Chapter 3 - THE PERSON INSIDE THE HOUSE
Vincent had survived ambushes in three countries.
He had watched men betray lifelong friends for money.
He had negotiated with people who smiled while planning funerals.
But nothing disturbed him more than realizing someone had entered his father’s study during eleven seconds of darkness.
Someone close enough to reach the safe.
Someone who knew exactly what to take.
“Lock the estate.”
Vincent’s command echoed through the hallway.
His security chief, Michael Russo, appeared moments later.
Michael had worked for Vincent for fourteen years.
Unlike the guards hired during Vincent’s absence, Michael had arrived with him that evening.
“Already done.”
“Nobody leaves.”
“Understood.”
Vincent looked at Catherine, Daniel, and Victoria.
“That includes family.”
Victoria stared at him.
“You think one of us took it?”
“I think everyone is a suspect.”
Catherine’s expression hardened.
“I am your mother.”
“Tonight, that buys you nothing.”
Vincent returned his attention to Isabella.
“Stay beside me.”
“I’m not helpless.”
“I know.”
“Then stop treating me like I am.”
The words struck harder than she intended.
Vincent became silent.
Isabella looked away.
“I’m sorry.”
“No.”
He lowered his voice.
“You’re right.”
For six years he had imagined protecting Isabella from afar.
He had sent money.
Security.
Instructions.
He had believed that was love.
Standing beside her now, he understood how convenient that belief had been.
Protection without presence was only an excuse.
Michael returned.
“Two shooters entered through the west grounds. Both escaped.”
“How?”
“Someone disabled cameras four minutes before the first shot.”
Vincent looked toward Daniel.
Daniel threw up his hands.
“Don’t look at me.”
“Who controls security?”
“Victoria.”
Vincent turned.
Victoria paled.
“I manage household personnel. I don’t personally monitor cameras.”
“Who has administrator access?”
Victoria hesitated.
“Me. Daniel. Mother.”
“And Isabella?”
“No.”
Vincent’s jaw tightened.
Of course.
They had stripped his wife of authority in her own home.
Michael handed Vincent a tablet.
“Camera logs.”
A manual shutdown had been authorized at 11:43 p.m.
Username:
VMoretti.
Victoria stared.
“That’s impossible.”
Vincent looked at her.
“Your account.”
“I didn’t do it.”
Daniel laughed bitterly.
“Convenient.”
“Shut up.”
Vincent studied the log.
“Where were you at 11:43?”
“In the ballroom.”
“Witnesses?”
“Fifty.”
That was true.
Vincent had seen her.
Someone had used her credentials.
Michael spoke quietly.
“We found something else.”
He handed Vincent a small object.
A silver cuff link.
Engraved with the initials DM.
Daniel looked down at his sleeves.
One cuff link was missing.
Victoria stared at him.
“You idiot.”
Daniel’s face went white.
“I didn’t take anything.”
Vincent stepped toward him.
“Explain.”
“I can’t.”
“Try.”
“I was downstairs.”
“The entire time?”
Daniel hesitated.
Vincent noticed.
“Where did you go?”
Daniel looked toward Catherine.
“Tell him,” Victoria said.
Catherine snapped, “Be quiet.”
Vincent’s eyes narrowed.
“Tell me what?”
Daniel exhaled.
“I came upstairs before the shooting.”
“Why?”
“To get something.”
“What?”
Daniel refused to answer.
Vincent grabbed his jacket and shoved him against the wall.
Isabella stepped forward.
“Vincent.”
He stopped.
Not because Daniel deserved mercy.
Because Isabella had said his name.
Vincent released him.
Daniel straightened his collar.
“I came for Father’s watch.”
Vincent stared.
“It’s in Mother’s room.”
“Not that one.”
Daniel looked toward the study.
“There’s another.”
Catherine closed her eyes.
Daniel continued.
“Father had a pocket watch. Gold. He always kept it in this study.”
Vincent remembered it.
Antonio carried it everywhere.
After his death, it disappeared.
“Why tonight?”
“Because somebody offered me five million dollars for it.”
Silence.
Vincent almost laughed.
“You accepted?”
“I have debts.”
“You’ve spent millions of my dollars.”
“Not those kinds of debts.”
Vincent understood.
Gambling.
