PART 2 Nothing about my job was supposed to feel personal, especially not the way Alexander
PART 2
Alexander did not hurry.
That was what made every step more unsettling.
Men like Joseph Russo announced themselves with charm, laughter, and the easy confidence of someone accustomed to being welcomed wherever he went. Alexander needed none of that. The crowd seemed to register his approach before he reached us. Conversations softened. Shoulders shifted. Even the musicians appeared to lower their volume, though I knew that had to be my imagination.
Joseph’s hand remained at my waist.
“Russo,” Alexander said.
His tone was calm. Almost polite.
Joseph turned us neatly at the end of the measure. “Boss.”
“You’re needed in the library.”
Joseph’s eyebrows lifted. “Am I?”
“Yes.”
The two men looked at each other for one silent beat.
Something passed between them that I could not interpret. It was not quite a threat. It was too familiar for that. Alexander and Joseph had known each other for years, long enough to understand entire conversations through a change in posture or the smallest shift in tone.
Joseph glanced down at me, amusement brightening his eyes.
“Duty calls.”
He released my hand, but before stepping away, he added quietly, “For what it’s worth, I was only trying to rescue you from Mrs. Valenti.”
I looked toward the woman in diamonds. She had already moved on to another group, though her attention remained fixed on us over the rim of her champagne glass.
“Thank you,” I murmured.
Joseph gave Alexander a brief nod and disappeared into the crowd.
I expected Alexander to follow him.
Instead, he held out his hand.
For several seconds, I simply stared at it.
The orchestra moved into a slower song. Around us, couples continued dancing, but the space Joseph had left felt strangely exposed.
“Mr. Pellegrini—”
“You accepted Russo’s invitation.”
“That was different.”
“How?”
“He didn’t look as though he was issuing an order.”
Alexander’s expression changed so slightly that anyone else might have missed it. The corner of his mouth almost moved.
“This is not an order, Elena.”
It was the first time he had used my first name that evening.
It should not have mattered. I had heard him say it before, usually when he needed an urgent file or wanted me to cancel half his afternoon. But beneath the chandeliers, with a hundred powerful people pretending not to watch us, it sounded different.
I placed my hand in his.
His fingers closed around mine, warm and steady.
Alexander drew me into the dance with none of Joseph’s playful ease. He was precise even here, guiding me through the crowded floor with quiet confidence. His other hand settled at my waist, exactly where Joseph’s had been.
The difference was impossible to ignore.
“You embarrassed him,” I said.
“Joseph is nearly impossible to embarrass.”
“You interrupted us in front of the entire room.”
“He’ll survive.”
I looked up at him. “Was he actually needed in the library?”
“Yes.”
“For what?”
“To stay in the library.”
A startled laugh escaped me before I could stop it.
Alexander looked down at me, and for one unguarded second, his face softened.
Then the moment vanished.
“You’re enjoying this,” I said.
“No.”
“You are.”
“I’m correcting a distraction.”
“Whose distraction?”
His hand tightened almost imperceptibly at my waist.
“You should be more careful with Joseph.”
I felt the warning beneath the words, though it lacked the coldness he usually used when discussing risks.
“Joseph has been nothing but kind to me.”
“Joseph is kind to everyone he finds interesting.”
“And you don’t trust him?”
“I trust him with my life.”
The answer came immediately.
“Then what exactly are you warning me about?”
Alexander guided me through a turn. The burgundy skirt moved around my legs, catching the light like dark wine.
“His attention is rarely accidental.”
“Neither is yours.”
The words escaped before I could reconsider them.
Alexander went still for half a second, though his feet never lost the rhythm.
I wished I could pull the sentence back.
Instead, I lifted my chin. “You’ve been watching me all evening.”
“You’re my assistant. You’re here because of me.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
His gaze held mine.
“No,” he said quietly. “It doesn’t.”
The honesty unsettled me more than a denial would have.
The song ended before I could decide what to say next.
