Chapter 8 - THE PRICE OF SIX STOLEN CHRISTMASES
“The man who signs the Christmas checks.”
Alexander looked at Victor.
His uncle did not move.
For several seconds, the only sound in Gabriel's bedroom was the gentle ticking of a clock.
“Did you order Daniel Carter's death?” Alexander asked.
Emily stood beside the bed, one hand covering her mouth.
Victor's expression changed.
Not anger.
Not defiance.
Something worse.
Recognition.
“No,” he whispered.
Alexander stepped closer.
“Then explain.”
Victor looked at the music box.
“The Christmas checks weren't mine.”
Marcus frowned.
“You were the chairman.”
“I signed the approvals. But the funds were distributed through Vale's charitable trust.”
Alexander stared.
“Richard Vale.”
Victor nodded.
“Every December, he insisted on processing the foundation's largest transfers himself.”
Emily's voice trembled.
“Daniel noticed?”
“Yes.”
Victor looked directly at her.
“Your husband discovered the same patient names appearing in multiple reimbursement accounts. He believed the payments were fraudulent.”
Emily's eyes filled.
“He came home frightened that night.”
Victor lowered his head.
“I know.”
“You knew he was frightened?”
“Yes.”
“And you did nothing?”
Victor closed his eyes.
“I told him to stop investigating.”
Emily stepped forward.
“He had a wife and a baby.”
“I know.”
“He was trying to protect us.”
Victor's voice broke.
“And I should have protected him.”
For a moment, nobody spoke.
Then Alexander turned toward Marcus.
“Get the recorder copied. Preserve the original.”
Marcus nodded.
“And contact the investigators handling Ravenswood.”
Victor looked up sharply.
“Alexander, you can't involve them yet.”
Alexander turned.
“Why?”
“Because Vale still has Isabella.”
The words struck like ice.
Alexander looked toward Gabriel.
The child was sitting on his bed, quietly turning the pages of a picture book.
He had heard enough adult voices to know something was wrong.
Alexander lowered his voice.
“Then we find her before Vale knows what we've discovered.”
Victor shook his head.
“He already knows.”
Alexander stared.
Victor removed a folded boarding pass from his robe pocket.
It bore the name of a private aviation company.
He placed it on the dresser.
“Vale ordered Isabella transferred this morning.”
“Where?”
“I don't know.”
Alexander's expression hardened.
“You expect me to believe that?”
Victor met his eyes.
“For years, I controlled where she lived. I thought that meant I was keeping her safe.”
“And now?”
“Now Vale has taken that control away.”
Alexander looked at the man who had helped raise him.
He had once admired Victor's ability to manipulate any situation.
Now he saw the truth beneath that talent.
Victor had built a prison for Isabella.
And eventually, someone more powerful had taken the keys.
Emily moved toward Gabriel.
“Sweetheart, would you like to help me make breakfast?”
Gabriel looked surprised.
“It's nighttime.”
Emily smiled gently.
“Then maybe some toast.”
He considered this.
“With jelly?”
“Absolutely.”
The boy climbed from the bed.
Before leaving, he approached Alexander.
“Uncle Alex?”
Alexander crouched.
“Yes?”
“Is Mommy coming back?”
Alexander felt his throat tighten.
He looked at the little boy who had been taught to call another man Daddy.
“I am going to do everything I can to bring her home.”
Gabriel studied his face.
Then he nodded.
“Okay.”
He took Emily's hand and left.
Alexander watched him go.
He knew better than to promise a child what he could not guarantee.
But he also knew he could never abandon that promise.
Marcus examined the music box again.
“The numbers are not ordinary account references.”
Alexander looked up.
“What are they?”
“Some match transfer entries in the foundation's annual filings. Others appear to be dates.”
Victor leaned closer.
Marcus pointed.
“December twenty-fourth. Six years ago.”
Alexander froze.
The night Isabella came to Emily's apartment.
Another date.
The day Daniel Carter died.
Another.
The day Ravenswood transferred Isabella to a different treatment unit.
Emily returned and heard Marcus reading them aloud.
She stopped.
“Those dates aren't random.”
Alexander looked at her.
“Why?”
“Daniel kept a pocket calendar.”
She swallowed.
“He marked important financial transactions with red ink.”
“Do you still have it?”
Emily nodded.
