Chapter 5

Victor Moretti sits at the far end of the hall. Bianca stands beside his chair, her eyes red.

Of course she got here first.

Luca leads me straight up to the man who trained him.

“Victor. This is my wife.”

Victor sets down his glass. “Your wife?”

“Yes.”

I’d love to correct him. Preferably from another country.

“She’s a con artist,” Bianca cuts in. “I told you—”

“Enough.”

One word, and she shuts her mouth.

Victor beckons to me. “Come here.”

Luca nudges me forward. “Go on.”

I would, if he’d let go of my hand.

He finally releases it, and I take the few steps toward Victor, trying not to trip. I’ve lied my way out of plenty of trouble. None of it involved this many people who could dispose of a body.

“You’re married to Luca?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Three years ago.”

“Where?”

“An abandoned chapel in Georgia.”

“What was it called?”

I’ve apparently picked the one abandoned building in America everyone expects me to know by name.

“St. Mary’s,” I blurt.

Bianca steps forward. “Ask her where in Georgia. She can’t even—”

“I said enough.”

She bites back the rest.

Victor turns to Luca. “Quite a place you chose.”

“She wanted something simple. I didn’t mind.”

I’m going to need him to write these details down. He’s getting better at my story than I am.

Victor rises and comes toward me.

I brace myself as he reaches out, but he only rests a hand on my shoulder. He studies my face, then looks past me at Luca.

“Ah. I see.”

See what? How many years am I getting? Do I get years, or do we skip straight to the funeral?

“Since you’re already married, we’ll arrange a proper ceremony.”

Bianca grabs the back of his chair. “Victor!”

“Do you have a problem with that?”

“No.”

I certainly do. Unfortunately, nobody asks me.

Luca takes my hand again. “Thank you.”

My knees nearly give out on the way to the door. He scoops me up before I fall and carries me out.

I bury my face against his shirt.

At least nobody can see how close I am to crying.

The moment he sets me down in his rooms and shuts the door, I drop to my knees.

“I’m sorry!”

Luca stops with his hand still on the doorknob. “For what?”

“For lying. For pretending to be your wife. For—”

“Pretending?”

I clutch the hem of his shirt.

“Please. I was scared. I’m not really—”

“My wife. I know.”

I let go.

“You’re a con artist, Ruby. You’ve been using my name for three years, from Georgia all the way to Pennsylvania.”

He knows the route.

“I can explain.”

“Which part? Why you told people you were my wife, or why you kept running around conning them?”

I can’t get a word out. Last night, I told this man I loved him while trying to work out how to climb out of his window.

He bends toward me, smiling.

“Did you really think I had amnesia?”