Applause rose around us. Alexander released my waist but kept my hand for one breath longer than necessary.
Then a man approached from behind him.
“Alexander.”
He was in his late fifties, broad-shouldered and silver-haired, with the carefully measured smile of a man who considered every room a negotiation. I recognized him from the guest files.
Vincent Santoro.
Head of the Santoro family.
His eldest son stood beside him, younger than I expected and visibly uncomfortable in his tuxedo. Luca Santoro had spent the last six months out of public view following what the reports called “the Queens incident.” No one had explained what that meant, and I had learned better than to ask.
Vincent’s attention moved to me.
“And this must be the famous Miss Moretti.”
I stiffened.
Famous was not a word anyone should have used about me in this room.
Alexander’s expression remained unreadable. “Elena manages my office.”
“So I’ve heard.” Vincent extended his hand. “You have an impressive reputation.”
I accepted it cautiously. “I’m not sure from whom.”
“Alexander’s people speak highly of you.”
“My people don’t discuss my office,” Alexander said.
Vincent smiled. “Everyone discusses everything. The only question is whether they do it accurately.”
Luca gave me an apologetic glance, as if his father’s habit of speaking in riddles embarrassed him.
Alexander’s hand moved to the small of my back. It was a restrained gesture, almost formal, but Vincent noticed.
Vincent seemed to notice everything.
“We should talk,” he told Alexander. “Privately.”
“We have a meeting scheduled after dinner.”
“This shouldn’t wait.”
The music continued, but the air between them sharpened.
Alexander looked at me. “Stay in the ballroom.”
It was an ordinary instruction. Sensible, even.
Yet something in Vincent’s face made unease stir in my stomach.
“Of course,” I said.
Alexander left with the Santoros, disappearing through the same doors Joseph had used.
The moment he was gone, I became aware of how many people were watching me.
I stepped away from the dance floor and headed for the terrace.
Cold evening air met me as I passed through the glass doors. Beyond the stone balustrade, the estate grounds stretched into darkness, lit by rows of discreet golden lamps. Bare branches moved in the wind. Farther down the lawn, security guards stood in quiet pairs, their silhouettes blending with the trees.
I wrapped my arms around myself.
“You look like you’re planning an escape.”
I turned.
Luca Santoro stood near the door, holding two glasses of sparkling water.
“I thought you went with your father.”
“He wanted Alexander alone.” He offered me one of the glasses. “This is safe. I watched them pour it.”
“That’s a reassuring thing to say at a family celebration.”
“I’m not very good at these events.”
“You hid it well.”
“No, I didn’t.”
His smile was brief and unexpectedly shy. He could not have been more than thirty, yet exhaustion aged his face around the eyes.
I accepted the water. “Thank you.”
For a while, we stood in silence.
Inside, the orchestra began another song. Laughter spilled through the open doors, polished and effortless.
“My father called you famous,” I said.
Luca looked down at his glass. “My father likes to create discomfort. It gives him an advantage.”
“Why would he need an advantage over me?”
“He doesn’t.”
“That isn’t very convincing.”
He let out a slow breath. “You should ask Alexander why you were invited tonight.”
“I’m here because I organized half of it.”
“Assistants organize things all the time. They don’t usually wear gowns selected by the head of the family and dance with him in front of every important guest in New York.”
Heat rose to my face.
“You’re making assumptions.”
“I grew up in rooms like this. Assumptions are how people stay alive in them.”
There was no arrogance in his voice. Only fatigue.
I studied him more carefully. “What happened in Queens?”
His expression closed immediately.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “That was too direct.”
“No. It’s just complicated.”
“Everything here seems complicated.”
“That’s because everyone insists on pretending it isn’t.”
Before I could respond, the terrace door opened.
Joseph stepped outside, buttoning his jacket.
“There you are,” he said to me.
Luca straightened.
Joseph’s friendly manner remained unchanged, but something watchful entered his eyes when he saw us together.
“Your father is looking for you,” he told Luca.
“I doubt that.”
