Chapter 2 - THE LITTLE GIRL WHO THOUGHT CHRISTMAS HAD BEEN CANCELED
“I didn't sign that paper, Mia. And I promise you, nobody is going to throw you out into the cold tonight.”
Nicholas Moretti's voice was steady.
But I could see his hand trembling around the telephone.
On the other end, seven-year-old Mia Reyes was crying.
“Then why does the paper have your name?”
Nicholas closed his eyes.
“Someone made a terrible mistake, sweetheart. I'm going to find out who.”
“Can you bring my mommy?”
His expression changed.
“Where is your mother?”
Mia hesitated.
“She went to see our new house. She said she'd come back before dinner.”
I glanced at the clock.
It was almost ten.
Nicholas leaned forward.
“Has anyone heard from her?”
“No.”
A woman's voice interrupted. It belonged to Mrs. Alvarez, the shelter director.
“Mr. Moretti, I'm sorry. Mia is frightened. We're trying to get everyone somewhere warm.”
Nicholas stood.
“Keep the families together. I'm coming.”
He ended the call.
Then he turned to his security chief, Daniel Russo.
“Get the trucks ready. All three hundred coats.”
Daniel nodded.
“And the gala, sir?”
Nicholas looked toward the ballroom.
Three hundred wealthy guests were celebrating beneath chandeliers while twelve families stood outside a shelter without enough heat.
“Stop the music.”
I had worked for Nicholas for nearly two years.
I'd seen him angry before.
But I'd never heard him speak so quietly.
Daniel disappeared into the hallway.
Nicholas picked up Mia's little red jacket from his desk.
“Emma, you're coming with me.”
Before I could answer, Vanessa appeared.
“Coming where?”
Her diamond earrings glittered beneath the hallway lights.
Nicholas didn't look at her.
“St. Mary's.”
Vanessa's smile vanished.
“Absolutely not. The mayor's business adviser is here. The donors are waiting for your speech.”
“My speech can wait.”
“Darling, we've spent two hundred thousand dollars on this evening.”
Nicholas turned.
“And someone has spent the last ten days trying to destroy my mother's charity.”
For one brief second, Vanessa looked frightened.
Then she recovered.
“You're being manipulated by people who want free housing.”
I felt my face grow hot.
“These are families with children, ma'am.”
Vanessa pointed at me.
“Nobody asked you.”
Nicholas stepped between us.
“Don't speak to Emma that way again.”
Vanessa stared at him.
“You're choosing a maid over your future wife?”
“I'm choosing to find out why twelve families are being threatened on Christmas Eve.”
He walked past her.
I followed.
Behind us, Vanessa said something that made my stomach tighten.
“You have no idea what you're interfering with, Nicholas.”
He stopped.
“Then perhaps you should explain it.”
She said nothing.
Twenty minutes later, our vehicles pulled outside St. Mary's Shelter.
The building was an aging four-story brick structure near a narrow Philadelphia street.
Christmas lights hung above its entrance.
Only half were working.
Families huddled beneath the awning.
I recognized several children from the donation program.
A little boy named Tyler was wearing sneakers with holes near the toes.
An elderly woman held a sleeping baby beneath her coat.
And standing beside Mrs. Alvarez was Mia.
She was smaller than I remembered.
Her dark hair was braided unevenly.
She wore a thin pink sweater and held a handmade paper ornament against her chest.
When Nicholas stepped from the vehicle, she ran toward him.
“Mr. Nick!”
He knelt.
She threw her arms around his neck.
I watched his face change.
The powerful man who frightened half the businessmen in Philadelphia was suddenly holding a little girl as carefully as if she were made of glass.
“Where's Santa supposed to find us?” she whispered.
Nicholas swallowed.
“Right here, sweetheart. We'll make sure he knows.”
I brought her red jacket from the truck.
“Look what I saved for you.”
Mia's eyes widened.
“My coat!”
She touched the name she'd written on the label.
“I put my name on it so nobody would forget me.”
My throat tightened.
“Nobody forgot you, honey.”
She slipped her arms into the sleeves.
They were slightly too long.
Nicholas gently folded the cuffs back.
Then Mrs. Alvarez approached.
“Mr. Moretti, there's something you need to see.”
Inside, the shelter was colder than the street.
The radiators were barely warm.
The dining room smelled of old coffee and damp winter clothing.
Mrs. Alvarez showed us a notice taped beside the office door.
PROPERTY VACATED BY DECEMBER 24.
Beneath it was the name of Whitmore Urban Development.
Vanessa's father's company.
Nicholas examined the notice.
“Where's the court order?”
“There isn't one,” Mrs. Alvarez admitted. “Their representative said we could avoid trouble if everyone left voluntarily.”
“Did anyone agree?”
“Not willingly.”
She handed him a folder.
Inside were relocation agreements for the families.
According to the paperwork, they had consented to move into temporary housing at 1418 Hart Street.
Mrs. Alvarez shook her head.
“We asked to inspect that property. They refused.”
Nicholas studied the address.
“Who organized these agreements?”
“A man named Brendan Pike. He works for Oliver Whitmore.”
My heart sank.
Oliver Whitmore was Vanessa's father.
Mrs. Alvarez continued.
“He told us the Moretti Foundation had approved everything.”
Nicholas looked up.
“It didn't.”
“Then why did he have your signature?”
He couldn't answer.
I noticed something else.
Several families had signed forms with identical witness dates and times.
Yet Mrs. Alvarez said some of those people hadn't even been present that day.
One woman had been at the hospital with her son.
Another had been working a night shift.
“Mr. Moretti,” I said, “these dates don't make sense.”
He examined them.
Then his jaw tightened.
“Daniel, photograph every page.”
We spent the next forty minutes helping families collect medicine, blankets, and small bags of clothing.
Nicholas arranged warm rooms at a nearby hotel.
Not a temporary photo opportunity.
He paid for a week and told Mrs. Alvarez the rooms would remain available until safe housing was secured.
I watched him carry a suitcase for an elderly woman who kept apologizing for needing help.
“You have nothing to apologize for,” he told her.
But while we were moving the families, a black SUV stopped outside.
A heavyset man stepped onto the sidewalk.
He wore a gray overcoat and carried a leather briefcase.
Mrs. Alvarez stiffened.
“That's Brendan Pike.”
Pike approached Nicholas with a practiced smile.
“Mr. Moretti. I wasn't expecting you.”
“Clearly.”
Pike glanced at the trucks.
“I'm afraid you're interfering with an approved relocation.”
Nicholas held up the notice.
“Approved by whom?”
“Your foundation.”
“Show me.”
Pike opened his briefcase.
He removed a second folder.
“This is the authorization, including confirmation from your designated relocation coordinator.”
He turned the document toward Nicholas.
I looked down.
And my blood went cold.
My name appeared across the bottom.
EMMA SULLIVAN.
Beneath it was a signature that looked almost exactly like mine.
I shook my head.
“I never signed that.”
Pike raised an eyebrow.
“Then perhaps you'd like to explain why the foundation paid you?”
Nicholas stared at him.
“What payment?”
Pike pulled out another page.
A bank transfer confirmation.
The recipient was listed as Emma Sullivan.
The amount was forty-six thousand dollars.
For securing the cooperation of twelve families.
I couldn't breathe.
“That money isn't mine.”
Pike smiled.
“Then someone has been extremely generous with your name.”
Nicholas slowly turned toward me.
For the first time that evening, I saw uncertainty in his eyes.
May you like
And then Pike said the words that nearly destroyed me.
“Mr. Moretti, according to these records, your housekeeper was paid to help remove those children from the building.”
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