Page 327 of Rosetti Family New York
"Could we?" I turn to face him, letting him see the years of guilt I carry. "Your family was already in a war with half of New York. Adding another target, another weakness..." I shake my head. "Chase would have killed her just to prove he could."
"So instead you destroyed yourself to save her." His voice is croaky, like his throat is dry. "You gave up everything to become his asset."
"I became his weapon," I confess, the words feeling bitter. "I gave him information about your operations, your weaknesses, your family. Helped him plan attacks that hurt people close to you, even though I hated every moment of it."
Emilio suddenly moves to his custom computer setup with determination. "Show me," he demands, typing quickly with practiced skill. "Everything he has on her. Every threat, every piece of leverage he's used against you."
My hands tremble as I pull out my phone, scrolling through months of messages that have haunted me. Each text is a reminder of the danger hanging over Sarah, each photo proof that Chase could reach her whenever he wanted.
"He sends updates," I say, my voice gaining strength as I finally share the burden I've been carrying alone. "Photos of her at work, descriptions of her routine, reminders that her safety relies on my cooperation."
I read the messages aloud, years of mental torment turned into digital cruelty:Sarah looked lovely at lunch today. Wouldhate for anything to happen to that pretty face. Your sister's working late again. So many dangers in the city at night. Hope Sarah's feeling better. Would be awful if her cold got worse.
"Look," I say, pulling up my latest proof that is okay. "Just yesterday, she sent me this photo from her morning run. See? She's wearing the fitness tracker I gave her for Christmas. That's Central Park behind her."
I show him the image with desperate hope, holding onto proof that Chase's threats are real because the alternative is unthinkable.
Emilio examines the photo closely. His fingers fly over the keyboard, and multiple screens light up around us, data flowing in digital streams as he accesses secret systems.
"This photo," he says slowly, "when exactly did you get it?"
"Yesterday morning. Around eight," I reply, my voice firm but starting to falter. "She always runs early, before work."
"Mara," he says, his tone now very careful. "Look at the metadata."
He brings up technical details that I can't grasp, timestamp information that makes my stomach churn. The numbers blur before my eyes, but I see enough to know they don't match what I thought was true.
"That's... that's not right," I say, my voice shaky. "There must be a mistake. Chase wouldn't... he couldn't..."
But even as I speak, I feel a wave of nausea. My mouth goes dry, and the room seems to tilt slightly.
"Sarah Voss," Emilio reads quietly from a screen filled with personal data. "Twenty-five years old, sociology major from Columbia, worked at Hope Shelter downtown until—"
He stops and goes completely still. The color drains from his face as he stares at whatever he's found.
"No." The word slips out before I can stop it. "No, don't say it. Whatever you're about to say, don't."
"Mara," he says, with a gentleness I've never heard before, the kind of voice used to deliver terrible news. "When did you last speak to her directly? Not texts from Chase, not his updates about her. When did you last hear her voice?"
The question feels like ice water in my veins. I start to answer, then stop. I count back through months of carefully managed communication. "She's been busy," I say weakly. "Chase said direct contact was too dangerous."
"How long, Mara?"
"Eight months," I whisper. "Maybe more."
The admission hangs in the air like a death knell. My legs suddenly feel weak, and I have to hold onto the edge of his desk to keep from swaying.
"Show me more recent proof," Emilio says softly. "Everything you've got that shows she's alive."
With trembling hands, I scroll through my phone, showing text conversations, photos, the birthday message I got just last week. Each piece of evidence feels less convincing as I present it, my confidence crumbling.
Emilio looks at each item carefully, his expression growing darker.
"This text thread," he says, "the language patterns are off. Sarah studied sociology, but these messages use business terms she wouldn't know."
"She's been learning," I say, desperate. "Chase said she was taking courses—"
"This photo from her birthday dinner." He zooms in on the details. "The restaurant in the background. That place closed six months ago."