“Then perhaps I’m looking for you on his behalf.”
Luca set his untouched glass on the balustrade. “It was nice meeting you, Miss Moretti.”
“You too.”
He passed Joseph without another word.
Joseph waited until the door closed behind him.
“You have a talent for attracting complicated men.”
“I was standing still. He came outside.”
“That defense didn’t help you with Alexander either.”
I gave him a look. “Were you needed in the library?”
“Desperately. I spent ten valuable minutes admiring the books.”
Despite myself, I smiled.
Joseph leaned against the stone railing. “You should stay away from Luca.”
“Alexander told me to stay away from you.”
“He did?”
“He said your attention is rarely accidental.”
Joseph looked delighted. “That might be the nicest thing he’s ever said about me.”
“I’m serious.”
“So is he.”
The amusement faded from Joseph’s face.
“Luca isn’t dangerous,” he said. “Not in the way you’re thinking. But he’s caught between his father and choices he wishes he’d made differently.”
“What choices?”
“Those belong to him.”
“And what happened in Queens?”
Joseph studied me.
For once, he did not answer with a joke.
“Someone disappeared,” he said.
The cold seemed to deepen around us.
“Who?”
“A man who worked for the Santoros. He was supposed to deliver documents to Alexander. He never arrived.”
“What kind of documents?”
“That is the question everyone has been asking for six months.”
I thought of the tension in Vincent’s face when he pulled Alexander aside.
“Do they think Luca was involved?”
“Some do.”
“Do you?”
Joseph’s gaze moved toward the dark lawn.
“I think people make poor decisions for very understandable reasons.”
It sounded less like an answer than a confession.
Before I could press him, a waiter appeared at the terrace door.
“Miss Moretti?”
“Yes?”
“Mr. Pellegrini asked for you in the east hall.”
Joseph straightened. “Did he?”
The waiter nodded. He was young, perhaps twenty-two, with nervous hands and a jacket that sat too loosely on his shoulders.
I did not recognize him.
That should not have mattered. There were dozens of staff members moving through the estate.
But I had reviewed every temporary employee file.
All waiters were supposed to be from Pellegrini-owned venues. Their photographs had been attached to the security packet.
I had never seen this man.
“What is your name?” I asked.
He blinked. “Daniel.”
“Daniel what?”
His hesitation lasted less than a second.
“Carter.”
Joseph stepped away from the railing.
The waiter turned and ran.
He did not get far.
Two security men intercepted him before he reached the end of the corridor. There was no dramatic struggle, only a brief collision of black jackets and polished shoes. A silver tray hit the marble floor with a sharp crash, scattering empty glasses.
Music continued in the ballroom.
Most guests turned toward the sound, but the musicians did not stop. Within moments, several men closed around the waiter and moved him away through a side passage.
Joseph’s expression had changed completely.
“Stay here.”
“I’m not staying on the terrace by myself.”
“Then go inside and find Amanda.”
“Amanda isn’t here.”
“Right. College roommate.” He rubbed a hand over his jaw. “Find someone harmless.”
“Do such people attend Pellegrini gatherings?”
He did not smile.
Alexander appeared at the far end of the corridor.
One look at his face, and every question I had vanished.
He crossed the distance quickly.
“What happened?”
Joseph answered. “Uncleared waiter. Tried to lure Elena to the east hall.”
Alexander looked at me.
Not past me. Not around me.
At me.
“Did he touch you?”
“No.”
“Did you follow him?”
“No.”
“How did you know?”
“I reviewed the files.”
His shoulders eased by a fraction.
Joseph glanced toward the side passage. “Security is checking his identification.”
Alexander’s eyes remained on mine. “You’re coming with me.”
“Where?”
“Somewhere private.”
He guided me through the ballroom, his hand at my back. Guests moved aside without being asked. I caught fragments of whispers, but no one approached us.
We passed through a paneled corridor and entered a sitting room tucked behind the library. Alexander locked the door.
