Chapter 3 - THE LITTLE GIRL WHO KNEW TOO MUCH
"Grandma hid the book."
Those five words changed everything.
I had spent the last twenty hours believing Isabella was stealing information from me.
Now I understood that the envelopes behind my toilet were connected to an eighteen-year-old secret.
And somehow, a five-year-old child had become the most valuable person in the room.
I looked at Elena.
"Did your mother ever mention a book?"
Her face had lost all color.
"She used to tell Sophie stories about a special book."
"What stories?"
Elena glanced at her daughter.
"That it belonged to someone who had made bad choices. And that keeping it safe would help good people someday."
Raphael rubbed his forehead.
"Teresa always spoke in riddles."
"She had reasons," Elena replied.
There was anger in her voice now.
Not loud.
The deeper anger of someone who had spent years swallowing questions.
"My mother worked for your family for twelve years. Then she lost her home, her reputation, and everything she'd saved. People said she was a thief."
She turned toward me.
"I was six years old when strangers started calling my mother a criminal."
I didn't defend my family.
I couldn't.
"Is Teresa alive?" I asked.
Elena nodded.
"She lives in Wisconsin. She's been ill for years."
"Does she know you work for me?"
"Yes."
That surprised me.
"And she allowed it?"
"She told me your father wasn't the only Moretti who could be trusted."
Raphael looked away.
I wondered how much my father had concealed from me.
Then I remembered something.
"Why did you come to Chicago?"
Elena's fingers tightened around the locket.
"Because someone sent my mother a photograph."
"What photograph?"
"It showed Marcus standing beside her old apartment."
Raphael stood.
"When?"
"Three months ago."
"And she sent you here?"
"She told me she needed to know whether he still worked for you."
I studied Elena.
"You applied for a position in my home to investigate Marcus?"
"I needed work," she said firmly. "But yes, I also wanted answers."
It was another betrayal.
A smaller one, perhaps.
But my housekeeper had entered my home with a secret purpose.
I stood and walked toward the window.
Outside, Chicago traffic moved beneath a gray evening sky.
I had built my life around loyalty.
And nearly everyone around me had been keeping something from me.
Elena spoke softly.
"I'm sorry I didn't tell you."
I turned.
"Did you ever put Sophie in danger deliberately?"
"Never."
"Then we'll discuss the rest later."
Sophie held up her drawing.
"Can I have a cookie?"
The simplicity of the question almost broke something inside me.
Raphael opened a cupboard.
"Chocolate chip?"
"Two."
"One," Elena corrected.
Sophie considered this.
"One big one?"
For the first time that day, I laughed.
But the warmth lasted only seconds.
Raphael's secure tablet displayed a new alert.
Someone had accessed my private office.
Not the bathroom.
My office.
He showed me the camera feed.
Marcus stood behind my desk, using a key I'd given him years earlier.
He opened a drawer and removed my father's gold pocket watch.
My stomach tightened.
That watch had been my father's most treasured possession.
He'd carried it through wars between families, business victories, and my mother's funeral.
On the day he died, he'd placed it in my palm.
Never forget what time can reveal, Dante.
I'd thought it was an old man's sentimental advice.
Now I wasn't sure.
"Why does Marcus want that watch?" I asked.
Raphael's expression darkened.
"I don't know."
Marcus turned the watch over.
Then he carefully pressed the winding crown.
The rear casing opened.
I stared at the monitor.
"There's a compartment?"
Raphael moved closer.
Inside the watch was a folded strip of yellowed paper.
Marcus removed it.
Read it.
Then slammed his palm against the desk.
Even without sound, his fury was unmistakable.
"He expected something else," Raphael murmured.
Marcus took a photograph of the paper and replaced it.
Then he shut the watch and returned it to the drawer.
I watched him leave.
"What was written there?"
"We'll need to inspect it."
I reached for my phone.
Raphael caught my wrist.
"You're going to call Isabella?"
"I'm going to see whether she'll lie to me again."
I dialed.
She answered on the second ring.