“It's in a box at my apartment.”
Alexander felt the pieces beginning to align.
“Let's go.”
But Victor stopped him.
“Before you leave, you need to understand something about Richard Vale.”
Alexander turned.
Victor looked exhausted.
“Vale wasn't always your enemy.”
“I know.”
“No,” Victor said quietly. “You don't.”
He walked toward a cabinet and removed an old photograph.
It showed Alexander's father standing beside two younger men.
Victor.
And Richard Vale.
Behind them stood the original Moretti construction office.
Alexander recognized the photograph.
His father had kept a copy in his study.
“What about it?”
Victor pointed to Vale.
“Your father saved his life once.”
Alexander frowned.
“During the dockworkers' dispute?”
Victor nodded.
“Vale owed our family everything. But when your father decided to leave the criminal side of the business, Vale refused to let him go.”
Alexander felt a chill.
His father had died twenty years earlier.
Officially, of a heart attack.
Victor continued.
“Your father discovered the first fraudulent medical contracts.”
Alexander stared.
“You're telling me this started before Isabella?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
Victor looked ashamed.
“Because I helped create it.”
Alexander stepped back.
The room felt suddenly smaller.
For years, he had believed his empire was inherited from his father.
But part of it had been built on lies even older than his marriage.
He turned toward the window.
Below, snow covered the gardens.
He remembered his father telling him that a family's name meant nothing if its children were afraid to carry it.
Alexander had spent years making the Moretti name feared.
He had forgotten it was supposed to mean something else.
“I'm ending this,” he said.
Victor looked at him.
“You could lose everything.”
Alexander turned.
“I've already lost six years with my wife and son.”
His voice remained calm.
“Everything else is negotiable.”
At Emily's apartment, the contrast with the Moretti estate was striking.
The building was old.
The hallway smelled of cooked onions and laundry detergent.
A small Christmas wreath hung crookedly on her door.
Inside, toys filled one corner of the living room.
A school photograph of Noah stood on the mantel.
Alexander noticed a patched blue blanket folded over the sofa.
Emily caught his glance.
“I've been meaning to replace it.”
“Why?”
“It's old.”
“It looks comfortable.”
She smiled faintly.
“It is.”
For the first time, Alexander understood how little wealth had to do with feeling at home.
Emily retrieved a cardboard box from beneath her bed.
Inside were Daniel's belongings.
A wallet.
A watch with a cracked face.
Several photographs.
And a small black calendar.
Emily opened it with trembling hands.
Red ink filled the pages.
Marcus compared the dates with the engraving on the music box.
They matched.
Then he stopped at a page marked December twenty-fourth.
“Look.”
Beneath the date was a handwritten note.
V. APPROVED. R. TRANSFERRED. A. MUST NEVER KNOW.
Alexander stared.
“V for Victor. R for Richard. A for Alexander.”
Emily turned another page.
A newspaper clipping fell out.
It showed a Christmas charity gala.
Richard Vale stood beside Isabella.
Victor stood behind them.
But there was another man in the photograph.
Alexander's former chief financial officer.
Thomas Greer.
He had disappeared shortly after Isabella's funeral.
Alexander had assumed he'd stolen money and fled.
Marcus studied the photograph.
“Greer handled the foundation's private accounts.”
Alexander nodded slowly.
“And if he left because he knew something?”
Emily looked at the calendar.
“There may be more.”
She turned to the final page.
Daniel had written a single sentence.
IF THEY KILL ME, CHECK THE WATCH.
Emily froze.
She looked at the cracked watch lying in the box.
Alexander gently picked it up.
The back was loose.
Inside, beneath the mechanism, was a tiny folded strip of paper.
He opened it carefully.
There were no account numbers.
No names.
Only an address.
A small church outside Hartford.
And a date.
December twenty-fifth.
Christmas Day.
Below it were four words.
ISABELLA KNOWS THE TRUTH.
Emily stared at the note.
Alexander looked toward Marcus.
“Find out what happens at that church on Christmas Day.”
Marcus checked the address.
Then his face changed.
“Boss.”
Alexander looked up.
“What?”
Marcus turned the phone toward him.
The church had one private event scheduled for Christmas morning.
A memorial service.
May you like
For the late Isabella Moretti.
And the person who had reserved the chapel was Richard Vale.
