Chapter 2 - THE WOMAN CAMILLE NEVER EXPECTED TO SEE
The woman standing in my dining-room doorway was seventy-two years old, five feet three inches tall, and the only person in Boston who still called me Gabriel Anthony when she was angry.
My mother.
Lucia Moretti.
She had been living in Florence for eight months following heart surgery.
She was not supposed to return until spring.
Camille knew that.
Which was why the color disappeared from her face.
“Lucia.”
My mother did not answer her.
She looked first at Elena.
Marco had already wrapped a clean linen towel loosely around Elena’s arm while another guard called Dr. Harper.
My mother took in the broken glasses.
The wet marble.
The teapot.
Camille.
Then me.
“What happened?”
Camille recovered quickly.
She always did.
“It was an accident.”
Elena’s eyes dropped.
I heard my own voice become colder.
“No.”
Camille turned.
“Gabriel.”
“You threw the tea.”
“I lost my temper.”
“You aimed it at her.”
“She humiliated me in front of everyone.”
My mother looked at Camille’s sleeve.
A faint tea stain darkened the champagne silk near her elbow.
Then she looked at Elena’s soaked uniform.
“That?”
Her voice was quiet.
“That is what you call humiliation?”
Camille lifted her chin.
“You weren’t here.”
“No.”
My mother stepped farther into the room.
“But unfortunately for you, I arrived early enough to hear the scream.”
Camille looked at me.
“Gabriel, this is ridiculous.”
I had heard that word from powerful people my whole life.
Ridiculous.
It usually meant consequences had finally become personal.
Dr. Harper arrived ten minutes later.
He examined Elena in the breakfast room because she refused to let anyone take her upstairs until she knew her shift was covered.
That alone made my anger worse.
“Elena,” I said.
She looked at me.
“You are not working tonight.”
“I’m fine, sir.”
“No.”
Her gaze moved toward Camille.
Fear.
Not of the burn.
Of losing the job.
“Please.”
I understood.
Camille had trained her to believe one wrong word could cost her everything.
Dr. Harper removed the wet sleeve carefully and assessed the injury.
“Superficial partial-thickness in two small areas,” he said. “Painful, but it should heal well if treated properly.”
Camille exhaled as if she had just been acquitted.
“See?”
My mother turned so slowly that even Marco looked uncomfortable.
“Do not finish that sentence.”
Camille went silent.
Elena’s medical treatment began upstairs.
My mother asked Marco to close the dining-room doors.
Then she sat at the table.
“Everyone out except Gabriel, Camille, Marco, and me.”
The staff left.
Camille remained standing.
“I am not going to be interrogated.”
My mother folded her hands.
“That is unfortunate.”
Camille laughed bitterly.
“You disappear to Europe for most of a year and come home acting as though you run this house.”
Lucia looked at me.
“Do I?”
“No.”
I pulled out the chair beside her.
“But you are still my mother.”
“Good answer.”
Camille stared at both of us.
“This engagement is between Gabriel and me.”
“It was.”
The word landed.
Camille’s eyes snapped toward me.
“You’re serious.”
“Yes.”
“You are ending four years together because I threw tea?”
“No.”
I leaned forward.
“I’m ending it because when you hurt someone weaker than you, your first concern was whether people thought you were justified.”
Her mouth tightened.
“You’ve done worse things than that.”
The room changed.
My mother’s eyes moved to me.
Camille knew exactly what she was doing.
My past was not clean.
The Moretti name was not clean.
My father had spent decades operating businesses that survived in shadows.
When I inherited them at twenty-nine, I moved most toward legitimate operations.
Most.
Not all.
Camille had spent years telling me she understood.
Now she was using the old world as permission for cruelty.
“I have,” I said.
She did not expect that answer.
“And I’ll answer for mine.”
I pointed toward the hallway.
“Elena is not responsible for anything I’ve done.”
Camille’s face hardened.
“Fine.”
She reached for the engagement ring.
I thought she was going to remove it.
She didn’t.
Instead she closed her fist.
“You’ll regret humiliating me.”
My mother watched closely.
I had heard enough.
“Marco.”
He stepped forward.
“Have Camille’s belongings packed.”
Camille stared.
“You’re throwing me out?”
“Yes.”
“This is my home.”
“No.”
“I have lived here for two years.”
“It is still not your property.”
She smiled then.
That smile bothered me.
“Are you certain?”
My mother’s head lifted.
“What does that mean?”
Camille looked at me.
“You should ask your accountant.”
The first hint of fear entered my stomach.
“About what?”
She walked toward the door.
“About how much of this house still belongs to you.”
Marco stopped her.
“You can’t leave until we confirm you have no estate documents.”
Camille laughed.
“Search me.”
Then my mother said:
“Wait.”
Everyone turned.
Lucia reached into her handbag.
She removed an envelope.
Not elegant stationery.
A standard courier envelope.
She placed it on the table.
“I came home because this was delivered to me in Florence.”
My name appeared on the front.
My mother pushed it toward me.
“Open it.”
Inside were photocopies.
Bank transfers.
Corporate resolutions.
Property filings.
Several signatures.
Mine.
Except I had never signed them.
One document showed a loan secured against part of the Moretti estate.
Twenty-eight million dollars.
Borrower:
Moretti Heritage Holdings.
Authorized signatory:
Gabriel A. Moretti.
My signature looked perfect.
Camille stopped smiling.
Marco saw it.
So did I.
My mother said quietly:
“Now perhaps you understand why I flew home.”
I turned another page.
Payments from Moretti Heritage Holdings to a consulting company called Cavendish Strategic Partners.
I knew the name.
Camille’s maiden name was Cavendish.
“How much?” I asked.
My mother answered:
“Twelve million so far.”
I looked at Camille.
She crossed her arms.
“You have hundreds of millions.”
There it was again.
Her morality calculated in percentages.
“You stole from me?”
“I protected myself.”
“By forging my name?”
“We were getting married.”
“We were not married yet.”
“Exactly.”
The room went cold.
My mother asked:
“Who helped you?”
Camille looked toward Marco.
“Maybe you should ask the people Gabriel trusts.”
Marco’s jaw tightened.
“That isn’t an answer.”
“No.”
She glanced at the paperwork.
“But someone inside his companies approved every transfer.”
That meant she had help.
An executive.
Accountant.
Lawyer.
Someone with enough access to pass forged documents through compliance.
My mother pulled out one final page.
A handwritten note had been attached to the courier package.
Only one sentence.
If Gabriel marries Camille Cavendish, he will lose more than his house.
No signature.
I read it twice.
“Who sent this?”
Lucia shook her head.
“No idea.”
Camille stared at the note.
And for the first time that night, I saw something different in her face.
Not arrogance.
Not anger.
Recognition.
“You know who sent it,” I said.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t.”
“Camille.”
Her eyes moved toward the door.
Marco stepped between her and it.
Then a voice came from the hallway.
Weak.
Female.
“Elena is asking for you.”
One of the nurses stood there.
I rose.
“What happened?”
“She found something in the pocket of the uniform jacket she was wearing.”
Camille’s face changed instantly.
The nurse handed me a folded piece of paper.
It had been hidden inside Elena’s apron pocket.
A bank deposit slip.
$50,000.
Payee:
Elena Brooks.
Memo:
FINAL PAYMENT — KEEP QUIET.
Elena had never seen it before.
But Camille had.
I knew because the moment she saw the slip, she whispered:
“Oh, God.”
May you like
And suddenly the tea was no longer the most dangerous thing she had thrown at Elena.
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