Chapter 2 - THE PHOTOGRAPH BENEATH THE ROSES
“Before you accuse me of stealing from this family, Vincent, you should ask our mother why she's been protecting a thief for fifteen years.”
Anthony Moretti stood in the dining room doorway, his face pale but his voice steady.
Beside me, Helen's fingers tightened around the little brass key.
Vincent didn't move.
“What did you just say?”
Anthony glanced toward the thirty-eight dinner guests.
“Not here.”
“You weren't concerned about privacy when you took away our mother's house keys.”
“That's different.”
“Then explain the difference.”
Vanessa stepped between them.
“Vincent, please. This is our engagement dinner. We can discuss family business tomorrow.”
Vincent looked at her.
“My mother has been frightened inside her own home for nine days. There is no tomorrow for this conversation.”
He turned toward the dining room.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I'm sorry. Dinner is over. My staff will arrange transportation for anyone who needs it.”
Nobody argued.
Within minutes, the room began emptying.
I had never seen wealthy, powerful people leave a mansion so quietly.
Helen watched them go with tears in her eyes.
“I've ruined your evening, sweetheart.”
Vincent immediately knelt beside her.
“No, Mom. I should have noticed what was happening.”
Anthony gave a humorless laugh.
“That's convenient. You haven't noticed much around here lately.”
Vincent stood.
“Careful.”
“Why? Because you're Vincent Moretti? Because everyone in New York is supposed to be afraid of you?”
“Because she's our mother.”
For the first time, Anthony looked ashamed.
But the expression disappeared quickly.
“You think I wanted to move her? You think I enjoyed any of this?”
I couldn't remain silent.
“You told her she'd lose her home if she didn't cooperate.”
Anthony turned toward me.
“You weren't part of this family fifteen years ago, Emily.”
“No. But I was here yesterday when your mother sat outside the service elevator for forty minutes because her access card wouldn't work.”
Vincent looked at me sharply.
“Forty minutes?”
Helen lowered her head.
“The night attendant was helping someone downstairs.”
“Why didn't you call me?”
She gave him the saddest smile I'd ever seen.
“Because I thought you were the person I wasn't supposed to bother.”
Something changed in Vincent's face.
He looked at Anthony.
“Give me every access card you disabled.”
Anthony hesitated.
“Vincent—”
“Now.”
Anthony took a leather cardholder from his jacket and placed three white cards on the table.
One had HELEN MORETTI printed across it.
Vincent picked it up.
“This is my mother's home. Not your office.”
Then he turned to Helen.
“Mom, we're going to the greenhouse.”
Anthony stepped forward.
“You can't.”
“Watch me.”
“The floor isn't safe. Renovations started Monday.”
Helen looked confused.
“What renovations?”
Vanessa spoke quickly.
“Structural repairs. Anthony was trying to prevent an accident.”
Vincent stared at her.
“Then why didn't anyone tell me?”
Neither answered.
Helen slowly rose, leaning against my arm.
“I can show you where your father kept the box.”
Anthony's expression changed.
“What box?”
Helen looked directly at him.
“The copper one.”
For the first time, I saw genuine fear in Anthony Moretti's eyes.
The greenhouse stood beyond the old stone fountain, surrounded by overgrown rosebushes.
I'd seen it from Helen's bedroom window countless times.
But until that night, I'd never been inside.
The building was narrow, with white-painted iron frames and old glass panels. A climbing rose had spread across the eastern wall.
Helen stopped at the entrance.
“Your father planted that rose the summer Anthony turned sixteen,” she told Vincent.
Anthony looked away.
Vincent took his mother's arm.
“Easy, Mom.”
She smiled faintly.
“Your father always helped me over this threshold.”
I watched Vincent glance down.
The stone step had cracked.
Without a word, he removed his suit jacket, folded it, and placed it over the uneven edge so Helen's slipper wouldn't catch.
It was such a small thing.
But Helen looked at him as though he'd given her something precious.
The brass key turned stiffly in the lock.
Inside, the greenhouse smelled of damp earth, old wood, and roses.
Several empty flowerpots sat along the windows.
A wooden bench stood against the rear wall.
