Chapter 3 - THE WOMAN WHO KNEW HOW LUCA'S MOTHER DIED
“Bring Vanessa back.”
Luca's order was barely louder than a whisper.
Daniel was already moving.
“She's heading toward Lake Shore Drive. We've got traffic cameras on the route.”
“Don't approach until you know where Mrs. Carter is.”
Luca looked at the image again.
For ten months, I had watched Mrs. Carter run the Moretti household with more authority than some corporate executives.
She could silence an argument with a raised eyebrow. She remembered everyone's birthday. She knew when the gardener's daughter had exams and when the kitchen staff needed additional time off.
She had been employed by the Moretti family for nearly twenty years.
And now she was sitting beside a woman who might have murdered Luca's mother.
“Mr. Moretti,” I said, “she tried to warn us.”
Luca looked at me.
“I know.”
“If we hadn't stayed at the pool house—”
“You'd be dead.”
His words were direct.
Brutally simple.
I looked toward the burning building.
The windows were gone. Smoke poured into the night, and firefighters were dragging equipment across the lawn.
An hour earlier, I had been worried about losing a few hours of pay.
Now I was wondering whether I'd live until morning.
Luca seemed to understand.
“Daniel will have someone take you home.”
I shook my head.
“No.”
“Laura.”
“Mrs. Carter came looking for me because she knew something. I'm not leaving while she's missing.”
He studied me.
“This isn't your responsibility.”
“She gave me this job when I couldn't afford groceries. She covered my shift when my mother was sick. She made sure I got paid when I had to take her to the hospital.”
My throat tightened.
“She matters to me.”
Something softened in Luca's face.
Then his phone rang.
Ethan Shaw.
Luca answered.
“Tell me you found something.”
I watched him listen.
His expression darkened.
“Send it.”
A moment later, an email appeared.
Luca opened the attachment.
It contained three pages of financial records.
The first showed a transfer of $6.8 million from the Moretti Family Housing Trust to a company called Harbor Crest Development.
The transfer had taken place eight years earlier.
Four days before Teresa Moretti died.
The second document showed an authorization signed by Teresa herself.
The third contained the name of the witness.
Vanessa Bellini.
Luca stared at the page.
“That isn't possible.”
“Why?” I asked.
“My mother couldn't hold a pen during her final week.”
He turned the document toward me.
The signature was smooth.
Perfect.
Nothing like something written by a woman recovering from a devastating stroke.
“Someone forged it,” I whispered.
Luca nodded.
“And my mother died before anyone questioned it.”
Ethan said something through the phone.
Luca's jaw tightened.
“What do you mean the company no longer exists?”
He listened.
“Who owns its assets?”
A long silence followed.
Then Luca said, “Find every property. Every account. Every signature.”
He ended the call.
“Harbor Crest was dissolved three years ago. Its properties were transferred through several holding companies.”
“To whom?”
“We don't know yet.”
I looked at Vanessa's name on the document.
“She was there when your mother was dying.”
“Yes.”
“But she told you she didn't know your family before the charity gala.”
Luca folded the papers.
“She's been lying since the first day we met.”
A black SUV pulled into the driveway.
Inside was Dr. Harris, carrying a medical bag.
Luca had ordered him to examine my arm again after the explosion.
I protested.
Luca ignored me.
“Sit down, Laura.”
I sat.
Dr. Harris removed my bandage beneath the lights of the garden terrace.
His expression changed when he examined the bruises.
“These weren't caused by a fall.”
“No,” I admitted.
“Someone grabbed you hard enough to damage the tissue.”
Luca stood a few feet away.
His hands tightened at his sides.
Dr. Harris gently cleaned the scrape.
“Do you feel any numbness?”
“A little.”
“Then I want an X-ray tomorrow. No lifting heavy objects until we know there's no deeper injury.”
I tried to laugh.
“Does carrying trays count?”
Luca answered before the doctor could.
“You're not carrying another tray in this house.”
My face warmed.
“Mr. Moretti, I still need my job.”
“You have your job.”
“Doing what?”
He looked at me.
“Whatever you choose, after you've healed.”
I didn't know how to answer.
Nobody had ever offered me a choice that easily.
Then Daniel returned.
“We found Vanessa's car.”
Luca turned.
“Where?”
“Abandoned in a parking structure near the river.”
“Mrs. Carter?”
“No sign of her.”
“Vanessa?”
“Gone.”
Daniel hesitated.
“But someone left something in the back seat.”
He handed Luca a photograph.
It showed a younger Teresa Moretti sitting in a hospital bed.
Beside her stood Vanessa.
And on the other side of the bed was a man I recognized from the estate's family photographs.
Dennis Halpern.
Luca's chief financial officer.
The man who had managed his family accounts for twelve years.
Luca stared at him.
Then called Ethan again.
“Where's Dennis?”
A pause.
“At home, according to his assistant.”
“Get him on the phone.”
Three minutes later, Dennis answered.
His voice came through the speaker, smooth and mildly irritated.
“Luca? Is something wrong?”
“Why were you in my mother's hospital room with Vanessa Bellini?”
Silence.
“I'm sorry?”
“Eight years ago. I have a photograph.”
