Chapter 3 - THE MAFIA BOSS'S MOTHER TRIED TO FIRE THE BLONDE MAID HE LOVED—BUT A HIDDEN STORAGE KEY AND A TERRIFYING PHOTO REVEALED WHO HAD BEEN WATCHING HER FAMILY FOR YEARS
Clara called Noah before anyone else could move.
He answered on the first ring.
“I'm okay,” he whispered. “I'm in the library now.”
“Where is the man?”
“Outside. He said you asked him to bring me something from Mom.”
“Don't go near him. Stay with the librarian and tell campus security.”
“I already did.”
Clara closed her eyes in relief.
“Good. You're doing exactly the right thing.”
Noah's voice shook.
“He has a photograph of us at the lake. I haven't seen that picture since Mom died.”
Clara remembered the photograph. Eleanor had taken it on a summer afternoon when Noah was nine and Clara was fifteen. They had eaten sandwiches on a blanket and argued about who could skip a stone the farthest.
It was not a picture a stranger should possess.
Detective Ruiz spoke quietly to the campus security officer on a second line. Within minutes, the university had secured the library and located the man near the parking garage. He left before officers could question him, but cameras captured his face and license plate.
Ruiz asked Noah to remain with campus security until a trusted relative arrived.
Clara called their aunt.
“I'll get him,” she promised.
Dominic stood nearby, his expression controlled.
“I can send people.”
Ruiz shook her head.
“Let the campus police handle this. Private security showing up in a convoy could make the situation worse.”
Dominic nodded.
Clara noticed the effort it took him to accept the answer. He was a man accustomed to solving problems by giving orders. Tonight he was learning to wait.
When Noah was safe with their aunt, Clara sat down.
“I think someone has been watching us for years,” she said.
Ruiz looked at the photograph from the recipe box.
“It's possible. We need to establish what the records show before we draw conclusions.”
Clara appreciated that the detective did not offer easy reassurance.
Dominic looked at the key marked LAKEGLASS — UNIT 19.
“I know that name,” he said. “Lakeglass Holdings was one of Gabriel's investment companies. He told me it had been dissolved.”
Ruiz took the key in an evidence envelope.
“Then we'll verify that.”
By evening, investigators had confirmed that the storage facility existed on the industrial edge of the city. The unit had been rented under an alias, but the payment trail led to a bank account associated with Lakeglass Holdings.
A warrant was requested.
Clara went back to her apartment rather than the mansion. She had packed a bag after Thanksgiving and decided she needed space to think. Dominic had arranged for her to receive the wages owed to her through an independent payroll office, along with paid medical leave.
She had not yet decided whether to return to work.
Her phone rang after ten.
Beatrice Moretti.
Clara watched the name glow on the screen.
She let it ring.
A message followed.
YOUR POSITION AT THE MANSION IS TERMINATED. COLLECT YOUR BELONGINGS TOMORROW. YOU WILL NOT RECEIVE A REFERENCE IF YOU CONTINUE SPREADING LIES ABOUT THIS FAMILY.
Clara read it twice.
A year earlier, the message would have sent her into panic. She would have worried about Noah's tuition, rent, and the cost of groceries. She would have apologized for things she had not done.
Tonight she took a screenshot and sent it to Rebecca.
Then she made tea.
She was still frightened. Her hands still shook. But she was beginning to understand that fear did not have to make her obedient.
Rebecca called five minutes later.
“Beatrice has no authority to terminate your employment,” she said. “The independent payroll office confirmed that. Save the message. Don't respond.”
Clara sat on the sofa.
“Does she really hate me that much?”
Rebecca paused.
“I can't tell you what she feels. I can tell you her message is inappropriate and may be relevant to the investigation.”
Clara nodded, though Rebecca could not see her.
“Thank you.”
The next morning, Dominic arrived at the mansion to find his mother waiting in the library.
Beatrice wore a pearl-gray suit and a necklace of enormous diamonds. She had arranged two cups of coffee on the table, as though the previous evening had been an ordinary family disagreement.
