Chapter 5 - The Photograph My Mother Hid
My mother had died believing she had left us almost nothing.
At least, that was what I had always believed.
A few pieces of inexpensive jewelry.
A box of photographs.
Some old clothes.
And a mountain of medical bills.
Now I was standing in a hospital corridor holding proof that her life had somehow crossed paths with the Moretti family.
A family she had never mentioned.
A family whose name had become the center of every nightmare I'd experienced in the last twenty-four hours.
Detective Shaw studied the photograph.
"Where did you get this?"
"It belonged to my mother."
"And this stamp?"
"I've never noticed it."
She turned the photograph beneath the light.
"Moretti Family Trust."
I looked at her.
"What is that?"
"Some wealthy families establish trusts to hold money or property."
"Why would my mother have anything to do with one?"
"I don't know."
The answer frustrated me.
Everything seemed to lead toward the same people.
Dante.
Vanessa.
Adrian.
My missing brother.
And now my mother.
I was beginning to wonder whether anything in my childhood had been what it seemed.
Shaw took a photograph of the stamp with her phone.
"I'll look into it."
I held the original tighter.
"You're not taking this."
She looked at me.
"Cara, it may be evidence."
"It's the only picture I have of Daniel when he was little."
Her expression softened.
"I can arrange for it to be documented and returned."
I hesitated.
Then I nodded.
It wasn't trust.
Not exactly.
But I needed the police to investigate, and keeping everything to myself wasn't helping.
When I returned to Dante's hospital, the sun had risen.
The sky beyond the windows was pale gray.
I had been awake for almost thirty hours.
My body hurt.
My clothes smelled like smoke.
And I hadn't eaten since the small sandwich I'd grabbed during my break at Bellini's.
Marco met me outside Dante's room.
"How was your brother?"
"It wasn't him."
He looked relieved.
"Then who?"
"A man named Thomas Reed."
Marco's expression changed.
"What did he say?"
"That Daniel is alive."
He stared at me.
"Are you certain?"
"Thomas said he saw him three nights ago."
Marco looked toward the hallway.
"Did you tell the detective?"
"She's handling it."
He nodded.
Then he said, "Dante needs to speak with you."
I almost laughed.
"Of course he does."
I was beginning to think nobody in this world knew how to say hello without delivering bad news.
Dante was sitting upright when I entered.
His hair was damp.
Someone had changed his bandages.
He looked exhausted but alert.
His gray eyes moved over me.
"You're hurt."
I glanced at my arms.
"I'm fine."
"You're bleeding through that bandage."
"It's a scratch."
He didn't look convinced.
"Sit down."
I remained standing.
"Did you know my mother?"
The question surprised him.
His expression changed almost imperceptibly.
"What?"
"Evelyn Fields."
He watched me.
"Why?"
I placed the photograph on his blanket.
For the first time since meeting Dante Moretti, I saw genuine shock cross his face.
He picked it up.
Turned it over.
And stared at the silver falcon.
"Where did you find this?"
"It was in my apartment."
Dante looked at the photograph again.
His fingers tightened around the edge.
"Your mother was Evelyn Fields?"
I felt something cold settle in my stomach.
"You know her."
He didn't answer immediately.
"Dante."
He finally looked up.
"Your mother worked for my father."
I stared.
"What?"
"Years before I took control of the family business."
"Doing what?"
"Accounting."
I shook my head.
"No."
"Cara—"
"My mother was a school secretary."
"After she left my father's company."
I looked at the photograph.
Every memory I had of my mother rushed through my head.
Her tired smile.
Her cheap perfume.
The way she counted change at grocery stores.
The way she used to say we didn't need expensive things to be happy.
She had never once mentioned working for one of the wealthiest families on the East Coast.
"Why would she hide that?"
Dante's expression darkened.
"I don't know."
I stared at him.
"You keep saying that."
"Because it's the truth."
"Then tell me what you do know."
He exhaled slowly.