Daniel had always loved cards.
Apparently adulthood had not cured him.
“Who offered?”
“I never met him.”
“Then how?”
“Messages. Anonymous account.”
“When?”
“Three weeks ago.”
“And you didn’t find that suspicious?”
“I needed the money.”
Vincent looked at his younger brother and saw something painful.
Not an enemy.
Something worse.
A weak man.
Weak men caused enormous damage because they convinced themselves they had no choices.
“Show me the messages.”
Daniel handed over his phone.
Vincent read them.
The anonymous buyer had been remarkably specific.
Antonio Moretti’s gold pocket watch. Unopened. Five million.
Unopened.
Vincent looked at Daniel.
“Why would they say unopened?”
“I don’t know.”
Isabella suddenly turned toward Antonio’s portrait.
“Because the watch opens.”
Daniel frowned.
“All pocket watches open.”
“No.”
She walked toward the fireplace.
“Not like that.”
Everyone watched.
Isabella looked at Vincent.
“Your father showed me once.”
Catherine stared at her with naked hatred.
Vincent noticed.
“What else did my father tell you?”
“Less than you think.”
“Show me.”
Isabella reached behind Antonio’s portrait.
Her fingers searched the wooden frame.
Then she pressed something.
A tiny compartment opened.
Inside lay a gold pocket watch.
Daniel whispered a curse.
Vincent removed it.
Heavy.
Old.
Antonio’s initials were engraved on the back.
Vincent opened the front.
Clock face.
Nothing unusual.
Isabella took it carefully.
“Your father said time had two faces.”
She pressed the crown.
The back clicked open.
Inside was a tiny brass key.
Catherine sat down.
Vincent stared at her.
“You knew.”
“No.”
“You knew enough.”
Michael entered again.
“Boss.”
“What?”
“We found blood near the east gate.”
“One of the shooters?”
“Maybe.”
Michael’s expression was strange.
“But there’s something you need to see.”
They followed him downstairs.
The mansion had become a fortress.
Guards filled every hallway.
Guests had been held in the ballroom until identification checks could be completed.
Near the east entrance, a trail of blood led through a service corridor.
Then stopped.
Michael opened a closet.
A man lay unconscious inside.
One of the household guards.
His uniform was missing.
Someone had entered wearing it.
Vincent crouched.
The guard was breathing.
Michael pointed toward his neck.
Injection mark.
Professional.
Vincent stood.
“This was planned.”
“For weeks, probably.”
Then Isabella made a small sound.
She was staring at the wall.
“What is it?”
She pointed.
Written in blood were three numbers.
317.
Vincent looked at Michael.
“Mean anything?”
“No.”
Isabella whispered, “It does to me.”
Vincent turned.
She looked terrified.
“Three-seventeen was the room number.”
“What room?”
“The hospital room where your father died.”
Catherine suddenly stepped backward.
Vincent saw it.
“Mother.”
“I’m tired.”
“You’re not going anywhere.”
Her eyes met his.
“Antonio didn’t die naturally.”
Nobody moved.
Vincent felt the room tilt.
His father had suffered a heart attack.
At least that was what every doctor had said.
Catherine continued.
“I knew he had enemies. I knew there were questions. But I never knew who.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because you were twenty-eight years old and already becoming exactly like him.”
Vincent stared at her.
“What does that mean?”
Catherine looked toward Isabella.
“It means your father trusted the wrong people.”
Isabella stiffened.
Before Catherine could continue, Michael’s phone buzzed.
He looked at the screen.
His expression changed.
“What?”
Michael turned the phone toward Vincent.
Security footage.
Not from tonight.
From four years earlier.
A camera in Antonio’s study.
The timestamp showed 2:13 a.m.
Isabella entered.
Alone.
She crossed directly to the hidden bookshelf.
Opened it.
Then stood before the safe.
Vincent stared at the woman beside him.
Isabella looked horrified.
“I can explain.”
The video continued.
A second person entered the room.
A man.
His face remained outside the camera angle.
But Isabella embraced him.
Vincent felt something cold spread through his chest.
Then the man spoke.
The audio was weak.
But the words were clear.
“Vincent can never know what we did.”
May you like
Isabella closed her eyes.
And Vincent realized the secret inside his home might have begun long before he ever left Chicago.