“Sit down,” she said.
Dominic remained standing.
“Did you send Clara a termination notice?”
Beatrice's face tightened.
“She has caused enough trouble.”
“She was injured while working for us.”
“She is manipulating you.”
Dominic looked at his mother.
“For what? Medical care? Fair wages? The right not to be threatened?”
Beatrice stood.
“You've always been too trusting of women who want your money.”
He stared at her.
“Clara hasn't asked me for money.”
“Not yet.”
Dominic felt something settle inside him.
He had spent years hoping that if he explained himself carefully enough, his mother would eventually listen. But Beatrice did not seem interested in Clara's conduct. She was interested in Clara's position.
“You don't get to decide who deserves respect based on their bank account,” he said.
Beatrice's eyes flashed.
“I built this family beside your father.”
“Then you should know better than to put it at risk by contacting Silvio Falcone.”
The color drained from her face.
For several seconds she said nothing.
Then she smiled.
“You're being absurd.”
“Falcone's courier came through my kitchen. A car left through the west gate using a credential authorized by your office. And Clara saw a message from him on your phone.”
Beatrice's expression changed.
“She was reading my private messages?”
“She saw a threat against her.”
His mother looked away.
Dominic took a breath.
“Tell me what Falcone wants.”
“Nothing you need to worry about.”
“That's not an answer.”
Beatrice walked to the window.
“Your father made agreements you never understood.”
“Then help me understand them.”
“Some things are better left alone.”
“Six people died.”
She turned sharply.
“Your father did not kill those workers.”
“I didn't say he did.”
“Gabriel handled the terminal. Lorenzo barely knew what happened there.”
Dominic watched her.
“Then why are you protecting Gabriel?”
Beatrice looked toward the door.
“Because if he falls, he will take this family with him.”
The words hung in the room.
Dominic moved closer.
“Has he threatened you?”
She pressed her lips together.
“Mother.”
“Leave it alone.”
He shook his head.
“I can't.”
Beatrice's eyes filled with tears, but Dominic no longer knew whether they came from fear, regret, or anger at losing control.
“Your father would be ashamed of you,” she whispered.
Dominic felt the blow.
Then he thought of Clara carrying the turkey, her burned hands trembling beneath the chandelier.
“Maybe,” he said. “But I would be ashamed of myself if I stopped now.”
He left the library without touching the coffee.
At the storage facility, Detective Ruiz supervised the opening of Unit 19.
Inside were three metal filing cabinets, a broken office chair, and a stack of sealed cartons. The air smelled of dust and old paper. Investigators photographed every item before moving it.
The first cabinet held invoices.
The second held employee records from North Star.
The third was locked.
A technician opened it under Ruiz's supervision.
Inside lay a ledger bound in dark leather.
The cover bore Lorenzo Moretti's initials.
Ruiz turned the pages carefully. The entries recorded payments, favors, and shipments that had never appeared in the company's official books. Several names were familiar. Gabriel Moretti. Silvio Falcone. Adrian Bell.
And Eleanor Bennett.
Her name appeared beside a payment marked RETURNED.
Ruiz frowned.
“Eleanor refused money.”
Rebecca, who had joined the search as a legal observer, looked at the notation.
“Or someone tried to pay her to stop asking questions.”
A photograph slipped from between two pages.
It showed a young Dominic standing beside Lorenzo at a family celebration. Behind them, half-hidden by a curtain, stood Adrian Bell.
Someone had circled Adrian's face in red ink.
On the back, in Eleanor's handwriting, were five words:
HE WAS THERE AFTER MIDNIGHT.
Ruiz examined the date.
It was the night of the North Star fire.
Across the city, Clara visited Mrs. Whitmore at a small café. She had asked to meet somewhere away from the mansion, where neither woman would feel watched.
Mrs. Whitmore arrived carrying a paper bag.
“I brought your favorite lemon cookies,” she said.
Clara smiled.
“You didn't have to.”
“I wanted to.”
They ordered tea and sat beside the window.
Mrs. Whitmore looked older than she had at Thanksgiving, but there was determination in her expression.
