Chapter 10 - THE NIGHT LUCA MORETTI CHOSE THE TRUTH|
Luca Moretti called me at seven the next morning.
I had just returned home from the hospital.
Dad was asleep.
Ben had made scrambled eggs and left them on the stove.
I was standing beside the kitchen window when Luca's name appeared on my phone.
For a moment, I considered ignoring it.
Then I answered.
“Emma.”
His voice sounded different.
Tired.
Careful.
Almost uncertain.
“Are you home?”
“Yes.”
“Is your father all right?”
“He's safe.”
A pause.
“I need to tell you something.”
I gripped the phone.
“Nina already told me about the money.”
Silence.
Then he said, “I thought she might.”
“Did you know your company was funding Vincent Bellini?”
“Yes.”
The answer hit me harder than a lie would have.
I closed my eyes.
“How much did you know?”
“Not everything.”
“That isn't what I asked.”
He exhaled.
“Enough.”
I looked toward my father.
He had spent a lifetime earning honest wages while men like Luca treated millions of dollars as numbers moving across computer screens.
“Did you know people were being threatened?”
“Yes.”
My throat tightened.
“Did you order it?”
“Not against Teresa.”
I stared at the phone.
“That isn't an answer either.”
“No.”
He paused.
“I didn't order this, Emma.”
His voice grew quieter.
“But for years, I knew people connected to my businesses used intimidation, and I convinced myself it was something I couldn't change.”
I swallowed.
“Because changing it would cost you money?”
“Because changing it would mean admitting what I'd become.”
Neither of us spoke.
Finally, I said, “Mrs. Caruso trusted your father.”
“I know.”
“She trusted you.”
“I know.”
“Then why did you let people like Vanessa and her father into your life?”
He was silent for so long that I thought the call had disconnected.
Then he answered.
“Because I thought power was the only thing that kept me safe.”
I looked out the window.
Cars moved along the street.
A woman walked a small dog beneath the bare trees.
The world continued as though nothing important had changed.
But something had changed.
For the first time, Luca Moretti was telling me the truth without demanding that I admire him for it.
“I don't know what you want me to say,” I whispered.
“Nothing.”
He paused.
“I'm going to the authorities.”
I straightened.
“What?”
“Nina helped arrange a meeting with a federal financial-crimes task force.”
“Luca—”
“I've turned over the company records.”
My heart began racing.
“All of them?”
“The records I'm able to access, including the payments I personally approved.”
He took a breath.
“I'm going to tell them what I knew.”
I lowered myself into a chair.
“Do you understand what that could mean?”
“Yes.”
“You could go to prison.”
“I should have considered that before I signed the first dishonest agreement.”
I had no response.
After a moment, he said, “There are things my father did that I'm still trying to understand.”
“About Vincent?”
“Yes.”
“About Caruso's?”
“About everything.”
I thought about the date written beneath the words THE BLUE TILE.
October 17, 2008.
The day before Antonio Moretti died.
“Mrs. Caruso thinks your father was trying to expose something.”
“I think she may be right.”
“Then help us find out what.”
“I will.”
He hesitated.
“But if investigators decide I have to answer for what I did, I won't ask them to overlook it.”
I closed my eyes.
It was a strange feeling, hearing an extraordinarily powerful man finally sound like someone willing to become ordinary.
Before hanging up, he said, “Emma?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you for refusing to throw away the ravioli.”
My throat tightened.
“You don't need to thank me.”
“Yes,” he said.
“I do.”
The call ended.
Two hours later, Ben and I watched television coverage of Luca entering the federal building downtown.
He wore a dark suit without a tie.
Nina walked beside him.
Marco remained outside.
Reporters shouted questions as Luca disappeared through the doors.
My brother stood in the kitchen holding a piece of toast.
“Is he getting arrested?”
“I don't know.”
Ben looked at me.
“Do you trust him?”
I thought carefully.
“I trust that he's finally telling some truths.”
“That's not the same thing.”
“No.”
I watched the closed doors on the television.
“It isn't.”
That afternoon, Detective Vega called to tell me investigators were reviewing the restaurant fire alongside the financial records Nina had provided.
The two cases were becoming connected.
The payment for the demolition contractor had passed through an account managed by Daniel Voss.
The same account had paid a private security company that had visited Caruso's before the fire.
And the company operating the white truck had submitted invoices for work it couldn't explain.
For the first time, the evidence was beginning to form a picture.
Not of a single cruel fiancée making a bad decision.
But of an organized attempt to erase a neighborhood, conceal financial misconduct, and frighten anyone who might challenge it.
Then came the news everyone had feared.
A television reporter announced that Luca Moretti had been taken into federal custody after investigators reviewed his disclosures.
My hands went numb.
The report mentioned possible financial conspiracy charges and previous business dealings unrelated to the Caruso property.
Ben turned off the television.
“Emma.”
I didn't answer.
My phone buzzed.
It was a message from Nina.
Luca has agreed to cooperate, but the investigation is larger than we expected.
A second message appeared.
Bellini's attorneys are arguing that the city's dangerous-building order remains enforceable despite Luca's arrest.
I called her immediately.
“Can they still tear down the restaurant?”
“They're trying.”
“What can we do?”
“Get witnesses.”
“How many?”
“As many as possible.”
I looked toward the notebook I'd brought home from Caruso's.
It contained names, telephone numbers, and stories from everyone facing eviction.
Thirty-seven properties.
Hundreds of people.
Nearly fifty years of memories.
I opened it.
“Then that's what we'll do.”
After hanging up, I found my father's hand resting over mine.
He was standing beside my chair, leaning heavily on his cane.
“Dad, you should be sitting.”
He shook his head.
“Proud,” he said.
I looked at him.
“Of what?”
His speech was slow.
But his eyes were clear.
“You.”
I started crying.
Dad squeezed my shoulder.
Then he said the longest sentence he'd managed in weeks.
“Don't let them make you afraid of doing right.”
That evening, I called Mrs. Caruso.
“Are you strong enough to tell your story one more time?”
She was still recovering in the hospital.
Her voice sounded weak.
But she answered immediately.
“For my Sal?”
“Yes.”
“For the restaurant?”
“Yes.”
“For everybody else they're trying to push out?”
I swallowed.
“Yes.”
She took a breath.
“Then bring me my good sweater, sweetheart.”
I smiled through my tears.
“Why?”
May you like
“Because if we're going to stand up to billionaires, I don't intend to look like I just woke up.”
And for the first time in days, I laughed.
