Chapter 4 - The House That Never Belonged to Anyone
By sunrise, Alexander had made three decisions.
He would not return to his penthouse.
He would not contact the police through any Moretti-affiliated attorney.
And he would not allow anyone to take Lucia away from him.
The third decision proved the hardest.
"She can't travel with us," Elena insisted.
Alexander stood beside the garage window.
"She's my daughter."
"She's four years old."
"Exactly."
"Which means she needs safety more than she needs to watch you chase criminals."
Alexander looked toward the couch.
Lucy was drawing with a blue crayon on a scrap of cardboard.
She had drawn three people holding hands.
A woman.
A man.
A little girl.
Above them, she'd drawn a yellow sun.
"My daddy has big hands," she announced.
Alexander looked down.
"So I've been told."
Lucy smiled.
Elena's expression softened.
Then she turned serious again.
"She stays with Frank."
Alexander shook his head.
"No."
Benjamin stepped forward.
"Elena's right."
Alexander turned on him.
"Don't start."
"Sir, you're the most recognizable businessman in Chicago."
"That doesn't mean—"
"Vincent has police contacts, private security contractors, and access to every property the family owns."
Benjamin lowered his voice.
"If you're protecting Lucy, keep her away from the places you're going."
Alexander looked at the child again.
He hated the logic.
He hated that it was necessary.
Most of all, he hated that he had been her father for less than twelve hours and was already being asked to leave her.
Lucy looked up.
"Are you going somewhere?"
He knelt beside her.
"Just for a little while."
Her smile disappeared.
"That's what the nurses say."
Alexander froze.
"What do they say?"
"They say 'a little while,' and then Mommy cries."
Elena turned away.
Alexander took Lucy's small hand.
"Look at me, sweetheart."
She did.
"I won't disappear without telling you where I'm going."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
"What if the bad men come?"
Alexander glanced at Frank.
"They won't know you're here."
"But what if they do?"
He swallowed.
"Then Frank and Benjamin will keep you safe."
Lucy looked at Benjamin.
"Are you good at keeping people safe?"
The former Marine knelt.
"Usually."
"Can you fight dragons?"
Benjamin looked at Alexander.
"Depends on the dragon."
Lucy considered that.
"Uncle Vincent is a dragon."
Nobody laughed.
Alexander pulled her into his arms.
"Then we're going to make sure he can't hurt anyone again."
An hour later, Alexander and Elena left the garage in Frank's battered pickup truck.
Benjamin remained behind with Lucy.
Alexander hated every mile that carried him farther from her.
Elena sat beside him, staring at the address written on Isabella's photograph.
"There's a reason she wanted us to go there."
Alexander kept his eyes on the road.
"My father used to bring us to that house when we were children."
"Vincent too?"
"Every summer."
"What was he like?"
Alexander almost said normal.
But that would have been a lie.
"Competitive."
"In what way?"
"Everything was a contest."
"Your father encouraged it?"
"He designed it."
Elena looked at him.
Alexander continued.
"If I won a race, Vincent lost something."
"If Vincent earned praise, I was told I hadn't worked hard enough."
"My father believed affection made people weak."
"Did your mother agree?"
Alexander's jaw tightened.
"My mother died when I was sixteen."
"I'm sorry."
He shook his head.
"She spent the last year of her life in a private medical facility."
Elena looked at him sharply.
"What facility?"
"Northbridge."
The truck filled with silence.
Alexander glanced at her.
"What?"
Elena was staring straight ahead.
"Alexander."
He felt cold.
"What?"
"Northbridge Patient Services was the agency that hired me to care for Isabella."
Alexander gripped the steering wheel.
"That's a coincidence."
"Maybe."
But neither believed it.
The old summer property stood beyond a long gravel driveway surrounded by bare trees.
The house was larger than Alexander remembered.
Three stories.
Gray stone.
White columns.
A greenhouse attached to the eastern wing.
The windows were dark.
But fresh tire tracks cut through the mud.
Alexander parked behind a stand of trees.
"Someone's been here."
Elena leaned forward.
"Recently."
They approached the front entrance.
The door was locked.
Alexander knew the old combination to the side service gate.
His father had never trusted electronic locks.
He entered four numbers.
The gate clicked open.
"Some things never change," he muttered.
