Chapter 3 - THE NOTE HIDDEN IN THE WHEELCHAIR
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I stood frozen in the Moretti library, holding a notebook that could get me killed.
On the other side of the locked door, Dominic Russo was waiting.
“Claire,” he called again. “Open the door.”
Mrs. Moretti shook her head.
Her trembling hand moved against her chest.
Hide it.
I shoved the notebook beneath a cushion on the window seat.
Then I stepped backward.
“Mr. Moretti told me to stay here,” I answered.
Dominic gave a low laugh.
“Luca doesn't need to know everything, sweetheart.”
I looked at Mrs. Moretti.
She had gone pale.
“What do you want?”
“A conversation.”
“Then speak through the door.”
Silence.
Then I heard metal scrape against the lock.
He had a key.
My eyes flew toward the windows.
We were on the first floor, but iron security bars covered the lower panes.
There was nowhere to run.
The lock turned.
Just as the door began opening, another voice echoed down the hallway.
“Dominic.”
Luca.
The door stopped moving.
“What are you doing?” Luca asked.
“Checking on your mother.”
“Then why are you using a key after she locked the door?”
Dominic didn't answer immediately.
I heard footsteps.
Then Luca knocked.
“Claire, it's me.”
Mrs. Moretti nodded.
I opened the door.
Luca stepped inside and looked from my terrified face to his mother's hands.
“What happened?”
Before I could answer, Dominic spoke.
“She was frightened. I was trying to help.”
Luca's eyes remained on me.
“Claire?”
“He knew we were in here,” I said. “He tried to unlock the door after I told him not to.”
Luca turned.
“Give me your keys.”
Dominic frowned.
“Boss?”
“Now.”
For a moment, neither man moved.
Then Dominic slowly removed a key ring from his pocket and placed it in Luca's hand.
“Are you seriously questioning my loyalty?”
Luca's voice was colder than before.
“I'm questioning everything.”
He ordered Dominic to wait in the ballroom under the supervision of another guard named Anthony.
Dominic left without looking at me.
But just before he reached the hallway, Mrs. Moretti made a sharp sound.
Luca turned.
His mother raised one trembling finger.
She pointed at Dominic.
Then signed:
He was afraid.
I translated.
Luca frowned.
“Afraid of what?”
She shook her head.
Her fingers would not cooperate.
I gently touched her shoulder.
“Don't rush, Mrs. Moretti. We have time.”
Luca watched us.
Something softened in his expression.
“My mother hasn't looked at anyone like that since the accident,” he said quietly.
“Like what?”
“Like she trusts them.”
I didn't know what to say.
So I showed him the notebook.
His expression hardened when he saw the photographs.
He flipped through the pages slowly.
Then stopped at the picture of Vanessa outside the restaurant.
“That's Silas Crane.”
“Who is he?”
“Our family attorney.”
The same attorney who supposedly held the care facility documents.
Luca looked toward his mother.
“Why were you investigating my fiancée?”
Mrs. Moretti began signing.
I translated carefully.
“She says she was investigating the money.”
“What money?”
Mrs. Moretti touched her wedding ring.
Then pointed toward the photograph of Luca's father.
Your father left a trust.
Luca nodded.
“I know about the trust.”
She shook her head.
Not that one.
Luca leaned closer.
“What other trust?”
Before she could answer, her breathing became uneven.
I immediately reached for the glass of water on the side table.
She tried to take it, but her hand shook so badly that half the water spilled onto her dress.
“Mom?”
Luca crouched beside her wheelchair.
Her eyes filled with tears.
She seemed frustrated, frightened, and exhausted.
“Enough questions,” I said firmly.
Luca looked at me in surprise.
“She needs rest.”
For a second, I remembered who I was speaking to.
A man whose name could empty a restaurant in Chicago.
A man people whispered about.
But he simply nodded.
“Of course.”
I helped Mrs. Moretti settle into a comfortable chair while Luca called the household physician.
Then she reached into the side pocket of her wheelchair.
She pulled out a folded piece of paper.
And pressed it into my palm.
I unfolded it carefully.
Inside was a handwritten address.
A small house in Evanston.
Beneath it were four words.
Patricia is still alive.
My head snapped up.
Mrs. Moretti nodded.
Luca stared at the paper.
“My aunt died in 2018.”
His mother shook her head.
“That's impossible,” he whispered.
Her fingers moved.
They told you that.
Luca stood.
For the first time that evening, he looked genuinely shaken.
Then my phone vibrated inside my apron.
A message from an unknown number.
I opened it.
There was a photograph of my younger sister, Lily, standing outside our apartment building.
The photograph had been taken that afternoon.
Underneath it were five words.
Stop helping her or else.
I couldn't breathe.
Luca noticed.
“What is it?”
I tried to hide the phone.
But my hands were shaking too badly.
He took one look at the screen.
Then his entire expression changed.
“Claire,” he said quietly, “whoever sent this knows where your family lives.”
May you like
And before I could answer, a second message appeared.
Your sister's surgery is Monday.
