Chapter 2 - The Man Who Buried His Own Daughter-in-Law
Alexander Moretti had buried his father eleven months earlier.
He remembered every detail of the funeral.
The polished mahogany casket.
The twenty-seven white roses arranged around the altar.
The bishop who spoke about loyalty, sacrifice, and the obligations of powerful men.
He remembered lowering his head as the coffin disappeared into the family mausoleum.
Most of all, he remembered Vincent standing beside him and whispering, "Now it's just us."
Alexander stared at Elena.
"My father is dead."
She shook her head.
"That's what Isabella said you'd tell me."
Benjamin drove through a yellow light.
"Sir, we need a destination."
Alexander barely heard him.
"My father died of congestive heart failure."
"Did you see him after he died?" Elena asked.
Alexander's jaw tightened.
"I saw his body."
"His face?"
"Of course."
"Without anyone telling you who you were looking at?"
"Stop."
Elena lowered her voice.
"I'm not trying to hurt you."
"You walk into my restaurant, tell me my wife is alive, bring me a daughter I didn't know existed, accuse my brother of kidnapping, and now you want me to believe my father climbed out of his grave?"
"No."
"Then what?"
"I want you to understand that somebody has been controlling what you see for five years."
Alexander looked away.
The cruelest part was that she had already proved it.
He had never seen Isabella's body.
Not directly.
He had seen a covered stretcher, a medical report, and her wedding ring.
His father had persuaded him that seeing her injuries would destroy the memories he had left.
Vincent had insisted on a closed coffin.
And Alexander had believed them because grief had left him unable to imagine deliberate cruelty from the people closest to him.
"Where is Isabella?" he asked.
Elena hesitated.
"She was being held at a medical rehabilitation facility outside the city."
"Which facility?"
"I don't know its current name."
"Then give me the old one."
"Saint Catherine's."
Benjamin glanced in the mirror.
"Saint Catherine's closed six years ago."
"Only officially," Elena said.
Alexander studied her.
"How do you know?"
"Because I worked there."
Silence filled the car.
Alexander stared.
"You're a waitress."
"I'm a licensed practical nurse."
"Then why were you serving dinner tonight?"
"Because nobody lets an unknown nurse into the Moretti executive offices."
He looked at her hands.
They were scraped and trembling.
"Start at the beginning."
Elena nodded.
"Three years ago, I accepted a private nursing contract through an agency called Northbridge Patient Services."
"They told me I would be caring for a woman recovering from traumatic brain injuries."
"Her records identified her as Patient Seventeen."
"Did you recognize her?"
"Not at first."
"Why?"
"Her hair had been cut short, she had lost nearly thirty pounds, and she had a scar along the left side of her face."
Elena stopped.
"She barely spoke when I met her."
Alexander felt sick.
"What happened to her?"
"I don't know everything."
"Tell me what you do know."
"She was heavily sedated whenever certain visitors came."
"Which visitors?"
"Vincent was one."
Alexander stared at the road ahead.
"Who else?"
Elena swallowed.
"An older man."
"Describe him."
"Tall."
"White hair."
"Walked with a cane."
Alexander's father had used a cane after a skiing accident in Switzerland.
His knuckles whitened.
"Was his name Lorenzo Moretti?"
"I never heard anyone call him that."
"Then why do you think it was my father?"
"Because Isabella called him Lorenzo."
Alexander closed his eyes.
He remembered his father embracing him after the funeral.
You must learn to live without her, son.
He remembered the old man's hand resting firmly on his shoulder.
Some doors should remain closed.
Alexander opened his eyes.
"Why didn't Isabella escape?"
"She tried."
Elena's voice cracked.
"Twice while I worked there."
"The first time, the guards brought her back."
"The second time, they threatened Lucy."
Alexander looked at the sleeping child.
A wave of rage rose through him.
"Where was Lucy?"
"At a separate house."
"With whom?"
"Different caretakers."
"Did Isabella get to see her?"
"Sometimes."
"How often?"
"At first, once a month."
Alexander turned sharply.
"Once a month?"
Elena nodded.
"After I started helping her, we managed more."
He pressed his fist against his mouth.
Five years.
Five birthdays.
Five Christmases.
And a woman he loved had been forced to negotiate for permission to see her own child.
"How did you get Lucy out?"
Elena looked toward the front seat.
"We need to talk somewhere private."
