Chapter 5 - THE NIGHT EVERYTHING BURNED
I lunged at Beatrice.
I don't remember deciding to.
One second she was smiling.
The next, my hands were reaching for her.
Lorenzo caught me around the waist.
“No.”
“She killed my mother!”
“Not here.”
“Let me go!”
Beatrice didn't move.
That was what terrified me.
She wasn't shocked.
She looked pleased.
“Still impulsive,” she said.
“Just like Margaret.”
Lorenzo pushed me behind him.
His voice became quiet.
“Why are you here?”
Beatrice looked at the two armed men near the door.
“Do you truly intend to murder a senator's wife inside a building full of witnesses?”
“No.”
Lorenzo stepped closer.
“If I intended to murder you, you wouldn't be asking.”
For the first time, Beatrice’s confidence flickered.
“Then we should speak.”
“You speak. I listen.”
Her eyes moved to the key.
“My husband's family has searched for that for twenty-seven years.”
“So have mine, apparently.”
“Your father made mistakes.”
Lorenzo’s jaw tightened.
“Careful.”
“Antonio Moretti thought he could control everyone.”
“Still careful.”
Beatrice looked at me.
“Your mother believed the evidence she collected could destroy both families.”
“Could it?”
“Yes.”
The word landed hard.
“Then why didn't she release it?”
“She tried.”
I struggled against Lorenzo’s grip.
“What happened?”
Beatrice’s expression changed.
Not guilt.
Something worse.
Nostalgia.
“The night Margaret died, she called a journalist.”
My stomach twisted.
“I followed her.”
“Why?”
“My father-in-law ordered me to.”
“You were what, twenty?”
“Twenty-three.”
“And already evil?”
She smiled.
“Poor people love moral simplicity.”
Lorenzo's hand tightened at my side.
I could feel the warning in it.
Don't react.
Beatrice continued.
“Margaret drove north toward Wisconsin. She had documents in the trunk. She stopped near Kenosha.”
I remembered my mother’s death.
At least the version I knew.
A rainy highway.
A truck losing control.
A crash.
“You caused the accident.”
“No.”
“Liar.”
“I didn't have to.”
Her expression hardened.
“Antonio's men were already there.”
Lorenzo went still.
I looked at him.
His face had emptied.
“My father?”
Beatrice shrugged.
“Ask Isabella.”
The world tilted.
“You said you were there.”
“I watched.”
My eyes burned.
“You watched my mother die?”
“No.”
Beatrice leaned closer.
“I watched her escape.”
Silence.
“What?”
“The car burned.”
“You're lying.”
“One body was found.”
“My mother.”
“No.”
My heartbeat became painful.
“Then whose?”
“The journalist.”
I stared at her.
“But my mother died four years ago.”
Beatrice’s face changed.
For the first time, genuine confusion appeared.
“What?”
“She raised me.”
“That isn't possible.”
“It happened.”
Beatrice stepped back.
Lorenzo noticed.
“You thought Margaret died twenty-seven years ago.”
Beatrice said nothing.
Lorenzo’s expression sharpened.
“That means your family stopped looking.”
Still nothing.
“And if Sophie’s mother survived until four years ago…”
His eyes met mine.
“…Margaret had twenty-three years to hide the evidence.”
I thought of Mom.
Her constant moving.
Cash-only jobs.
Never putting our address online.
No social media.
No photographs.
She used to tell me privacy was a form of freedom.
I had always thought she was simply old-fashioned.
Now I understood.
She had spent decades hiding us.
Beatrice looked at the key.
“We can make an arrangement.”
I laughed.
It sounded broken.
“An arrangement?”
“The contents of that box belong to people far more powerful than you.”
“My mother died protecting them.”
“No. Your mother died because she couldn't let go.”
Something inside me turned cold.
I stopped struggling.
Lorenzo felt it.
He released me slowly.
“What do you want?” I asked.
“The key.”
“No.”
“Sophie.”
“No.”
Beatrice’s voice softened.
“Your little brother has asthma.”