The room was smaller than his Manhattan office, with shelves of old books, green-shaded lamps, and a fire burning low behind a brass screen.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
Alexander crossed to a cabinet and poured a glass of water.
He handed it to me.
“I don’t need water.”
“You’re shaking.”
I looked down.
He was right.
I set the glass on a table before I could spill it. “Who was he?”
“We don’t know yet.”
“He asked for me by name.”
“I’m aware.”
“And he said you sent him.”
Alexander’s jaw tightened.
“What’s in the east hall?” I asked.
“A secondary office. Two guest rooms. A staircase leading to the service entrance.”
“So he wanted me near an exit.”
“Possibly.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
The answer came too quickly.
“You do know something.”
“I know enough to be cautious.”
“That isn’t the same as being honest.”
He turned away, one hand braced on the mantel.
In the firelight, the composure he wore so naturally looked thinner. For the first time since I had met him, Alexander Pellegrini seemed uncertain.
Not afraid.
But divided.
“Did Vincent Santoro say something about me?” I asked.
His silence confirmed it.
“What did he say?”
Alexander looked back at me. “He asked whether you knew.”
“Knew what?”
“Your full name is Elena Sofia Moretti.”
I stared at him. “You know my full name. It’s in my employment records.”
“Your father was Matteo Moretti.”
The room seemed to tilt.
I had not heard anyone in Alexander’s world say my father’s name before.
“Yes.”
“He worked as an attorney.”
“He was a corporate lawyer.”
“For several companies connected to my family.”
I could hear the fire crackling behind him.
“My father worked for a large firm,” I said. “He represented hundreds of clients.”
“He represented my father.”
The words landed quietly.
That made them worse.
I thought of my father’s home office, the shelves filled with legal books, the evenings he came home late and locked his briefcase in the hall closet. I remembered him telling me that his cases were boring whenever I asked what he did.
Contracts, he always said.
Paperwork.
Nothing you’d want to hear about.
“You knew him?”
“I met him twice when I was young.”
“And you never told me?”
“I wasn’t certain how much you knew.”
“You could have asked.”
“Yes.”
The simple admission stripped away some of my anger, leaving something more painful beneath it.
“Why didn’t you?”
Alexander looked toward the window, though the curtains were closed.
“Because your father disappeared after my father died.”
My breath caught.
“My father didn’t disappear. He died in a car accident.”
“That is what the police concluded.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying the circumstances were never clear.”
I took a step back.
My father’s accident had happened nine years earlier on a rain-slick road north of the city. His car had gone through a barrier and rolled down an embankment. The police said he had probably fallen asleep.
There had been a funeral.
A closed casket.
My mother had stopped speaking about him afterward.
“You think someone killed him?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you hire me because of him?”
Alexander said nothing.
The answer was there anyway.
I felt something inside me go cold.
“Eight months,” I whispered. “You let me work outside your office for eight months. You trusted me with your schedule, your calls, your private meetings. Was any of that real?”
“All of it.”
“Except the reason I was there.”
“You were qualified.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
His eyes met mine.
“No,” he said. “It isn’t.”
A knock sounded at the door.
Alexander did not move.
“Who is it?”
“Joseph.”
Alexander unlocked the door but opened it only wide enough for Joseph to enter.
Joseph’s gaze moved between us. Whatever he saw in my face made him pause.
“You told her,” he said.
I looked at him. “You knew too?”
“Not at first.”
“How many people in this house know who my father was?”
“Fewer than you think,” Alexander said.
“That is not comforting.”
Joseph reached into his jacket and removed a folded paper sealed in a clear evidence sleeve.
“Our waiter was carrying this.”
He handed it to Alexander.
I moved closer.
The paper was old, creased several times, with faded blue lines and handwriting that looked disturbingly familiar.
My father had written grocery lists in block letters. He had labeled my school folders the same way. Straight capitals, slightly slanted to the right.
Across the top of the page were four words.
PELLEGRINI LEDGER — PRIVATE DISTRIBUTION.
