Chapter 3 - SOMEONE INSIDE MY HOUSE WAS WATCHING US
“You don’t know anything about her,” I said.
Victoria looked at Emma.
“I know she’s a nanny allowing two-year-olds to tie ropes around her.”
“They were playing.”
“Were you there?”
I stopped.
That was the trap.
Not at first.
Victoria knew it.
Her attorney knew it.
Emma knew it.
“I was supervising them,” Emma said.
Victoria’s eyes narrowed.
“You’re the employee?”
“Yes.”
“Qualifications?”
Emma straightened.
“Master’s in early childhood development. Seven years working with children. Infant and pediatric CPR certification. Former behavioral-support specialist at St. Anne’s Family Center.”
That surprised me.
I knew none of it.
Victoria seemed surprised too.
Her attorney made a note.
Emma continued:
“The rope was soft cotton. It never touched the children’s necks or bodies. I held one end. They held the other. They were less than six feet from me the entire time.”
Victoria looked toward me.
“And your employer?”
“He came outside during the game.”
“After you had already decided this was appropriate.”
“Yes.”
Emma’s voice did not shake.
I was proud of her.
That surprised me more than her résumé.
Victoria left after twenty minutes.
The hearing remained.
The photograph remained.
And one fact became immediately obvious.
Someone inside my estate had taken it.
The angle came from the east terrace.
Restricted access.
Only staff.
I called my security chief, Dante Russo.
“No one leaves until we know who sent that.”
Emma looked at me.
“Matteo.”
It was the first time she used my first name.
I turned.
“You can’t lock employees inside.”
“I can.”
“You shouldn’t.”
“Someone is trying to take my children.”
“And treating everyone like suspects will make this house feel safer?”
Damn her.
I looked at Dante.
“Document departures. Don’t detain anyone.”
Emma nodded.
Like she had won something.
She probably had.
Security logs narrowed the photograph to nine staff members.
Chef.
Two housekeepers.
Groundskeeper.
Assistant house manager.
Two guards.
Emma.
And Nadia Perez, the night nanny who covered Emma’s days off.
“Nadia,” Emma whispered.
“What?”
“She was on the terrace yesterday.”
“Why?”
“She said she was looking for one of the boys’ cups.”
Dante checked.
Nadia had accessed the terrace at 3:17.
The photograph’s metadata showed 3:19.
I called her downstairs.
Nadia arrived trembling.
Twenty-six.
Worked here six months.
Good references.
No disciplinary issues.
I showed her the picture.
Her face crumpled.
“I’m sorry.”
Emma inhaled sharply.
“You took it?”
Nadia nodded.
“Why?”
“I didn’t send it to Ms. Bellini.”
“Who did you send it to?”
Nadia started crying.
“Mr. Moretti, I have a brother.”
Not the answer.
“What about him?”
“He owes money.”
My blood cooled.
“To who?”
She whispered:
“Salvatore Greco.”
I knew the name.
Everybody in my world did.
Greco controlled gambling rooms and loan-sharking operations in Brooklyn.
He had been trying to force his way into one of my construction contracts for a year.
I refused.
“What did Greco want?”
“Pictures. Information.”
My jaw tightened.
“What information?”
“When you travel. Who comes here. The boys’ schedule.”
Emma went white.
“You told him where the children go?”
“No!”
Nadia cried harder.
“I swear. I never gave addresses. I only sent harmless things. Staff schedules. Photos.”
“There is no harmless surveillance inside my children’s home.”
She looked down.
“He said if I didn’t help, my brother would disappear.”
That changed nothing.
And everything.
“What did he do with the photograph?”
“I don’t know.”
“He sent it to Victoria.”
“Maybe.”
Dante asked:
“Did Greco ever mention Ms. Bellini?”
“No.”
“Her lawyer?”
“No.”
Victoria could be innocent.
Or connected through someone else.
I looked at Emma.
