Chapter 4 - THE SECRET MY MOTHER DIED PROTECTING
The shooter vanished before Lorenzo’s men reached the trees.
That frightened me more than if they had caught him.
Professionals didn't miss by accident.
And whoever had fired through that window had known exactly where we were sitting.
Within twenty minutes, the Moretti estate transformed.
Doors locked.
Security teams spread through the grounds.
Toby was moved downstairs under guard.
I found him in the library wrapped in a blanket.
“What happened?”
“A window broke.”
“Sophie.”
He gave me the look fourteen-year-olds reserve for adults who insult their intelligence.
I sat beside him.
“Someone fired a gun.”
His face went pale.
“Why?”
“I don't know.”
That was technically true.
But I was starting to suspect my mother had known.
Lorenzo entered.
“We're moving you.”
“To where?”
“Another property.”
“No.”
He stared at me.
“This isn't negotiable.”
“Everything with you isn't negotiable.”
“Sophie.”
“My brother needs stability.”
“Your brother needs to not get shot.”
Toby lifted one hand.
“I vote for not getting shot.”
I looked at him.
“Not helping.”
“I’m just saying.”
Lorenzo's mouth twitched.
Then disappeared.
“Pack what Rosa brought from your apartment.”
I stood.
“My apartment?”
“We collected your things this morning.”
“You went through my home?”
“My security team did.”
“That is an insane violation of privacy.”
“We were looking for explosives.”
“That does not make it better.”
His eyes narrowed.
“You're very difficult to protect.”
“I didn't ask to be protected.”
“No. You stepped between my mother and Beatrice Vane without knowing who either of them were.”
His voice sharpened.
“People who do things like that rarely ask for what they deserve.”
The words stopped me.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then Isabella entered.
She looked exhausted.
But determined.
“No more secrets.”
Lorenzo turned.
“Mama.”
“No.”
She closed the library doors.
“Toby deserves to hear this too.”
I immediately shook my head.
“He’s fourteen.”
“And this concerns his mother.”
Toby sat straighter.
“My mom?”
I looked at Isabella.
“Tell us.”
She sat across from us.
Lorenzo remained standing.
“Your mother, Margaret, came to work for my husband, Antonio Moretti, in 1998.”
I knew almost nothing about Antonio.
Even people who whispered about Chicago organized crime lowered their voices when they said his name.
“He trusted numbers more than people,” Isabella continued. “Margaret was brilliant with numbers.”
That sounded like Mom.
She could calculate grocery discounts faster than cashiers.
“She discovered money moving through several charitable foundations connected to Senator Vane’s father.”
“Money laundering?” Toby asked.
Lorenzo looked impressed.
Toby shrugged.
“I have internet.”
Isabella nodded.
“Among other things.”
“What other things?”
She hesitated.
Lorenzo answered.
“Political bribery.”
Isabella looked at him.
“And judges.”
The room went still.
“Your father was involved?” I asked Lorenzo.
His face hardened.
“Yes.”
Isabella looked ashamed.
“Antonio believed alliances were survival.”
“What did Mom do?”
“She copied everything.”
Of course she did.
That was exactly like her.
Quiet until something crossed a moral line.
Then impossible to move.
“She came to me one night,” Isabella said. “She was terrified. She said the records connected Antonio Moretti, Senator Vane's father, judges, police officials, and businessmen to crimes going back years.”
“What happened?”
“I told her to leave Chicago.”
“You helped her?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Isabella’s voice cracked.
“Because she was pregnant.”
My breath caught.
“With me?”
“Yes.”
“She never said who my father was.”
Isabella looked at Lorenzo.
He turned toward the window.
My stomach tightened.
“No.”
Lorenzo's shoulders went rigid.
“What?” Toby asked.
I stared at Isabella.
“Who was my father?”
She closed her eyes.
“His name was Daniel Moretti.”
Lorenzo turned slowly.
I knew enough about the Moretti family to recognize the name.
Daniel Moretti.
Antonio's younger brother.
Lorenzo's uncle.
My knees weakened.
“So Lorenzo is…”
“Your cousin,” Isabella said.
For some reason, that detail made Lorenzo look relieved.
So relieved that my exhausted brain almost laughed.
Then the rest hit me.
My mother had been pregnant with a Moretti child.
She had discovered evidence implicating both Morettis and Vanes.
And then she had vanished.
“Daniel knew?”
“Yes.”
“Did he help her?”
“He tried.”
