Page 111 of Where the Wind Whispers

She was not exempt from punishment.

As the message ended, and the recorder came on asking if he wanted to delete the recording, Alberto chose to save it.

He could listen to it again another day.

Just as he did for all the others.

Reaching over, he tipped a downturned picture frame up to set it back in its proper spot. The photograph of Violet, one of her many high school graduation pictures, stared back at him. In the corner of the frame, stuck inside the wood to keep it in place, was another photo. A wallet-sized photo of Violet as a baby.

He’d always kept her so close.

Pictures in his many offices.

Several in his wallet.

He’d thought, over the many years, that he needed to make up for what his wife could not give their child. That he, as her father, owed Violet more love, more attention, and more care. Because if not him, then who would give it to her?

Alberto never thought it would all lead to … this.

Still, he knew this was for the best.

Violet was learning. She was learning that life was not her chessboard—too many other Kings were on the board that had to decide where to move before the Queen could come out, too. She was learning that the things she held dear could be ruined, taken from her without so much as an apology, and she would be left watching it all, hurting and unable to do anything.

Pain was a good teacher.

He’d taught her so many things as she grew, many important lessons, and then stepped back as much as he could with the hope that it was enough.

Alberto quickly realized it wasn’t. She needed more, she had more to learn.

His phone beeped, signaling a text message. Checking the device, he found a message from his lawyer, letting him know the coroner’s office would be releasing his wife’s body later that day.

Alberto didn’t bother to respond.

He had nothing to say.

When all of this was over, he would finally grieve for Andrea, though his love for his wife was not what it had been when he first met her all those years ago. Still, he would grieve for what they once had together before life, the business, and family got in the way.

Another thirty minutes had passed before the footsteps started to echo outside his office again. Three sets this time, not just the one. Alberto stood from his desk before the knock even came, and he allowed them entrance.

The men chatted, greeting their boss with the learned respect that had been, at times, literally beaten into them.

Alberto’s attention was on something else.

Little Anastasya slept in the arms of the tallest man, swaddled tightly in a fluffy pink blanket that shimmered under the office lights. She seemed entirely unaware of her surroundings, never mind the fact she had been ripped from her mother’s arms in the most violent fashion.

Silently, Alberto waved at the baby, and she was handed over without protest.

“Cried most of the day and night,” his man said. “She fell asleep on the elevator up here.”

Alberto wasn’t listening.

He was too busy mapping the face of the baby his photographer hadn’t been able to get a clear picture of, recognizing the similarities between Anastasya and her mother.

That dark hair, curling at the ends, was her father.

But the features were a perfect mirror of his Violet.

To be safe, in case the Russian had somehow managed to find where he was, Alberto had kept Anastasya away from his penthouse in Manhattan for a good day and night, wanting this part of his plan to go off without a problem. The Russian could have found him, but he simply wouldn’t have found the child with Alberto. Now, it was safer to bring her to him. There were very few men involved in his plan, and that way, there was less of a chance that things may go wrong.