CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO

CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO
ELENA

"Alexander," I spoke slowly, my finger still pointing on the newspaper photograph, "This park in the background of Margaret's photo, that's Riverside Park."

"So?" Alexander stepped closer, gazing at the picture. "Chicago does have a lot of parks."

"No, you don't get it. This is the exact place where I met Vivian. The bench, the trees, and even that peculiar fountain in the background." My pitch was getting higher with each sentence. "Someone captured a picture of Margaret in the same place where I had my secret meeting about her disappearance."

Alexander was beside me. "That's impossible."

"Look at this!" I pointed to the photograph. "It's the same bench, the same spot, and everything is identical. This is either one very strange coincidence, or this sender has been tracking my movements for a much longer time than we ever supposed."

Alexander grabbed the paper from my hands and studied it closely, like a man who had found proof of aliens. His jaw clenched when he understood what it meant.

"If anybody knew about your encounter with Vivian, they might not be working with Vivian and could be someone different entirely." He broke off, running his hand over his hair.

"They've been following me from the start, then," I concluded. "Perfect. Every girl's dream—a phantom stalker with good research abilities and a subscription to the newspaper archives."

"This isn't funny, Elena."

"I know it is not funny. That is why I am joking. It is laugh or have a total breakdown, and I will not give our unknown fan the satisfaction of having me break down."

Alexander hugged me tightly, allowing his body heat to ward off the chill that had permeated my bones.

"We'll make this right," he whispered in my hair. "I promise."

"I know we will. But I'm more concerned about dinner with your dad tonight." I leaned back to look at him. "How do you prepare to be grilled by a crime boss? Is there a WikiHow article on it?"

"Simply be yourself. Either he'll honor your strength or try to harm you for it."

"Comforting. Very comforting."

By the time the evening came, I had worked myself up into a frenzy of nervous energy that had me dress and undress three times. Alexander was sitting on the bed, clearly entertained by my wardrobe crisis.

"The black dress," he said when I came out of the closet for the fourth time. "Absolutely the black dress."

"Too formal?"

"Perfect. Elegant but not trying too hard. Shows respect without submission."

"You've obviously given this some thought."

"I have spent years watching how my father reacts to people." Alexander got up and stood behind me, his hands resting on my waist.
"He likes strong people, hates weak ones, and has a mixed respect for anyone who stands up for themselves."

"And what if I fail to meet his expectations?"

"Then he'll find out his son learned a thing or two about standing up for what's important." Alexander's hands found the zipper on my dress, his fingers running along my back as he zipped it up reluctantly. "But you'll be okay. You're the woman who told me that my art taste was bad on our first date."

"That wasn't a date. You were just being a rude person at a gallery opening."

"Same thing." He softly grazed my neck with his lips, and I went into shivers. "You're stronger than you know, Elena."

I turned in his embrace because I suddenly yearned to kiss him. The kiss began softly, then deepened when he kissed me back, his hands becoming entangled in my well-styled hair.

"Don't mess up my hair," I whispered into his mouth.

"I prefer it messy."

"Your father doesn't know me well enough to see me with messy hair. That's for at least the fifth date."

Alexander smiled then laughed, and it warmed me inside. "I love you," he stated simply.

"Even if I might embarrass you in front of your scary dad?"

"Particularly then."

The building intercom buzzed exactly at seven, as apparently punctuality was a crime lord skill.

"Showtime," I whispered, smoothing my dress for the last time.

Mr. Moretti walked into the penthouse as if he owned it, which he likely could have given the family's background. He looked just as scary as I remembered—his silver hair was neatly styled, he wore a fancy and obviously expensive suit, and his eyes seemed to see everything.

"Alexander. Miss Rossi." His tone was courteous and even, the sort of voice that might calmly issue a stern order or discuss the weather.

"Mr. Moretti," I said, grateful that my voice was steady. "Thank you for coming."

"The pleasure is mine." His smile did not, however, reach his eyes. "It is nice seeing you again, not sure we have met in Chicago."

Alexander moved closer to me protectively, and his father observed this. "Shall we have a seat? Elena must have prepared excellent wine."

"I didn't prepare anything," I said quickly. "Alexander has other people for that. I just exist here."

Mr. Moretti raised an eyebrow. "Modest."

"Honest. There's a difference."

We were sitting in Alexander's lounge, and the mood was extremely tense. Mr. Moretti had a glass of wine but hardly drank any as he kept staring at me intensely.

"Tell me about your family, Miss Rossi."

"You have asked this before, but I will answer again. My parents died when I was younger. Car wreck. I've been on my own ever since."

"Any other relatives? Grandparents? Aunts and uncles?"

"None who kept in contact." I felt uneasy beneath his piercing gaze. "Haven't you already conducted enough background checks? You really don't need to ask me repeatedly."

"Elena," Alexander said softly.

"What? It's a reasonable question. I'm certain he's aware of even the tinniest detail about me by now."

Mr. Moretti's lips curled—irritation or enjoyment, I couldn't say. "You're very direct."

"I don't see why we should beat around the bush. You obviously have deeper questions regarding me, so ask."

"Okay. So, about your abilities, where do you get your inspiration from?"

The question hits as I recalled briefly what we discovered about the newspapers earlier. I could feel Alexander tensing up beside me.

"Sometimes inspiration strikes where you least expect it," I replied diplomatically.

"Yes. And the places you're painting, what do you feel about them really?"

"What do you wish to know?"

"I'm questioning whether you know what you are, Miss Rossi. Your worth."

The way he spoke to me made me really angry. "I can tell when someone is playing games with me instead of being honest with me."

"Elena—" Alexander began.

"No, it's okay." I rose to my feet abruptly, my patience finally wearing thin.
"I don't have to sit here and be psychoanalyzed by someone who believes intimidation is a substitute for conversation."

I was close to the door when I heard Mr. Moretti say to Alexander, "Your girlfriend possesses a quick temper, Alexander. Just like your mother."