Chapter 4 - THE WARNING NOTE AND THE PHOTOGRAPH THEY WANTED HIDDEN
The birthday celebration began at seven that evening.
I returned to the estate in my own car, wearing black slacks and a cream blouse.
My employees were finishing the last floral installations.
I was determined to work, get paid, and leave.
But by eight, someone had placed a handwritten card inside my business bag.
It was folded once.
The message was brief.
YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO KEEP HIM DISTRACTED.
I stared at it.
Then read it again.
The handwriting was neat, almost feminine.
No signature.
I immediately called Massimo’s security chief, Marco.
He arrived within minutes.
His expression hardened when he saw the card.
“Where did you find this?”
“My bag.”
“Who had access?”
“Half the staff. I left it beneath the preparation table.”
He placed the note inside a clean envelope without touching the writing.
“Did you see anyone near it?”
“No.”
“Stay here.”
“Marco.”
He stopped.
“I’m not going to be locked in a room because somebody is playing games.”
He looked uncomfortable.
“Miss Miller, nobody wants that.”
“Then stop speaking to me as though I have no decisions.”
He nodded once.
“Understood.”
Massimo found me twenty minutes later on a balcony overlooking the estate gardens.
Music drifted from the ballroom.
Below us, guests moved through pools of warm light while servers carried champagne past enormous white-rose arrangements.
Massimo was wearing a black tuxedo.
He looked as though he belonged to the night.
I handed him a photograph of the note.
His face became unreadable.
“Marco has the original.”
“I know.”
“Then tell me who is doing this.”
“We’re investigating.”
“That’s what everyone keeps saying.”
“Sophie—”
“No. Somebody sent me into your bedroom. Somebody searched my bag. Now somebody is leaving threatening messages at my workplace.”
“You’re right.”
“And I don’t understand why.”
He rested his hands on the stone balcony.
“The note suggests whoever arranged this wanted you close to me.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you think Adriana is involved?”
His silence lasted too long.
My stomach tightened.
“You do.”
“I think someone connected to her family may be.”
“Then why isn’t she being questioned?”
“Because accusing her without evidence could make things worse.”
“For whom?”
He looked at me.
I understood his hesitation.
“For your business?”
“For anyone connected to the situation.”
I took a breath.
“Massimo, I don’t want any part of your family agreements.”
“I know.”
“Then help me leave them.”
His gaze shifted toward the dark grounds.
For a moment, the controlled man disappeared, and I saw someone exhausted.
“I intend to.”
“How?”
“By finding out who arranged this and giving you the information you need to protect yourself.”
“Not by making more decisions for me?”
He looked back.
“Not by making more decisions for you.”
I wanted to believe him.
Then his phone rang.
He answered quietly.
Whatever he heard changed his face.
“Where?”
A pause.
“Don’t touch anything. Call the police.”
He ended the call.
“What happened?” I asked.
Massimo looked directly at me.
“Someone has been inside your warehouse.”
The next morning, I found the front door of Miller Floral & Events hanging crookedly from its frame.
Nothing valuable had been stolen.
The computers were still there.
The cash box remained untouched.
The expensive refrigeration unit was unharmed.
But someone had opened every filing cabinet, emptied my desk drawers, and scattered three years of client records across the floor.
My employees stood outside in stunned silence.
Jasmine was crying.
I walked through the wreckage, stepping around broken glass and crushed eucalyptus stems.
I felt something inside me harden.
This wasn’t romance.
It wasn’t family drama.
It wasn’t a misunderstanding.
Someone had decided that because I was a small business owner without armed guards or political friends, my life could be rearranged like furniture.
The police took photographs.
I gave a statement.
Massimo sent Marco to speak with the detective, but I refused to leave the warehouse.
I stayed until the door was repaired.
Then I stayed another six hours helping Jasmine reorganize the invoices.
At midnight, I discovered something unusual.
One of our old event files was missing.
The Langford charity gala.
The same event Massimo had mentioned at breakfast.
I sat cross-legged on the office floor, surrounded by folders.
“Jasmine?”
She looked up.
“Yeah?”
“Did you move the Langford file?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“That was the fundraiser where you fought with the venue manager over the loading dock.”
I nodded.
She remembered because he’d charged us an unexpected unloading fee.
I remembered because the event had nearly ruined a weekend.
The file included vendor schedules, staff passes, floral delivery records, and photographs of the room before guests arrived.
Why would anyone want it?
I checked our digital archive.
The file was still there.
I opened the event photographs.
In the background of one picture, near a service entrance, stood a man in a gray suit speaking to Elena.
The housekeeper.
I enlarged the image.
Another man stood beside her.
Silver hair.
Dark blue tie.
A familiar face.
I’d seen him at the Romano estate, but couldn’t immediately remember where.
Then I recognized him.
Carlo Vitali.
Adriana’s uncle.
I’d seen his photograph in a newspaper article about shipping contracts.
The image was five months old.
I stared at it.
Five months.
Long before I walked into Massimo’s bedroom.
Long before I signed the Romano birthday contract.
I called Marco.
He answered immediately.
“Miss Miller?”
“I found something.”
Within thirty minutes, Massimo arrived himself.
He came without the usual entourage, carrying his coat over one arm.
I showed him the photograph.
He stared at the screen.
For the first time since I’d met him, I saw his composure crack.
“Where did you get this?”
“An event archive.”
“When was it taken?”
“March seventeenth.”
He leaned closer.
“That’s Carlo.”
“Yes.”
“And Elena.”
“Yes.”
He straightened slowly.
“She was working for another household then.”
I looked at him.
“Which one?”
“The Vitalis.”
The warehouse suddenly felt very quiet.
Massimo took out his phone.
Then stopped.
He looked toward me.
“Before I make any calls, I need you to understand something.”
“What?”
“This may have started before you ever entered my house.”
I folded my arms.
“I already understand that.”
“No.”
His voice lowered.
“I don’t think you do.”
He pointed toward the photograph.
“If Carlo arranged for Elena to work at my estate, and if your company was chosen deliberately, someone may have been watching your life for months.”
I stared at the screen.
The idea was so ugly that my mind resisted it.
My morning coffee.
My grocery trips.
Jasmine laughing outside the warehouse.
My mother calling during lunch.
Our ordinary lives.
All potentially watched by people who considered us useful.
I whispered, “Why me?”
May you like
Massimo didn’t answer.
And that frightened me more than any answer could have.
