Chapter 9 - Camilla’s Choice
Camilla returned to her father’s townhouse just after seven in the morning.
She expected Charles to be angry.
Instead, she found him packing.
Two suitcases lay open across his bed.
His passport sat beside a stack of cash.
“What are you doing?”
Charles did not look up.
“Packing.”
“For where?”
“You are coming with me.”
“No.”
He stopped.
“Camilla.”
“You knew Vittorio murdered people.”
Charles closed the suitcase.
“You do not understand what is happening.”
“I understand enough.”
“No.”
He grabbed her shoulders.
“You understand nothing.”
Camilla pulled away.
Her cheek still burned from hours of crying.
Her engagement ring was gone.
Her reputation would be destroyed by noon.
But beneath the humiliation, something else had started growing.
Fear.
Not of Enzo.
Of the world her father had introduced her to without ever explaining it.
“Who is Henry Caldwell?” she asked.
Charles went still.
Camilla noticed.
“There.”
“What?”
“That look.”
She stepped closer.
“You made the same face when Adeline said her father’s name.”
Charles turned away.
“Pack.”
“No.”
He lowered his voice.
“Caldwell knows Enzo found something.”
“What?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then how do you know?”
Charles did not answer.
Camilla stared at him.
“You called him.”
“No.”
“You called him after we left Enzo’s house.”
Charles closed his eyes.
Camilla laughed bitterly.
“You always said Enzo was dangerous.”
“He is.”
“Enzo covered a bleeding woman with his coat.”
Her voice cracked.
“You called someone who murders witnesses.”
Charles faced her.
“You beat that woman in front of two hundred people.”
Camilla flinched.
“Yes.”
He had never said it that plainly.
For hours, she had called it punishment.
Discipline.
A moment of anger.
Anything but the word that made it sound ugly.
Beat.
She looked down at her hands.
“Why did I do it?”
Charles stared at her.
“You were angry.”
“No.”
She shook her head.
“I was furious before she even touched the glass.”
A memory surfaced.
Dr. Caldwell leaning close.
That maid has been watching you all evening.
Girls like that forget their place when people are too kind.
Camilla swallowed.
“He told me she was trying to embarrass me.”
“Who?”
“Caldwell.”
Charles froze.
Camilla continued.
“He said she had been asking questions about Enzo.”
“What questions?”
“I don’t know.”
Charles looked terrified now.
“He wanted you to create a scene.”
She stared at him.
“Why?”
“So everyone would watch you.”
“And no one would watch him.”
Charles grabbed his phone.
“Pack now.”
A knock sounded downstairs.
Three soft knocks.
Charles went pale.
Camilla whispered, “Who is that?”
He placed one finger to his lips.
The knock came again.
Three.
Pause.
Two.
Charles closed his eyes.
“No.”
“What?”
“He found us.”
He pulled Camilla toward the rear staircase.
They barely reached the kitchen before the front door opened.
A man entered.
Seventy-three years old.
Silver hair.
Dark overcoat.
No cane.
No visible weapon.
Camilla had seen his photograph in old Marchetti family albums.
Vittorio Marchetti looked older.
But alive.
Very much alive.
“Charles.”
The senator stopped.
Vittorio smiled.
“You were leaving without saying goodbye.”
Charles stepped in front of his daughter.
“She has nothing to do with this.”
“She had everything to do with it last night.”
Vittorio looked at Camilla.
“You were supposed to frighten the maid.”
Camilla’s stomach twisted.
“You told Caldwell to tell me that?”
Vittorio’s smile disappeared.
“You were supposed to create confusion.”
“Not turn the entire ballroom into a witness list.”
Charles spoke.
“Leave her alone.”
Vittorio ignored him.
“Where is the key?”
Camilla stared.
“What key?”
Charles said, “We don’t have it.”
Vittorio looked at him.
“That was the wrong answer.”
The back door opened.
Two men entered.
Camilla backed away.
Charles shoved her toward the service hallway.
“Run.”
A gunshot exploded through the kitchen.
Camilla screamed.
Charles fell.
For one second, she stared at her father on the tile.
Then she ran.
She heard another shot.
Glass shattered beside her.
She escaped through a laundry room window, tearing her dress on the frame.
She hit the ground hard.
Barefoot and shaking, she ran through the alley.
She had no phone.
No coat.
No money.
May you like
And only one person in Chicago had enough power to protect her from Vittorio Marchetti.
The man whose engagement she had destroyed six hours earlier.
