Chapter 6 - The House With Two Security Systems
The lights went out.
Not dimmed.
Not flickered.
Out.
Vanessa cursed.
Dominic moved toward the window.
Luca grabbed my arm and pulled me away from the doorway just as footsteps thundered in the hall.
A beam of light swept beneath the door.
Vanessa whispered, “Service passage.”
Luca looked at her.
“What passage?”
“Behind the wardrobe.”
I almost laughed.
Of course there was another hidden space in this house.
Vanessa shoved dresses aside.
Behind the back panel was a narrow door.
“Salvatore showed me six months ago.”
That sentence was going to require a conversation.
We did not have time for it.
We entered one by one.
Luca last.
The panel closed.
Darkness.
Dominic switched on his phone flashlight.
The passage was barely shoulder-wide.
Old plaster.
Exposed pipes.
It ran between walls built long before Luca renovated the house.
“Where does this go?”
“Kitchen.”
Vanessa answered.
“Library.”
“Garage.”
“And?”
Luca asked.
“Security office.”
Vanessa looked at him.
“Not yours.”
We all stopped.
“What do you mean?”
“There are two systems.”
She said.
“Angelo’s cameras.”
“And Salvatore’s.”
Luca’s face hardened.
“My home has a second surveillance network.”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“I don’t know.”
“Try.”
“Years.”
That landed hard.
His home had not been his.
We moved down a narrow stair.
At the bottom was another door.
Vanessa opened it.
A cramped monitoring room sat behind the library wall.
Six monitors.
Four recording units.
A table.
Two chairs.
And dozens of labeled folders.
Luca stepped inside.
One monitor showed the driveway.
One the kitchen.
One his office.
One the master bedroom.
I felt sick.
Another showed the staff break room.
Vanessa touched the keyboard.
“Salvatore called it insurance.”
“Against whom?”
Luca asked.
“Everybody.”
Dominic opened a folder.
His own name was on it.
Inside were photographs.
Bank statements.
Hotel records.
Transcripts.
Years of surveillance.
Next folder.
LUCA.
Next.
ANGELO.
Next.
VANESSA.
Then one labeled CLAIRE DAWSON.
I stopped breathing.
“That’s impossible.”
Luca opened it.
Employee application.
Apartment address.
My mother’s name.
My old college transcripts.
Photographs of me entering my building.
One dated four months before I began working in Luca’s home.
I felt the floor shift beneath me.
“They knew me before I applied.”
Dominic looked at Vanessa.
“Why?”
She shook her head.
“I don’t know.”
Inside the folder was a photocopy of my father’s death certificate.
Daniel Dawson.
Died eight years earlier.
Car accident.
Luca took it out.
On the bottom someone had written:
DAWSON FILE - UNRESOLVED.
My mouth went dry.
“What does my father have to do with this?”
Nobody answered.
Then a computer beeped.
A live message appeared.
SYSTEM ACCESS DETECTED.
LOCATION: AUXILIARY ROOM.
Vanessa whispered, “They know we’re here.”
Dominic grabbed several folders.
Luca pulled a hard drive.
I took mine.
We escaped through the garage passage seconds before the monitoring room door burst open behind us.
Nobody chased us into the garage.
That was strange.
Until Luca saw why.
His cars were disabled.
Tires slashed.
Electronic systems dead.
Except one.
An old black Lincoln that had belonged to his father.
No smart ignition.
No tracking system.
Luca smiled without humor.
“Apparently old sins still have uses.”
We left through a maintenance gate.
Behind us, the Moretti mansion remained completely dark.
In the back seat, I opened my folder.
Most pages were ordinary.
School.
Employment.
Addresses.
Then one sheet slipped free.
A photocopied accounting ledger.
My father’s handwriting was in the margin.
I recognized it instantly.
He used to leave notes on grocery lists the same way.
Three company names were circled.
MORETTI MARITIME.
RUSSO IMPORTS.
BELLINI DEVELOPMENT.
Underneath them, my father had written:
SAME MONEY.
SAME MAN.
S.M.
My fingers went numb.
Luca looked in the mirror.
“What is it?”
I handed him the page.
He read my father’s handwriting.
Then the initials.
S.M.
Salvatore Moretti.
My father had known.
Eight years ago.
Long before Vanessa.
Long before Teresa.
Long before the wedding.
Dominic stared at me.
“What did your father do?”
“He was a forensic accountant.”
I whispered.
“For the state.”
Luca’s hands tightened around the steering wheel.
“Was he investigating my family?”
“I never knew.”
Then I saw something stapled behind the ledger.
An old photograph.
My father standing outside a courthouse.
Another man beside him.
Anthony Moretti.
Luca’s father.
On the back, my father had written a date.
Three days before his fatal accident.
May you like
And four words.
ANTHONY WANTS TO TALK.