Dennis cleared his throat.
“I handled financial matters for your mother. You know that.”
“And Vanessa?”
“I don't remember meeting anyone by that name.”
Luca looked at the photograph.
“Think carefully.”
A longer pause followed.
“I saw a great many people during that period.”
“Dennis.”
“Yes?”
“Don't leave Chicago.”
Luca ended the call.
Daniel looked at him.
“He's going to run.”
“Not if we reach him first.”
But Dennis didn't answer another call.
His home security system showed that someone had left through the rear garage nineteen minutes earlier.
Before Luca confronted him.
Someone had warned him.
By midnight, the estate was surrounded by investigators and police.
The pool-house fire had been classified as deliberate.
Peter Doran had been taken to the hospital with minor injuries.
And Mrs. Carter was still missing.
I should have gone home.
Instead, I sat in the kitchen with a cup of tea I couldn't drink.
The house felt wrong.
Too quiet.
The flowers from the engagement dinner still decorated the hall.
Champagne glasses waited beside the sink.
On a silver tray near the staircase sat a stack of invitations printed in beautiful gold lettering.
Luca Moretti and Vanessa Bellini request the pleasure of your company...
I looked away.
A door opened behind me.
Luca entered.
His jacket was gone. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, exposing the dark tattoos along his forearms.
He looked exhausted.
“Why are you still awake?”
“I was wondering the same thing about you.”
He sat across from me.
For a moment, we simply looked at one another.
Then he spoke.
“My mother loved this kitchen.”
I hadn't expected that.
“She used to sit right where you are. Every Sunday morning. She'd drink coffee and complain that the cooks didn't understand how to make pancakes.”
I smiled faintly.
“Was she right?”
“Usually.”
His mouth twitched.
Then the smile disappeared.
“She asked me to visit her the night before she died.”
I waited.
“I was in New York. I had business I thought couldn't wait.”
His eyes lowered.
“I told her I'd come Monday.”
“And?”
“She died Sunday morning.”
I felt something painful settle between us.
“I never heard what she wanted to tell me.”
“Maybe she just wanted to see her son.”
Luca looked at me.
“That's what I told myself for eight years.”
I reached across the table.
Then hesitated.
He noticed.
“It's all right.”
I placed my hand over his.
Only for a moment.
His fingers were warm.
“Whatever happened,” I said, “you didn't know.”
He stared at our hands.
“No. But somebody did.”
A phone began ringing in the hallway.
Daniel appeared almost immediately.
“Boss, we've got a call on the private line.”
“Who?”
“A woman. She says she won't speak to anyone else.”
Luca stood.
I followed him to the study.
Daniel activated the speaker.
“I'm here,” Luca said.
A weak voice answered.
“Luca?”
He went completely still.
“Mrs. Carter?”
I grabbed the back of a chair.
The voice trembled.
“I'm sorry.”
“Where are you?”
“I don't know.”
“Are you hurt?”
A faint sound came through the phone.
Someone breathing nearby.
Then Mrs. Carter whispered, “Your mother knew.”
Luca's expression changed.
“Knew what?”
“About Vanessa. About the money. About what they were doing.”
“Who?”
“Dennis. Vanessa. And another man.”
“Who was he?”
Mrs. Carter began crying.
“I should have told you years ago.”
“Tell me now.”
“She didn't die from the stroke, Luca.”
The room went silent.
“She was getting better. Dr. Mercer said she might come home.”
“Then what happened?”
Mrs. Carter's voice broke.
“Someone changed her medication.”
I pressed a hand over my mouth.
Luca didn't move.
“Who did it?”
“I saw a woman leaving her room.”
“Vanessa?”
“No.”
Luca frowned.
“Then who?”
Mrs. Carter took a shaking breath.
“Her name was Elaine Bennett.”
I felt the floor shift beneath my feet.
Elaine Bennett.
My mother.
Luca slowly turned toward me.
The phone crackled.
Mrs. Carter continued.
“She was the last nurse I saw go into Teresa's room before the alarms started.”
I couldn't speak.
My mother had worked at St. Agnes Medical Center for almost twenty years.
She had never mentioned Teresa Moretti.
Not once.
Then another voice came through the phone.
Smooth.
Female.
Almost amused.
“Hello, darling.”
Vanessa.
Luca grabbed the receiver.
“Where is Mrs. Carter?”
“Oh, she's fine. For now.”
“If you hurt her—”
“Please, Luca. Threats are so unattractive.”
He gripped the edge of the desk.
“What do you want?”
Vanessa laughed softly.
“I want you to ask your little housekeeper one question.”
Her voice became colder.
“Ask Laura why her mother kept the photograph of Teresa Moretti hidden for eight years.”
My heart began pounding.
Because suddenly I remembered something.
A photograph inside my mother's sewing box.
A woman in a hospital bed.
A handwritten note on the back.
I had seen it when I was nineteen.
And I had never asked who the woman was.
Vanessa seemed to know exactly what I was thinking.
“Go home, Laura,” she said sweetly. “Open the sewing box.”
May you like
Then she added the words that made my knees go weak.
“And ask your mother why Teresa Moretti begged her to save her son.”
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