Chapter 6 - The Last Night of Elena Moretti
I couldn't speak.
For several seconds, I could only hear my mother's breathing through the phone.
“Mom?”
“Are you alone?”
I looked at Rico.
“No.”
“Is he there?”
I knew exactly who she meant.
“Yes.”
Silence.
Then she whispered, “Put me on speaker.”
I did.
Rico leaned forward.
“Mrs. Vance?”
My mother's voice trembled.
“Mr. Moretti, I'm sorry.”
“Tell me what you know.”
“I should have told someone months ago.”
“Tell me now.”
She took a breath.
“Elena came to see me the night she died.”
Rico's hand gripped the edge of the kitchen counter.
“How did you know my wife?”
“I worked in medical records years ago. I helped a women's shelter organize its health referrals. Elena volunteered there.”
I stared at the phone.
My mother had mentioned that shelter before.
But never Elena.
“She asked me to keep some documents,” Mom continued.
“What documents?”
“Bank statements. Emails. A recording.”
Rico looked at Dante.
Dante was already listening closely.
Mom continued.
“Elena said someone in the family was stealing from the businesses and using accounts connected to a charity.”
“Which charity?”
“The Moretti Children's Foundation.”
Rico swore softly.
He had founded that organization after Leo was born.
It funded pediatric care and emergency housing for struggling families.
At least, that was what the brochures said.
“Elena was frightened,” Mom whispered. “She told me she'd discovered that donations were being redirected to shell companies.”
Rico stared at the floor.
“Why didn't she come to me?”
“She said she tried.”
His face changed.
“What?”
“She said you were being watched.”
The room grew cold.
I leaned closer to the phone.
“Mom, you said you saw her after the shooting.”
“Yes.”
Rico's head snapped up.
“Explain.”
My mother hesitated.
Then spoke.
“She called me shortly before nine and said she was coming to collect a second copy of the evidence. But someone forced her car off the road near the waterfront.”
Rico's voice sharpened.
“The police found her car riddled with bullets.”
“I know.”
“Then how could you have seen her?”
“Because a man brought her to an urgent-care clinic where a friend of mine worked. She was alive. Injured, but alive.”
I watched Rico's expression collapse.
“She was alive?”
“Yes.”
He stumbled backward and caught himself against the wall.
Dante stepped toward him.
Rico lifted one hand.
“Don't.”
Mom began crying again.
“She was terrified. She kept asking for Leo.”
“What happened to her?” I whispered.
My mother took several shaky breaths.
“She was moved before the ambulance arrived.”
“By whom?”
“I didn't know then.”
“And now?”
There was a long silence.
“Clara, I saw a photograph of him afterward.”
Rico leaned forward.
“Who?”
“Vincent Moretti.”
Nobody moved.
Outside, a police siren passed beneath the apartment window.
Rico closed his eyes.
For a moment, I thought he might break something.
Instead, he spoke softly.
“Did he kill her?”
“I don't know.”
“Where did he take her?”
“I don't know that either.”
His face twisted with grief.
“Then what do you know?”
My mother began sobbing.
I reached toward the phone instinctively.
“Mom, breathe.”
She tried.
When she could speak again, she said, “Elena gave me two things that night.”
“The documents?” I asked.
“Yes. But there was something else.”
Rico stared at the screen.
“What?”
“A little silver key.”
I frowned.
“To what?”
“She said it opened something only Rico would understand.”
Rico went still.
My mother whispered, “I hid the key before they came tonight.”
“Where?” I asked.
“Clara, remember your father's old music box?”
My heart skipped.
The music box.
The one Dad had given Mom before he died.
It sat in our storage closet, wrapped in an old blue towel.
I looked toward the hallway.
Then toward the closet.
Slowly, I walked to it.
My hands were shaking as I pushed aside winter coats and holiday decorations.
At the back stood a dusty cardboard box.
I opened it.
Inside was the little wooden music box I'd known since childhood.
I lifted the lid.
The familiar melody began to play.
And beneath the velvet lining, I felt something hard.
A tiny silver key.
Attached to it was a folded piece of paper.
I opened the note.
Four words.
LEO'S FIRST BIRTHDAY GIFT.
Rico made a sound I couldn't identify.
I turned toward him.
His face had gone pale.
“What does it mean?” I asked.
He looked at the key.
Then at me.
“It means Elena knew where to hide something from every man in my family.”
He swallowed.
“There's a private safe behind the painting in Leo's nursery.”
Dante straightened.
Rico's voice dropped.
“And only three people knew it existed.”
“Who?” I asked.
“Me.”
A pause.
“Elena.”
May you like
He looked toward the doorway.
“And my uncle Vincent.”