Elena looked at him.
"That might be the problem."
Inside, dust covered the furniture.
White sheets hung over antique chairs.
The air smelled of cedar and old plaster.
Alexander moved through the foyer.
He remembered his mother playing piano in the sitting room.
He remembered Vincent hiding toys to make him cry.
He remembered Lorenzo standing at the top of the stairs, watching his sons like a man evaluating livestock.
Then he heard something.
A faint electronic hum.
"Elena."
She stopped.
"What?"
"Listen."
They followed the sound toward the basement.
A steel door stood behind a wall of storage shelves.
Alexander had never seen it before.
Elena touched the keypad.
The screen glowed.
"Still powered."
Alexander examined the panel.
A four-digit entry.
He tried his father's birthday.
Denied.
His mother's birthday.
Denied.
Vincent's birthday.
Denied.
Then he remembered something Isabella once told him.
People who build secrets around themselves usually choose passwords that reveal what they love most.
Alexander entered the date his father founded Moretti Holdings.
The keypad flashed green.
Elena stared.
"How did you know?"
Alexander pushed the door open.
"My father never loved anyone as much as he loved his company."
A staircase descended into darkness.
At the bottom was a narrow room containing six steel filing cabinets.
A desk.
Two surveillance monitors.
And a hospital bed.
Alexander stopped.
There were restraints attached to the bed rails.
Elena covered her mouth.
"Oh, God."
On the wall hung a whiteboard.
Most of the writing had been erased.
But one phrase remained.
SUBJECT I.M. - TRANSFER APPROVED.
Alexander stared at the initials.
Isabella Moretti.
He opened the nearest cabinet.
Empty.
The second was empty too.
In the third, he found a child's pink sock.
Lucy-sized.
He lifted it with trembling fingers.
Elena looked toward the monitors.
"Alexander."
He turned.
One of the screens was displaying recorded footage.
A timestamp appeared in the corner.
Three weeks earlier.
A woman sat on the hospital bed.
Dark hair.
Thin shoulders.
A pale face.
Isabella.
Alexander staggered toward the screen.
She was holding a stuffed rabbit.
Lucy's rabbit.
A man entered the frame.
Tall.
White-haired.
Walking with a cane.
Alexander felt the floor shift beneath him.
The man's back was toward the camera.
Then he turned.
Lorenzo Moretti.
His father.
Alive.
Alexander grabbed the desk.
On the recording, Lorenzo approached Isabella.
She recoiled.
He said something the microphone didn't capture.
Isabella shook her head.
Lorenzo leaned closer.
Then he struck the bed rail with his cane.
Alexander's fists clenched.
Elena reached toward the monitor.
"There's audio."
She turned a dial.
Static crackled.
Then Lorenzo's voice filled the room.
"You had five years to cooperate, Isabella."
Isabella lifted her head.
"And you had five years to become a decent human being."
Lorenzo laughed.
"Your husband never even looked for you."
Alexander flinched.
Isabella's voice remained steady.
"Because you made him bury a stranger."
The old man leaned over her.
"Sign the statement."
"No."
"Then perhaps your daughter should learn what happens to disobedient mothers."
Isabella stood.
"Touch her and I'll tell Alexander everything."
Lorenzo smiled.
"Alexander believes whatever I tell him."
Isabella stared at him.
"Not anymore."
The recording ended.
For several seconds, Alexander couldn't move.
Then he struck the desk so hard that a drawer broke free.
Elena caught his wrist.
"Alexander."
He pulled away.
"Five years."
"I know."
"She was alive in this house."
"Alexander—"
"My father brought her here."
His voice cracked.
"While I sat beside an empty grave."
Elena stepped closer.
"Listen to me."
He looked at her.
"She's alive."
"Where?"
"We're going to find out."
A soft click came from behind them.
Both turned.
A man stood at the bottom of the staircase.
He held a flashlight in one hand.
A pistol in the other.
"That," he said, "depends on how much you want to know."
Alexander recognized him.
Detective Andrew Kessler.
The man who had identified Isabella's body.
The man who had signed the original accident report.
The man who had spent five years living on the money Alexander's family paid him.
Kessler smiled.
"Hello, Alex."
May you like
He raised the pistol.
"I was hoping you'd stay buried in your grief."