Beneath that was a list of dates, initials, and dollar amounts.
At the bottom, my father had written a note.
A.M. HAS THE ORIGINAL.
My skin prickled.
“What does A.M. mean?” I asked.
Alexander’s face had gone still.
“My father was Antonio Pellegrini.”
“Then your father had the original?”
“No.”
“But those are his initials.”
“Yes.”
Joseph looked at Alexander. “There’s another possibility.”
Alexander folded the paper inside its sleeve.
I could feel both men choosing their next words carefully.
“Tell me,” I said.
Neither of them spoke.
“Stop deciding what I can handle.”
Alexander’s expression tightened.
“Your mother’s first name is Adriana,” he said.
The room went silent.
For a moment, I could not understand what he meant.
Then I looked again at the letters through the plastic sleeve.
A.M.
Adriana Moretti.
“My mother?” I whispered.
Alexander nodded once.
“That makes no sense. My mother taught piano lessons. She hated anything related to my father’s work. She wouldn’t even go into his office.”
“Are you certain?” Joseph asked gently.
I turned on him. “Yes, I’m certain.”
But a memory had already surfaced.
My mother standing at the end of the hallway on the night before my father died, speaking in a low voice behind the closed office door.
I had been sixteen. I remembered waking for water and hearing them argue.
Not loudly.
My parents never shouted.
But my mother had said something I had forgotten until that moment.
You promised Antonio would never see it.
At the time, I had assumed Antonio was a client.
I looked at Alexander. “Your father’s name was Antonio.”
“Yes.”
The fire shifted, sending sparks behind the screen.
My pulse beat painfully in my throat.
“Why would my mother have a Pellegrini ledger?”
“That is what Vincent Santoro wants to know,” Alexander said.
“And you?”
“I want to know why someone believed bringing you to the east hall would help them find it.”
I moved toward the chair but did not sit.
The gown Alexander had sent suddenly felt too tight, the room too warm, the entire evening unreal.
“My mother lives in Connecticut,” I said. “She hasn’t been to New York in years.”
“When did you last speak to her?”
“Sunday.”
“What did you discuss?”
“Normal things. Her neighbor’s dog. A recital at the community center. She asked whether I was sleeping enough.”
Joseph’s gaze sharpened. “Did she ask about work?”
“She always asks about work.”
“About Alexander specifically?”
I tried to remember.
She had asked whether my employer was treating me well.
Whether I had met his family.
Whether I had ever been invited to the Long Island estate.
At the time, I had thought she was making conversation.
A chill moved across my shoulders.
“She knew about this place,” I said.
Alexander went to the desk and picked up the telephone.
“Who are you calling?”
“Security.”
“You are not sending men to my mother’s house.”
“I’m making sure she’s safe.”
“You don’t know that she’s in danger.”
“Neither do you.”
“I’ll call her.”
He held my gaze for a moment, then set down the receiver.
I took out my phone.
My mother answered on the fifth ring.
“Elena?”
Her voice was soft and familiar. Hearing it almost broke me.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Is everything all right? It’s late.”
I looked at Alexander and Joseph. Both men remained silent.
“Yes. I just wanted to hear your voice.”
“That doesn’t sound like you.”
Despite everything, a small laugh caught in my throat. “I know.”
“Are you still at the party?”
My fingers tightened around the phone.
“How did you know it was tonight?”
A pause.
“You mentioned it.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“I’m sure you did.”
I remembered our Sunday call clearly. I had told her work was busy. I had not mentioned the gathering because I had not wanted to explain the dress.
“Mom, do you know who Alexander Pellegrini is?”
The silence on the other end changed.
It was no longer ordinary hesitation.
It was recognition.
“Of course,” she said carefully. “He’s your employer.”
“Did Dad work for his family?”
Another pause.
“Elena, this isn’t a conversation to have over the phone.”
My knees weakened.
“So he did.”
“Where are you right now?”
“At the Pellegrini estate.”