Above it hung a faded photograph of Helen and her husband, smiling beside a row of white roses.
Vincent touched the picture.
“I remember this day.”
Helen nodded.
“You were twelve. Anthony had broken your father's favorite watering can.”
Anthony gave a small, unwilling smile.
“I was trying to fix the handle.”
“You made it worse,” Vincent said.
For one brief second, they sounded like brothers again.
Then Helen pointed beneath the bench.
“There.”
Vincent moved the bench aside.
Beneath it was a rectangular stone slightly different from the others.
He found an old gardening tool and lifted the edge.
A narrow cavity lay underneath.
Inside sat a copper biscuit tin wrapped in faded blue cloth.
Anthony immediately stepped forward.
“Don't open that.”
Vincent looked at him.
“Why?”
“Because Dad put private family records in there.”
“Then they're exactly what we need.”
Anthony's voice sharpened.
“You don't understand what those records could do.”
Vincent removed the lid.
The tin wasn't empty.
Inside were three yellowed envelopes, a photograph, and a small black accounting book with several pages torn from its binding.
Helen let out a trembling breath.
“He kept them.”
I leaned closer.
The photograph showed four men standing outside a waterfront warehouse.
I recognized Vincent's father from the portrait above the mansion's fireplace.
Anthony stood beside him, much younger, wearing a gray jacket.
Another man held a clipboard.
And the fourth—
My heart stopped.
“No.”
Vincent looked at me.
“Emily?”
I reached toward the photograph.
The man standing at the far right had dark hair, broad shoulders, and a familiar crooked smile.
He was younger.
Healthier.
But I knew his face.
“That’s my father.”
Nobody spoke.
“His name is George Parker.”
Anthony closed his eyes.
Helen began crying quietly.
Vincent turned the photograph over.
Written across the back in faded blue ink were five words.
Pier 17. October 14, 2011.
Below them was another sentence.
The second book tells the truth.
Vincent looked at his brother.
“What happened at Pier 17?”
Anthony's mouth tightened.
“There was a warehouse fire.”
“I remember the fire.”
“Then you remember the missing money.”
Vincent frowned.
“The insurance dispute?”
“It wasn't an insurance dispute. Someone diverted money from the employee relief account before the fire.”
I felt sick.
My father had worked around the New York waterfront for years.
He rarely discussed it.
Whenever I asked why he stopped driving trucks, he said the company had downsized.
He'd never mentioned the Morettis.
Helen touched the photograph.
“George was a good man.”
Anthony gave a bitter laugh.
“Mom, don't start.”
“He helped your father that night.”
“He was paid to help him.”
Helen shook her head.
“No.”
Vincent opened the first envelope.
Inside was a faded bank receipt.
At the top was the name MORETTI MARITIME SERVICES.
The amount was circled.
$94,000.
Underneath, in dark ink, was written:
George Parker — Special Disbursement.
I stared at the paper.
Ninety-four thousand dollars.
My father had spent years worrying about electricity bills.
He'd sold his fishing boat to pay for medication.
After his stroke, he'd cried because he couldn't afford to buy me a birthday present.
He had never possessed that kind of money.
“That's impossible,” I whispered.
Anthony looked at me.
“Is it?”
Vincent stepped between us.
“Don't.”
Anthony ignored him.
“You wanted to know who took the money, Vincent?”
He pointed toward the photograph in my hand.
“Ask Emily's father why ninety-four thousand dollars disappeared from our company the same week that warehouse burned.”
My knees weakened.
Then Anthony said something that made the entire greenhouse go silent.
“And ask yourself why Dad personally requested that George Parker never be hired on the waterfront again.”
Helen looked at her younger son.
“Anthony, that's not what happened.”
But Anthony had already reached into the copper tin.
He removed the final envelope and held up a signed payment authorization.
At the bottom was my father's name.
Above it was another signature.
Vincent Moretti.
Vincent stared at the paper.
His face drained of color.
Anthony spoke quietly.
May you like
“You see, brother? Whatever happened at Pier 17, you approved the payment yourself.”
And for the first time that evening, Vincent had absolutely nothing to say.