"My father established the Moretti Family Trust twenty-nine years ago."
"It was originally intended to hold legitimate family assets."
"Your mother helped organize the early records."
"That's all?"
Dante looked down.
"Not exactly."
I folded my arms.
He continued.
"Before my father died, the trust became involved in a legal dispute."
"What kind?"
"Missing money."
My chest tightened.
"How much?"
"Twenty-seven million dollars."
I stared.
"You're telling me my mother was involved in stealing twenty-seven million dollars?"
"No."
His answer came so quickly that I believed him.
"Then what?"
"She reported the discrepancy."
I sat down slowly.
Dante continued.
"She believed someone was using the trust to move money without authorization."
"Who?"
"The investigation never established it."
"What happened to her?"
"She resigned."
"Why?"
"According to the records, she was threatened."
A cold wave moved through me.
"By whom?"
Dante looked at me.
"That's what I want to find out."
I stared at the photograph.
My mother had spent years telling me that doing the right thing mattered more than being rich.
I had believed those were ordinary lessons from an ordinary woman.
Now I wondered if they were warnings.
Later that morning, Dante arranged for me to meet with an attorney named Elena Price.
She was in her thirties, with dark curly hair and the kind of calm expression that suggested she rarely lost an argument.
She introduced herself as counsel for Moretti Holdings.
I didn't want another person connected to Dante controlling information about my life.
Elena seemed to understand.
"You don't have to trust me."
"Good."
She almost smiled.
"But you should understand your options."
"What options?"
"Someone threatened you because of information you possess."
"Someone burned down my apartment."
"Yes."
"And the person responsible may have access to significant financial resources."
I rubbed my temples.
"Can you get to the point?"
She placed a folder on the table.
"You can accept temporary protection without agreeing to work for Dante."
I stared at her.
"Why would he think I want to work for him?"
"Because he intends to ask."
I looked toward the hospital room.
"Of course he does."
Elena continued.
"You also have the right to choose separate legal representation."
That surprised me.
"You're telling me not to use you?"
"I'm telling you that you should have an attorney whose only responsibility is to you."
For the first time that morning, I felt someone was speaking to me like an adult instead of a problem.
Elena gave me a card.
"I can provide names of independent attorneys who have no relationship with the Moretti family."
I took it.
"Thank you."
She nodded.
Then she opened the folder.
"There's one more thing."
I sighed.
"What now?"
"A bank account was created in your name when you were a child."
I stared.
"What account?"
"It was associated with the Moretti Family Trust."
My heart began racing.
"How much money?"
Elena looked down at the documents.
"At the time it was opened, fifty thousand dollars."
I nearly dropped the folder.
"Fifty thousand?"
"Yes."
"Where is it?"
"That's the problem."
She turned a page.
"Most of the account's original funds were transferred out."
"By whom?"
"We're still tracing the transactions."
I looked at the date.
The transfer had occurred seven years ago.
Three weeks after my mother's death.
I read the recipient's name.
Then I read it again.
The room seemed to grow smaller.
The money had been transferred to an account controlled by Adrian Bell.
I looked at Elena.
"Why would he take money from me?"
She didn't answer.
Before I could ask another question, my phone vibrated.
An unknown number.
A photograph appeared.
Daniel.
My brother was sitting in a chair, looking thinner than I remembered.
A fresh bruise darkened his cheek.
But he was alive.
Under the photograph was a message.
MIDNIGHT.
COME ALONE.
BRING THE KEY.
A second message arrived immediately.
AND DON'T TELL DANTE MORETTI.
I stared at my brother's face.
Then I heard Dante's voice from behind me.
"Cara."
I looked up.
He was standing in the doorway, one hand pressed against his injured ribs.
His expression hardened when he saw my phone.
"Who sent that?"
I locked the screen.
"Nobody."
Dante looked at me for a long moment.
May you like
Then he said something that made my blood run cold.
"Your brother sent me the same picture."