“I should have spoken sooner,” she said.
“About my mother?”
“About everything.”
Clara waited.
“Beatrice wasn't always cruel,” Mrs. Whitmore said. “After Lorenzo died, she became frightened of losing control. Gabriel told her enemies were waiting to take everything. She began seeing danger in anyone who asked questions.”
“That doesn't excuse what she did.”
“No,” Mrs. Whitmore said. “It doesn't.”
She opened the paper bag and removed a small photograph.
It showed Eleanor standing in the mansion's kitchen, smiling beside Mrs. Whitmore.
Clara stared.
“When was this taken?”
“Eight years ago. Your mother came here after the fire. She wanted to speak to Lorenzo. He wasn't home, so I gave her tea while she waited.”
Clara touched the edge of the photograph.
“She was here.”
“Yes.”
“Did she see him?”
Mrs. Whitmore shook her head.
“Gabriel arrived first. He told her Lorenzo was unavailable and asked her to leave. She refused. They argued in the hall.”
“About what?”
“A ledger. She said the numbers proved the doors had been locked before the fire.”
Clara felt her pulse quicken.
“What did Gabriel say?”
“He told her that some truths destroyed families.”
Clara looked down at the photograph.
“And Mom?”
Mrs. Whitmore smiled sadly.
“She said families were already destroyed. Six of them.”
Clara closed her eyes.
She could hear Eleanor's voice in those words.
Mrs. Whitmore leaned forward.
“There's something else. Your mother left a note for Lorenzo. I gave it to Beatrice because she said she'd make sure he received it.”
“Did she?”
“I don't know. But a week later, Beatrice told me Eleanor was dangerous and that I must never speak of her again.”
Clara looked toward the street.
A dark sedan had parked across from the café.
The driver remained inside.
Mrs. Whitmore followed her gaze.
“Do you know that car?”
“No.”
Clara took out her phone and called Detective Ruiz.
She gave the address, the license plate, and the direction the car faced. Then she asked the café manager whether there was a rear exit.
There was.
Clara and Mrs. Whitmore left through it with the manager's help and waited inside a neighboring bookstore until officers arrived.
By the time Ruiz checked the street, the sedan was gone.
But the café's camera had captured the driver.
When Clara saw the image later, she recognized the man from Beatrice's kitchen.
Elias Vane.
Falcone's courier.
That evening, Dominic met Clara at the police office. He looked tired, and the tattooed hand holding his phone was clenched so tightly his knuckles had gone pale.
“I'm sorry,” he said.
Clara shook her head.
“Don't apologize for what other people choose to do.”
“They're watching you because of my family.”
“They're watching me because my mother refused to lie.”
Dominic looked at her with something like wonder.
“You're braver than I am.”
“No,” Clara said. “I'm scared all the time.”
“Then you're brave anyway.”
She looked down, smiling faintly.
Rebecca entered with a copy of a newly recovered document.
“The investigators found a page folded inside Lorenzo's ledger,” she said. “It's addressed to Dominic.”
He took it.
The handwriting was his father's.
Dominic, if this book reaches you, don't trust Gabriel's account of the fire. Adrian Bell knows who gave the order. I should have listened to Eleanor Bennett. I was wrong.
Dominic read the words twice.
His father had known.
He had known Eleanor was telling the truth.
“Where's Adrian Bell?” Clara asked.
Ruiz answered from the doorway.
“We've found a possible address.”
Dominic looked up.
“Where?”
“A nursing facility outside Milwaukee. He's been living there under another name.”
Clara felt hope rise for the first time.
Then Ruiz's phone rang.
She listened, her expression changing.
“What do you mean he checked out?”
A pause.
“When?”
Ruiz lowered the phone.
“Adrian Bell left the facility two hours ago with a visitor.”
“Who?” Dominic asked.
Ruiz looked at the photograph on her screen.
May you like
“Vivian Moretti.”
And somewhere outside Chicago, Dominic's sister was driving away with the only living witness who could explain what had happened at North Star.
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