"Dante! I thought you were in Detroit."
"I am."
"How's the meeting?"
"Exhausting."
"I'm sorry, darling."
I heard a faint tremor in her voice.
"Where are you?"
"At home."
"Alone?"
A pause.
"Of course."
I looked at the monitor.
Isabella was standing outside Marcus's office.
She had one hand pressed to her forehead.
"Are you all right?" I asked.
"Just tired."
"Is something wrong?"
Another silence.
Then she said, "Dante, when are you coming home?"
"Tomorrow."
"Promise?"
Something in her voice stopped me.
She didn't sound relieved that I was away.
She sounded terrified that I wouldn't return.
"Isabella?"
"Yes?"
"Do you trust Marcus?"
The silence stretched.
Finally, she answered.
"Why are you asking me that?"
"Just curious."
"Dante..."
Her voice cracked.
"I need to tell you something."
I waited.
Then footsteps sounded over the line.
Isabella's entire tone changed.
"I love you. Be careful driving."
She disconnected.
On the monitor, Marcus appeared beside her.
He said something.
She shook her head.
He gripped her arm.
I started toward the door.
Raphael blocked me.
"Watch."
Marcus released Isabella.
Then he pointed toward the security camera.
She looked up.
Straight into the lens.
And for one brief moment, I saw unmistakable hatred on her face.
Not directed at the camera.
Directed at Marcus.
I sat back down.
"She's afraid of him."
Raphael nodded.
"Which means your girlfriend may not be the person running this."
I looked at Elena.
"Your mother. Can she travel?"
"Not easily."
"Then we'll go to Wisconsin."
Elena hesitated.
"She won't speak to you unless I ask her."
"Then ask."
I expected resistance.
Instead, she removed a folded photograph from her purse.
It showed Teresa Rossi standing beside my father in the garden of our old family home.
My father was smiling.
Not his public smile.
The genuine one I hadn't seen after my mother died.
Elena turned the photograph over.
Written in fading blue ink were six words.
The truth belongs to the children.
Underneath was a date.
October 17, 2008.
I knew that date.
It was the night my father had nearly been killed in an explosion at our South Side warehouse.
The same night Marcus had supposedly saved his life.
Raphael stared at the photograph.
"That's impossible."
"What?"
He pointed to my father's wrist.
The gold pocket watch was attached to his vest.
But the picture had been taken two days after the explosion.
My father had told me the watch was destroyed that night.
He'd purchased an identical replacement.
I looked at Raphael.
"You're telling me the watch in my office isn't the one he carried?"
Raphael slowly shook his head.
"No."
"Then whose is it?"
Elena answered.
"My mother's."
I stared.
"Teresa owned a man's gold pocket watch?"
"She inherited it from her father."
"Why would my father give it to me?"
Elena's voice trembled.
"Because she told him to."
I felt the room shift around me.
Then Sophie climbed down from the couch.
She approached the photograph and touched my father's face.
"That's the man from Grandma's picture box."
I knelt.
"Have you seen him before?"
She nodded.
"Lots."
"What does Grandma call him?"
Sophie smiled.
"Mr. Good Watch."
Raphael closed his eyes.
I turned the photograph over once more.
The date.
The handwriting.
The watch.
Everything pointed back to the explosion.
I looked at Raphael.
"Who told the police Teresa stole money?"
He said nothing.
"Raphael."
He met my eyes.
"Marcus."
I exhaled slowly.
"Then why did my father keep Marcus beside him?"
Raphael's face looked suddenly older.
"Because your father didn't know who Marcus was protecting."
"Protecting from what?"
Raphael stared at the photograph.
"From the person who ordered that warehouse explosion."
My pulse hammered.
"Who?"
He swallowed.
"Your father believed the order came from inside your family."
Then Elena whispered something that made us all turn.
"My mother always said the man responsible wore a red rosary around his wrist."
I went completely still.
May you like
Because my father had worn a red rosary for the last seventeen years of his life.
And I'd buried it with him.