She inhaled sharply.
“Leave.”
The word was barely louder than a whisper.
“Mom—”
“Leave the house. Don’t tell anyone where you’re going.”
My eyes moved to Alexander.
He had heard her. The room was too quiet not to.
“Why?”
“You shouldn’t be there.”
“Someone tried to lead me away from the party tonight. He had a page from Dad’s files.”
My mother made a sound I had never heard from her before.
Not surprise.
Fear.
“Elena, listen to me. Go somewhere public. A hotel. A train station. Anywhere with people.”
“Why would Dad write that you had the original ledger?”
The line went silent.
I checked the screen.
The call was still connected.
“Mom?”
When she spoke again, her voice had changed. It sounded older, stripped of its usual calm.
“Your father was trying to protect you.”
“From whom?”
“From the truth.”
My heart pounded.
“What truth?”
There was a faint sound in the background. A door closing, perhaps. Or a floorboard shifting.
My mother lowered her voice.
“The man you think was your father was not the reason the Pellegrinis watched over you.”
I stopped breathing.
Alexander’s face changed.
“What does that mean?”
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I should have told you years ago.”
A second voice sounded faintly through the call.
A man’s voice.
Too distant for me to make out the words.
My mother gasped.
Then the call ended.
“Mom?”
I pressed the phone to my ear.
Nothing.
I called back.
It rang once before going directly to voicemail.
Alexander was already reaching for the telephone.
“Send a team to Adriana Moretti’s house,” he said the moment someone answered. “Discreetly. Call local police and request a welfare check. No sirens unless necessary.”
I stared at him.
“The man I think was my father?” I whispered.
Joseph stood by the door, his face unusually pale.
Alexander lowered the receiver.
“You know what she meant,” I said.
“No.”
“You reacted.”
“Because I’ve heard those words before.”
My heart seemed to stop.
“When?”
Alexander crossed to the bookshelf.
He reached behind a row of leather-bound volumes and pressed something hidden in the paneling. A narrow compartment opened with a quiet click.
Inside was a single envelope.
It was yellowed with age.
My name was written across the front in my father’s handwriting.
Elena Sofia Moretti.
Alexander removed it carefully.
“My father left this for me nine years ago,” he said. “The night before your father’s accident.”
I could not look away from the envelope.
“Why didn’t you give it to me?”
“Because I was instructed not to open it or deliver it unless two things happened.”
“What things?”
“You came to work for me.”
A tremor moved through my hands.
“And the second?”
Alexander’s eyes held mine.
“Your mother told you that Matteo Moretti was not the reason my family protected you.”
Outside the sitting room, the orchestra continued to play.
Laughter rose from the ballroom as though nothing had changed.
As though my entire life had not split open between one breath and the next.
Alexander held the envelope out to me.
I reached for it.
Before my fingers touched the paper, Joseph’s phone rang.
He answered immediately.
“Russo.”
His expression tightened as he listened.
Alexander did not move.
“What is it?” I asked.
Joseph lowered the phone slowly.
“The security team reached your mother’s house.”
I could barely force out the words. “Is she there?”
“No.”
“Then where is she?”
“They don’t know.”
He looked at Alexander, then at the envelope between us.
“The front door was unlocked. The house was empty.”
My chest constricted.
Joseph continued, his voice quieter now.
“But someone left something on the kitchen table.”
“What?”
“A photograph.”
The room seemed to recede around me.
“Of who?”
Joseph’s answer came carefully.
“Of you, Elena.”
I stared at him.
He shook his head.
“Not a recent photograph. You were a baby.”
The envelope trembled in Alexander’s hand.
Joseph swallowed.
“There were two men standing beside your mother in the picture. One was Matteo Moretti.”
I already knew there was more.
“And the other?”
Joseph looked directly at Alexander.
“Antonio Pellegrini.”
END OF PART 2 – LIKE, SHARE AND COMMENT “THE ENTIRE STORY” IF YOU WANT TO READ THE FULL STORY