She was watching Nadia differently than I expected.
Not anger.
Understanding.
“You should have told someone,” Emma said quietly.
“I was scared.”
“So you made the boys less safe.”
Nadia covered her face.
“I know.”
We called police.
Not my men.
Police.
That surprised Nadia.
It probably surprised Dante too.
Nadia agreed to cooperate.
Her brother was located that afternoon.
Alive.
Beaten badly.
That made the threat real.
Greco’s people had used fear exactly as intended.
But the custody case was still our bigger problem.
My attorney, Julia Hart, arrived that evening.
“Victoria’s petition is stronger than you think.”
“Explain.”
“Your travel.”
“I’ll stop.”
“Behavioral reports.”
“They’re grieving.”
“Yes, but Liam’s pediatrician recommended family therapy three months ago.”
I looked at Emma.
She looked away.
“What?”
Julia stared.
“You didn’t know?”
No.
I had not known.
Reports again.
Somewhere in the hundreds of messages and files I skimmed between meetings, a recommendation had existed.
I had missed it.
“Why wasn’t it scheduled?” I asked.
Emma answered carefully.
“It was.”
“What?”
“Twice.”
My chest tightened.
“You canceled the first appointment because of Boston.”
I remembered none of this.
“The second?”
“Your office moved it because you had investors flying in.”
There it was.
I had not refused therapy.
I had simply treated it like anything else that could move when business demanded.
Victoria’s case suddenly felt less ridiculous.
I sat.
Emma said nothing.
That made it worse.
“Tell me.”
“What?”
“What else am I missing?”
She hesitated.
Then:
“Leo wakes up calling for his mother about twice a week.”
My chest hurt.
“Lucas hides food under his bed.”
“Why?”
“Kids sometimes do that after loss. It makes them feel like something can’t disappear.”
I swallowed.
“And Liam?”
Emma looked toward the upstairs hallway.
“He has started saying ‘Mama’ again.”
I froze.
“He says it?”
“Yes.”
“To who?”
Her face changed.
“I don’t know.”
Liar.
“Emma.”
She looked miserable.
“Sometimes when he’s half asleep, he calls me Mama.”
Something sharp moved through me.
Again—not jealousy.
Grief.
“My son thinks you’re his mother.”
“No.”
She came closer.
“He knows I’m Emma.”
“You just said—”
“He misses the feeling of being held by her. Sometimes his brain reaches for the closest word.”
I looked away.
“He doesn’t think I’m Isabella.”
“How do you know?”
“Because every morning he points to her picture and says Mama.”
My eyes burned.
I had not heard that.
Because I wasn’t there in the mornings.
That night, I went into the nursery after midnight.
All three boys slept.
I sat between their beds.
At 1:13, Liam woke.
He looked around.
Saw me.
For several seconds, neither of us moved.
Then he whispered:
“Daddy.”
One word.
Tiny.
Clear.
I had not heard him say it since Isabella died.
I covered my mouth.
He reached toward me.
I lifted him.
His head settled against my chest.
I stayed there until morning.
At seven, Emma entered.
She stopped when she saw us.
I whispered:
“He said Daddy.”
Her eyes filled.
“I know.”
“You knew?”
“He’s been practicing.”
That broke me.
My son had been practicing my name while I flew between cities pretending money was fatherhood.
Emma did not say that.
She didn’t have to.
Then Dante appeared at the door.
“Sir.”
I looked up.
“What?”
“We traced the email that sent the photograph to Victoria’s attorney.”
“Greco?”
“No.”
“Then who?”
His face was grim.
“It came from an account registered to Isabella Moretti.”
My dead wife.
For a second, the room tilted.
“That’s impossible.”
Dante nodded.
“Yes.”
Then he added:
“Someone has been using Mrs. Moretti’s old email for months.”
And suddenly the custody fight was no longer just about Victoria.
May you like
Someone was speaking with my dead wife’s identity.
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