Every muscle in Lorenzo’s body changed.
I felt it before I saw it.
The room became dangerous.
“What did you say?” he asked.
Beatrice looked at him.
“I’m stating a fact.”
“You mentioned the boy.”
“He exists.”
“You threatened a child.”
“I did no such thing.”
Lorenzo stepped forward until they were inches apart.
“Listen carefully.”
His voice was barely above a whisper.
“If Toby Clark loses one hair because of you, your husband's Senate seat will be the least important thing your family loses.”
Beatrice stared at him.
“You don't frighten me.”
“You came alone into a Moretti building to negotiate for a safe-deposit key.”
His smile was cold.
“I terrify you.”
Her silence confirmed it.
Sirens sounded outside.
Beatrice glanced toward the window.
“I assume those aren't yours.”
“They're not.”
She smiled again.
“Then perhaps your protection isn't as complete as you think.”
Police lights flashed across the building.
Lorenzo cursed.
“Move.”
His security men surrounded us.
We exited through the rear stairwell.
Two unmarked cars were waiting in the alley.
As we ran, I looked back.
Beatrice remained inside.
Watching.
Like she knew something we didn't.
We drove to an old Moretti warehouse near the river.
Not exactly comforting.
But secure.
Lorenzo spent the next hour making calls.
I sat at a table staring at the key.
At 2:13 a.m., he returned.
“First Chicago Trust was absorbed by Midwestern National.”
“And?”
“Box records were archived.”
My pulse jumped.
“You found it?”
“Box 417.”
“Can we open it?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
“Why not now?”
“Because breaking into a bank would make retrieving legal evidence slightly less useful.”
I almost smiled.
He sat across from me.
For the first time since the gala, he looked tired.
“Did you know?” I asked.
“Know what?”
“That your father may have tried to kill my mother.”
His eyes dropped.
“No.”
“Would you tell me if you had?”
“Yes.”
“How do I know?”
“You don't.”
The answer surprised me.
He continued.
“Trusting me because you're frightened would be foolish.”
“That's honest.”
“I'm occasionally capable of it.”
I studied him.
“Why are you helping me if the evidence could destroy your family?”
He stared at the key.
“Because some families deserve to have certain parts destroyed.”
I thought about Antonio.
About Daniel.
About Margaret.
“And you?”
“What about me?”
“What have you done?”
His gaze lifted.
There it was.
The question nobody asked Lorenzo Moretti.
Or maybe nobody survived asking.
“Things I can't undo.”
“People?”
“Yes.”
I swallowed.
“Did they deserve it?”
“Some.”
“And the others?”
His silence was answer enough.
I should have been afraid.
Instead, I was sad.
For him.
Which felt even more dangerous.
“I don't expect you to forgive what I am,” he said.
“I don't know what you are.”
“I do.”
He stood.
Before he could leave, my phone rang.
Unknown number.
Lorenzo turned.
“Don't answer.”
I already had.
“Hello?”
Static.
Then breathing.
Then a familiar melody.
Three notes.
A lullaby.
My entire body went cold.
My mother used to hum that exact tune every night when Toby couldn't sleep.
“Sophie?”
A woman's voice.
Faint.
Older.
Impossible.
I stood so fast the chair fell backward.
“Mom?”
Lorenzo froze.
The voice whispered, “Don't open the box.”
My eyes filled with tears.
“Mom?”
“Sophie, listen to me.”
“Oh my God.”
Lorenzo took the phone and put it on speaker.
“Who is this?”
Silence.
Then the woman said, “Lorenzo Moretti.”
His face changed.
She knew him.
“You have your father's eyes.”
Lorenzo stepped closer to the phone.
“Margaret?”
My knees nearly collapsed.
The woman began crying.
“Yes.”
My world stopped.
My mother was alive.
And before I could say another word, she whispered the sentence that changed everything again.
“Antonio Moretti wasn't trying to kill me.”
She took a shaky breath.
May you like
“He was trying to save me from Charles Vane.”
Then the line went dead.
