Chapter 56

Chapter 56
Vito’s POV
I could tell Isabella was acting. She pressed against my chest, telling me how scared she'd been when I clutched my chest earlier. Her voice shook like she was really upset.
Nice try.
But I'd been reading people's lies for thirty years. Every time she tried to play the sweet wife, her body gave her away. She'd get this little tremor when she forced herself to say caring things. Not the shaking of real emotion—the shaking of someone pretending.
Too cute.
Most people lied to me because they were scared or wanted money. Isabella's lies were different. She looked uncomfortable every time she had to fake affection, like it physically hurt her to do it.
Her behavior had gotten weird since we came back from the wedding. Little things that didn't add up.
Right now, she was playing the perfect wife. But this was the same woman who'd fought with me about David, who'd questioned my decisions. Now she was suddenly all soft and clingy.
"Even though we fight sometimes," she said against my shirt, "you're still my husband. I don't want anything to happen to you."
Those were exactly the words Isabella Romano should say. But they sounded rehearsed, like she'd practiced them in the mirror.
What are you hiding?
On the flight back to New York, I had time to think. Something was off about Isabella, and it had been bothering me for weeks. She spent most of the trip staring out the window, lost in her own thoughts. When I tried to talk to her, she gave me polite but distant answers.
The second we got home, she ran off.
"I need to check on a few things," she mumbled, not looking at me as she hurried toward the study. "Won't be long."
That was three hours ago.
I wheeled around the house, trying to figure out what had my wife hiding the moment we got back. When I passed the study, I could hear typing and frustrated sighs.
She's researching something.
"Isabella," I called, knocking on the door.
The typing stopped. After a long pause, her voice came through. "Yes?"
"Alfonso's rehabilitation plan. You said you'd have it ready soon."
Another pause. "Of course. I'll have it for you in the morning."
She sounded like I was bothering her. Since when did my wife dismiss me like an annoying interruption?
"Isabella," I said again, harder this time.
"Tomorrow, Vito. I promise."
Interesting.

She brought me a thick folder at breakfast, setting it down like she wanted to get away fast.
"Here's Alfonso's rehabilitation plan," she said, already turning to leave. "I think it's pretty complete."
I opened it and skimmed the first few pages. The level of detail was impressive—treatment schedules, medications, therapy recommendations, all laid out perfectly.
"This is excellent work," I said, watching her reaction. "Very detailed."
Her smile was quick and nervous. "I wanted to make sure it would help him."
"I'll have Dr. Martinelli look it over before we start anything," I continued, watching her face go pale. "Just to be safe."
"Of course," she managed. "Though I should mention, I got a lot of the medical stuff from websites. Some of it might not be... totally accurate."
Why are you making excuses before anyone's even read it?
"I'm sure Alfonso's doctors will appreciate the work you put in," I said. "Martinelli will call me with his thoughts."
Thirty minutes later, my phone rang.
"Romano."
"Mr. Romano, this is Dr. Martinelli. I reviewed the plan your wife made for Mr. Benedetti."
"And?"
"It's incredible. The medical knowledge, the attention to detail—some of these treatments are more advanced than what we normally use. I have to ask, what's your wife's background? Because this wasn't written by someone who just looked stuff up online. This was written by someone with serious medical training."
My blood went cold. "Her background?"
"She clearly knows medicine. The terminology alone... Mr. Romano, whoever wrote this plan has extensive medical training. I'd bet my career on it."
I hung up and stared at the folder. The woman I married was supposed to be an art history graduate. Someone who knew about paintings and museums. But she'd just written a medical document that impressed a real doctor.
Who the hell are you, Isabella?

At lunch, I decided to test her.
"I was thinking about your college days," I said casually as we ate in the garden. "Your art professors must have been great."
Isabella's fork stopped halfway to her mouth. "They were... yes, very inspiring."
"Professor Morrison especially. I remember you talking about how much he helped you senior year."
I watched her face carefully. There was no Professor Morrison at Isabella's college—I made up the name.
"Morrison, yes," she said slowly. "He was... very supportive."
Strike one.
"And Professor Chen. The one who helped with your graduation show."
"Professor... Chen," she repeated, clearly stalling. "It's been so long since graduation. Sometimes I forget the details."
"That's understandable," I said. "Though some memories should stick with you."
I pulled out a photo—Isabella's real graduation picture from the family files. "Here, maybe this will help."
I put the photo on the table and watched her eyes go wide with panic. It showed Isabella Cohen at graduation with several faculty members she should have recognized instantly.
"This is Professor Hendricks," I said, pointing to an older woman. "She gave a nice speech at your graduation show, praising your Italian Renaissance work. You remember her, right?"
Isabella stared at the photo like it might explode. I could see her mind racing, trying to decide whether to lie or admit she didn't know them.
"Of course," she said finally, but her voice was thin. "Professor Hendricks. How could I forget?"
Her hands were pressed flat on the table. I could see the tension in her shoulders, how carefully she was breathing. She was looking at complete strangers and pretending to know them.
Strike two.
"Funny how memory works," I said, putting the photo away. "How it plays tricks on us."
"Yes," she whispered. "Funny."
That night, after Isabella went to bed claiming she was tired, I went to my office and pulled out the Cohen family files. Official records, school transcripts, newspaper clippings—everything about my wife's background.
The real Isabella Cohen's school records were clear. Art history major, focus on Renaissance techniques, graduation show featuring paintings inspired by Caravaggio. The theme was "Light and Shadow: Modern Interpretations of Classical Techniques."
I remembered our early conversations when my wife mentioned her graduation work. She'd described a completely different project—something about contemporary American painters and museum work.
Strike three.
I traced my finger along the name on the transcript: Isabella Cohen.