the pieces that will be featured. You know, make sure I understand the background and significance."
I nodded approvingly, though something felt off about her tone. She sounded nervous, almost guilty. "That's very thorough of you. What pieces are you studying?"
"Oh, um, there are several interesting works. Contemporary sculptures, some paintings..." Her voice trailed off vaguely.
I maneuvered my wheelchair closer to where she was standing. From the corner of my eye, I could see papers scattered across the desk. But what I saw made me pause.
Those aren't auction materials.
The documents spread across the desk had nothing to do with art auctions or contemporary sculptures. I could clearly see medical terminology, references to rehabilitation techniques, and what looked like hospital pamphlets. One paper had a large heading that read "Art Therapy in Neurological Recovery."
Art therapy? Why would Isabella be reading about medical treatments?
"These look like very specialized pieces," I said carefully, testing her reaction. "Are they part of a medical collection?"
Isabella's breath caught slightly. "Medical collection?"
"Some collectors focus on historical medical instruments, anatomical drawings, that sort of thing," I explained, watching her closely while pretending to stare sightlessly ahead. "I thought I heard you mention something about therapeutic applications."
"Oh, no, nothing like that," she said quickly, too quickly. "Just regular art pieces. Paintings and sculptures, like I said."
But I could see her hands moving over the papers, trying to cover up the medical documents. One pamphlet about brain injury rehabilitation was clearly visible under her elbow.
Why is she lying to me?
Isabella Cohen had studied art at Juilliard. She should be comfortable discussing artistic techniques and historical periods. Instead, she seemed nervous and evasive, and the materials she was actually studying had nothing to do with art history.
And why would she be interested in neurological rehabilitation?
A cold suspicion began forming in my mind. I thought about all the small inconsistencies I'd noticed since our marriage. The way she sometimes seemed unfamiliar with social customs that should have been second nature to someone of her background. Her obvious discomfort at society events. The medical knowledge she'd displayed when discussing my supposed injuries.
"Well, I don't want to interrupt your studies," I said finally. "Just don't stay up too late. You need rest before the auction."
"Of course. I was just finishing up anyway."
I could hear her gathering papers again, moving quickly to put everything away. She was definitely hiding something.
"Tony, take me to my room," I said. "Good night, Isabella."
"Good night, Vito."
As Tony wheeled me away from the study, my mind was racing. Isabella's behavior tonight confirmed what I'd been suspecting for weeks. Something wasn't right about my wife.
The woman I'd married claimed to be an art student, but she was studying medical rehabilitation materials. She seemed uncomfortable with the social world she should have grown up in, but she knew more about healthcare than most doctors.
Who are you really, Isabella?
"Everything alright, boss?" Tony asked as we reached my bedroom door.
"Fine, Tony. Just tired." I waited until he'd helped me into bed and left before allowing my thoughts to fully form.
I'd been so focused on maintaining my own deception about being blind that I'd almost missed the signs that Isabella might be hiding something equally significant. But now that I was paying attention, the evidence was mounting.
I stared at the ceiling, my mind working through the possibilities.
The next morning
I was already awake when Tony arrived with my breakfast tray. I'd spent most of the night thinking about what I'd discovered in the study, and I'd come to some disturbing conclusions.
"Any word from the Mercy Foundation about the auction details?" I asked as Tony set up my meal.
"Yes sir. They sent over the catalog and the speaker's notes. Mrs. Romano asked me to put them on her desk."
"Good. And has she mentioned needing any additional preparation materials?"
"She asked about hiring an art consultant yesterday, but then she said she'd changed her mind. Said she wanted to handle the research herself."
Of course she did. Because an art consultant would immediately realize she doesn't know what she's talking about.
"Make sure she has everything she needs," I said. "This event is important for the family's reputation."
"Understood, boss."
After Tony left, I sat in my chair by the window, thinking. Isabella was trying to prepare for an art auction using medical rehabilitation materials. It would be almost funny if it weren't so suspicious.
What are you really up to?
I would give her the rope to hang herself with. Let her continue preparing for the auction her way, using whatever resources she thought would help.