Alexander followed her gaze.
Benjamin's hands tightened on the steering wheel.
"Elena," Alexander said quietly, "Benjamin has protected me for fourteen years."
"I understand."
"He was there when Isabella and I married."
"I understand that too."
"Then speak."
She looked down.
"Isabella warned me that one of the men closest to you was reporting directly to Vincent."
Benjamin's eyes met Alexander's in the mirror.
For several seconds, neither man spoke.
Then Benjamin reached toward his jacket.
Alexander instinctively pulled Lucy closer.
But Benjamin took out a small black device and placed it on the dashboard.
"I found this under the driver's seat two days ago."
Alexander stared.
"What is it?"
"An active location transmitter."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because I wanted to identify who installed it."
Benjamin opened the window.
He threw the device into the rain.
"We can't use any company property after tonight."
"Then where are you taking us?"
"A friend owns a repair garage in Bridgeport."
"Can he be trusted?"
Benjamin nodded.
"He hates your father."
Alexander almost laughed.
"That narrows it down."
The sedan turned beneath an elevated train line.
Lucy stirred against Elena.
"Miss Ellie?"
Elena brushed her curls away from her face.
"I'm here, sweetheart."
"Are we going back to the quiet house?"
"No."
"Promise?"
Elena's eyes filled.
"I promise."
Lucy looked at Alexander.
"Are you coming too?"
He leaned closer.
"I'm not leaving."
She considered that.
"Mommy said daddies don't always know they're daddies."
Alexander swallowed.
"She was right."
"Did you know about me?"
"No, sweetheart."
"Did Mommy forget to tell you?"
He shook his head.
"No."
Lucy looked confused.
"Then who forgot?"
Alexander glanced at Elena.
Nobody answered.
Lucy rested her head against him.
"Mommy says grown-ups tell lies when they're scared."
Alexander kissed the top of her hair.
"Sometimes."
"Are you scared?"
He looked at his daughter.
"Very."
"Me too."
He held her closer.
"Then we'll be brave together."
Twenty minutes later, they arrived at a narrow brick garage beneath a railway bridge.
Benjamin parked inside.
An elderly mechanic named Frank O'Connell lowered the steel door behind them.
"Jesus, Ben."
Frank looked at Alexander.
"What kind of trouble are you bringing me?"
"The Moretti kind."
Frank sighed.
"That's the worst kind."
Inside the upstairs apartment, Elena finally told Alexander how the escape had begun.
Three nights earlier, Isabella had somehow obtained access to a phone.
She called Elena from a blocked number.
"She told me the facility was being cleared," Elena said.
"Cleared?"
"The patients were being moved."
"Where?"
"She didn't know."
"Why now?"
"Because someone learned she had copied financial records."
Alexander leaned forward.
"What records?"
"Payments."
"To whom?"
"Hospital administrators."
"Security contractors."
"Offshore companies."
"And people connected to your family."
Elena took a folded photograph from her pocket.
It showed Isabella in a hospital garden.
She sat beside a little girl wearing a yellow cardigan.
Lucia.
On the back, in Isabella's handwriting, were four words.
She deserves her father.
Alexander stared until the letters blurred.
Then he turned the photograph over again.
Something had been written along the bottom edge.
A date.
And an address.
"What's this?"
Elena leaned forward.
Her face changed.
"I've never seen that."
Alexander read the address aloud.
Benjamin looked up sharply.
"That's not a hospital."
"What is it?"
Frank answered from the doorway.
"The old Moretti summer property."
Alexander shook his head.
"My father sold that house twenty years ago."
Frank's expression darkened.
"No, he didn't."
Alexander turned.
"What?"
Frank set down his coffee.
"Your father transferred it to a shell company after a worker disappeared there."
Alexander looked at the photograph.
"What worker?"
Frank hesitated.
"A young accountant."
"Name?"
"Thomas Bell."
Alexander knew the name.
Thomas Bell had been Moretti Holdings' chief financial analyst.
Officially, he'd died in a boating accident nineteen years earlier.
Frank looked at Elena.
"Where did you get that photograph?"
"From Isabella."
Frank's face went white.
"Then the woman isn't the only thing your father kept hidden."
Alexander stood.
"What are you talking about?"
Frank took a breath.
"Thomas Bell had a daughter."
May you like
He looked directly at Elena.
"Her name was Elena."
