Chapter 4 - THE KEY DOMINIC NEVER GAVE ME
“You had something belonging to my father for twelve years?”
Dominic did not defend himself.
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“In a secure vault.”
“Why?”
“Because Elias made me promise.”
“My father made you promise to hide something from me?”
“To keep it away from you until the people responsible for his death were gone.”
“And apparently they’re not.”
“No.”
I held out my hand.
“Give me the key.”
“Emma.”
“Now.”
“No.”
I almost climbed out of bed.
The medical monitor objected loudly.
Dominic stepped forward.
“Your temperature dropped below ninety degrees two hours ago. You are not marching into a bank in the middle of the night.”
“Then tomorrow.”
He hesitated.
That was enough.
“Tomorrow.”
“All right.”
“Say it.”
“Tomorrow, I’ll take you to the box.”
I settled back.
“Good.”
At 9:15 the next morning, Chicago looked reborn beneath fresh snow.
Fireworks debris still littered the streets.
The city had entered a new year.
Mine felt twelve years older.
Dominic canceled every meeting.
By ten, we were inside the private basement level of Lake City Trust.
Marco came with us.
Lily did not.
I had not forgiven her.
Not yet.
A bank manager led us through three security doors.
Dominic removed a narrow brass key from an envelope.
E.C. had been scratched into the metal.
My father’s initials.
I touched them.
For the first time, Dominic looked genuinely ashamed.
“I should have told you sooner.”
“Yes.”
“I thought distance was safety.”
“And how did that work out?”
His mouth tightened.
“You almost died.”
There was no defense against that.
The box was larger than I expected.
Inside sat a brown leather notebook.
Three flash drives.
A photograph.
A sealed envelope with my name.
I forgot how to breathe.
The handwriting was Dad’s.
EMMA.
I touched the envelope but couldn’t open it.
Not yet.
The photograph came first.
My father stood outside a freight warehouse.
Beside him was Dominic.
Younger.
Harder.
And beside Dominic stood another man.
Silver hair.
Expensive coat.
A hand resting comfortably on Dominic’s shoulder.
I knew him.
Everyone in the Moretti organization knew him.
Enzo Moretti.
Dominic’s uncle.
The man who had raised Dominic after his father died.
The honorary chairman of Moretti Holdings.
The smiling older gentleman who sent every female employee flowers on her birthday.
“Why is Enzo in this picture?”
Dominic’s face became guarded.
“That warehouse belonged to North Shore.”
I opened the notebook.
My father’s handwriting filled page after page.
Payments.
Dates.
Companies.
Initials.
E.M.
Again.
Again.
Again.
I looked at Dominic.
“You knew.”
“No.”
“You suspected.”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“Twelve years.”
Rage returned.
“You spent twelve years having Christmas dinner with the man you thought murdered my father?”
“I spent twelve years trying to prove it.”
“Apparently not very hard.”
Marco stepped forward.
“Emma.”
I turned on him.
“No.”
He stopped.
Dominic didn’t.
“You’re right.”
That silenced me.
He looked at the notebook.
“I told myself I needed evidence strong enough that nobody inside the family could bury it.”
“Your family.”
“Yes.”
“And every year you didn’t find enough, I continued believing Dad died in a robbery.”
“Yes.”
There was pain in the answer.
It did not erase mine.
I opened the envelope.
My hands shook so badly Dominic reached toward me.
I pulled away.
The letter began:
My Emmy,
If you are reading this, something went wrong.
I stopped.
Dad had called me Emmy when I was little.
I had not heard it in twelve years.
I forced myself forward.
I need you to know first that none of this was your responsibility. Not my work. Not my choices. Not whatever happens after.
Tears blurred the page.
There is a young man named Dominic Moretti. You may hear terrible things about his family. Some of them will be true. But Dominic tried to stop what I found. If I cannot protect you, I have asked him to do it.
I looked up.
Dominic’s eyes were red.
I continued.
He will hate that responsibility. He may also take it too seriously. If he starts acting like he owns your life, remind him I asked him to protect you, not imprison you.
A broken laugh escaped me.
Dominic looked almost offended by a dead man.
“Your father was opinionated.”
“He knew you.”
Apparently very well.
The final paragraph changed everything.
The ledger is incomplete. The proof that matters is not in this box. I put it somewhere Enzo would never think to look because he does not understand ordinary people.
My eyes stopped on the name.
Enzo.
Not initials.
Not suspicion.
A name.
Dad continued.
If Dominic has kept his word, ask him about the New Year photograph. He will know what I mean.
I lowered the letter.
“What New Year photograph?”
Dominic stared at the wall.
“Dominic.”
Marco muttered, “Damn it.”
I looked between them.
“What?”
Dominic finally spoke.
“The last New Year’s Eve your father was alive, he came to a Moretti family party.”
“So?”
“He took a photograph.”
“Of what?”
“Enzo meeting someone he wasn’t supposed to know.”
“Who?”
“A federal prosecutor who died six months later.”
My pulse raced.
“Where is the photograph?”
“We never found it.”
Dad said proof was somewhere Enzo would never think to look.
Ordinary people.
I remembered my mother’s house.
Old albums.
Holiday boxes.
The cheap photo frames she refused to throw away.
“Mom.”
Dominic understood instantly.
We left the bank.
My mother lived in Evanston.
She opened the door and nearly fainted when she saw Dominic Moretti standing on her porch.
“Emma?”
“I need Dad’s old New Year’s photographs.”
Color disappeared from her face.
That told me everything.
“You know.”
Mom sat down.
For twelve years she had protected the lie.
Not all of it.
But enough.
“Your father told me if anybody ever came asking about New Year’s Eve, I was to burn the photographs.”
“Did you?”
She shook her head.
“Why?”
“Because they were the last pictures of him.”
She led us to the attic.
Twenty minutes later, we found the album.
December 31.
Twelve years earlier.
Dad smiling beside a Christmas tree.
Mom holding champagne.
Me at nineteen wearing a dress I hated.
Then the final photograph.
Taken through a window.
Enzo Moretti stood in an alley beside North Shore headquarters.
He was handing an envelope to Assistant U.S. Attorney Leonard Graves.
Behind them was Peter Rinaldi.
The man who had locked me outside.
Dominic stared at the photograph.
“This proves Enzo knew Graves.”
Marco whispered, “Not murder.”
“No.”
I turned the picture over.
My father had written something on the back.
11:47 P.M. — ENZO PAID GRAVES. PETER SAW ME.
Dominic went completely still.
Peter had seen Dad take the photograph.
Three days later, Dad died.
Then my mother whispered from behind us:
“There’s more.”
We turned.
She looked directly at Dominic.
“Elias called me the night he died.”
My heart stopped.
“He said Enzo had discovered the ledger.”
“Mom…”
Her voice shook.
“And he said if he didn’t come home, I was never to trust a Moretti.”
Dominic absorbed the blow silently.
Then Mom added:
“Not even you.”
Before anyone could respond, Marco’s phone rang.
He answered.
His expression changed immediately.
“What?”
A pause.
Then he looked at Dominic.
“Enzo knows we opened the box.”
“How?”
“We don’t know.”
Marco lowered the phone.
“He just called an emergency board meeting.”
Dominic’s eyes hardened.
“When?”
“Thirty minutes.”
“For what?”
Marco swallowed.
May you like
“To remove you from every Moretti company.”
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