Chapter 20 - THE UNOPENED LETTER|
It was 1:43 a.m.—the exact time I had walked into the dark penthouse a year ago.
The children were sound asleep in their rooms, and the penthouse was quiet and peaceful.
I sat in my home office, going through an old leather trunk that had belonged to my late wife Isabella, sorting through old photographs and memories to place in a new scrapbook for Rosie.
At the very bottom of the trunk, beneath a silk scarf, my fingers brushed against a cold metal object.
It was a small, heavy iron key, taped to the back of a sealed black envelope.
I peeled the tape off and turned the envelope over. Written on the front in Isabella’s elegant handwriting were four words:
TO ROMAN — USE ONLY IF THEY COME.
My breath hitched in my throat. My hands trembled slightly as I slid my thumb under the wax seal and opened the letter inside.
The letter was dated two weeks before Isabella’s death.
My dearest Roman,
If you are reading this, it means I am gone, and you have survived the storm. But there is something you must know about my illness. I didn't die of cancer, Roman. I was poisoned. Slowly. By someone close to our family.
I hid the medical reports and the blood samples inside a private deposit box at the Federal Reserve Bank in Zurich. The key attached to this letter opens Box 409.
Camille and Arthur were just soldiers. The person who ordered my death is the person who truly controls the shipping routes in Chicago—someone you trust with your life.
Look at the initials on the bottom of this page. Be careful, my love. He is still watching your children.
I turned the page over.
Scrawled at the very bottom in dark ink were two initials:
N.W.
My blood went dead cold.
The air in my office suddenly felt freezing.
I slowly turned my head toward the dark doorway of my office.
May you like
Standing in the shadows of the hallway, wearing a quiet smile, holding a steaming glass of scotch on a tray, stood Naomi Wells.
"Can't sleep, Roman?" Naomi whispered softly into the dark.