“What happened to him?”
The silence told me before Isabella did.
“He was killed.”
Toby whispered, “Jesus.”
“When?”
“Two weeks after Margaret disappeared.”
I stood and walked away.
My hands were shaking.
“My mother told me my father died before I was born.”
“That was true.”
“She said he was a good man.”
Isabella nodded.
“He was.”
“Did Lorenzo’s father kill him?”
Lorenzo flinched.
Isabella stared at the floor.
“I don't know.”
“That means yes.”
“No. It means I never proved it.”
I laughed bitterly.
“What a comforting distinction.”
“Sophie.”
Lorenzo stepped toward me.
I backed away.
“Don't.”
His face tightened.
“I was ten years old when Daniel died.”
“I know.”
“I had nothing to do with what my father did.”
“I know.”
But fear doesn't care what you know.
Fear remembers bullets through windows.
Threatening texts.
Powerful men.
Dead parents.
Toby came beside me.
“So what happened to Mom's evidence?”
Isabella looked at us.
“We never found it.”
I thought about our childhood.
Cheap apartments.
Moving every few years.
Mom never keeping important documents in obvious places.
Then I remembered something.
“There was a box.”
Everyone looked at me.
“What box?” Lorenzo asked.
“When Mom died, I found a safe-deposit key taped beneath her dresser.”
“Which bank?”
“I don't know.”
“You never checked?”
“I had a twelve-year-old brother and funeral bills. I thought it was an old key.”
Lorenzo moved toward the door.
“We're going to your apartment.”
“You said it isn't safe.”
“It isn't.”
“Then why—”
“Because someone already searched it.”
My blood ran cold.
“What?”
His security chief appeared with a tablet.
Pictures showed our apartment.
Drawers overturned.
Mattress cut open.
Kitchen cabinets emptied.
My mother's old wooden desk smashed apart.
Toby whispered, “When?”
“During the gala,” Lorenzo said.
I understood.
Whoever threatened me had gone there before we did.
They were looking for the same thing.
“The key,” I whispered.
“Where is it?”
I closed my eyes.
Not the apartment.
I had moved it.
Six months earlier, when our landlord threatened eviction, I put our few valuables in a coffee tin and hid it inside the maintenance closet downstairs.
“I know where it is.”
Lorenzo took two steps closer.
“You're certain?”
“Yes.”
Twenty minutes later, we were inside an armored SUV.
Toby stayed with Isabella.
I hated leaving him.
But I hated the idea of armed men tearing apart our building more.
Rain streaked the windows as we drove toward the West Side.
Lorenzo sat beside me.
Not across.
“Your mother saved my aunt's life once,” he said.
I turned.
“What?”
“Daniel was my favorite uncle.”
Something in his voice changed.
“He used to take me to Sox games. My father hated baseball.”
I said nothing.
“After Daniel died, my father said weakness had killed him.”
Lorenzo looked out at the city.
“I spent years believing that.”
“You were ten.”
“I grew up.”
“And?”
“And I learned my father called anything decent weakness.”
That was the first time I understood that Lorenzo carried ghosts too.
We reached my building after dark.
Two security men entered first.
Then Lorenzo and I.
The maintenance closet smelled like bleach and dust.
I pulled a metal coffee tin from behind an old water heater.
Inside were Mom's wedding ring.
Two photographs.
Forty-three dollars.
And the key.
Lorenzo examined the tag.
“First Chicago Trust.”
“Does that still exist?”
“Bought out fifteen years ago.”
“So useless?”
“No.”
He turned the tag.
A number was engraved on the back.
“Records survive.”
As we stood, a sound came from the hallway.
A floorboard.
Lorenzo instantly pulled me behind him.
His hand disappeared beneath his jacket.
The door opened.
Beatrice Vane stood there.
Alone.
No white gown.
No diamonds.
Just a dark coat and an expression colder than anything I had seen at the gala.
Her eyes dropped to the key in Lorenzo's hand.
Then she smiled.
“So Margaret really did leave it to you.”
Lorenzo’s voice became deadly.
“You have five seconds to explain why you're here.”
Beatrice looked at me.
“Your mother was given a chance to walk away.”
My heart stopped.
“What did you say?”
“She refused.”
Lorenzo stepped forward.
“Beatrice.”
But I could no longer hear him.
I stared at her.
“You knew my mother?”
Her smile widened.
“Oh, Sophie.”
May you like
She tilted her head.
“I was there the night she died.”
