Chapter 4 - THE PRICE OF KEEPING QUIET
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I had never been so frightened in my life.
Not when my mother died.
Not when our landlord threatened eviction.
Not even when I took my first job in a house where armed men guarded every entrance.
Because every fear I had ever experienced had involved something happening to me.
This was different.
Someone was threatening Lily.
My nineteen-year-old sister.
The girl who still slept with our mother's old sweater folded beneath her pillow.
The girl who worked weekends at a grocery store while taking community college classes.
The girl who needed dental surgery because an infection had spread beneath a cracked molar.
I looked at the photograph again.
Then I looked at Luca.
“I have to go home.”
“Claire—”
“Now.”
He reached for his phone.
“I'll send someone to check on her.”
“No.”
My answer came out louder than I intended.
Luca stopped.
“No more of your people,” I whispered. “One of them is already involved in what happened to your mother.”
His expression tightened.
I thought he might become angry.
Instead, he lowered his phone.
“You're right.”
The admission surprised me.
“Call your sister,” he said. “I'll stay here.”
I dialed Lily.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Finally, she answered.
“Claire? Why are you calling so late?”
My knees nearly gave out.
“Are you home?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“Lock the door.”
“Claire, what's going on?”
“Please. Lock it.”
I heard her footsteps.
Then the sound of our apartment deadbolt turning.
“Okay. You're scaring me.”
“Is Dad there?”
“He's in the kitchen.”
“Put him on video.”
My father appeared on the screen a few seconds later.
His gray hair was messy, and he was wearing the old Chicago Cubs sweatshirt he'd owned for nearly twenty years.
He signed:
Are you okay?
I wanted to lie.
Instead, I signed:
Someone may be watching the apartment. Stay inside. Don't open the door for anyone.
His expression changed immediately.
He signed back:
Where are you?
At work.
Come home.
I couldn't explain everything through the phone.
Not with Luca standing beside me.
Not with Mrs. Moretti watching from her chair.
But I promised I would call again.
When the screen went dark, I felt tears burning behind my eyes.
“I quit,” I whispered.
Luca looked at me.
“What?”
“I don't care about the money anymore. I don't care about this house. I just want my family safe.”
He didn't argue.
He didn't threaten me.
He said something I wasn't expecting.
“Then you should leave.”
I stared.
“You're letting me go?”
“You were never my prisoner, Claire.”
He glanced toward his mother.
“But somebody thinks threatening your family will stop you from helping her.”
Mrs. Moretti reached for my hand.
I gently squeezed her fingers.
“I don't want to abandon her.”
“Then don't,” Luca said. “Just don't stay because you're afraid of me.”
For a moment, I saw the difference between the terrifying man everyone described and the exhausted son standing in front of me.
He was trying to protect his mother.
And he didn't know whom to trust.
“I need to know who sent that message,” I said.
Luca nodded.
“So do I.”
He called Anthony, the guard who had taken Dominic's keys.
“Bring Dominic to the library,” he ordered.
A minute passed.
Then two.
Finally, Anthony called back.
His voice was strained.
“Boss, we've got a problem.”
Luca straightened.
“What problem?”
“Dominic isn't in the ballroom.”
The silence that followed made my skin crawl.
“What do you mean?”
“He said he was going to the restroom. We checked the corridor. He's gone.”
Luca looked toward the window.
“The gates?”
“Still locked.”
“Find him.”
I watched Luca end the call.
Then another message appeared on my phone.
This one came with a video.
My father's kitchen.
Filmed through the apartment window.
I pressed a hand over my mouth.
The caption read:
You have thirty minutes to bring the notebook.
Luca saw the message.
“Claire. Look at me.”
I couldn't.
“Claire.”
I raised my eyes.
“Where did you put the notebook?”
I swallowed.
“In the window seat.”
He retrieved it.
Then studied the phone.
“They want this badly enough to threaten your family.”
“What am I supposed to do?”
He was silent for a moment.
Then he said, “We involve the police.”
I almost laughed.
“You're Luca Moretti.”
“I know who I am.”
“People say the police work for you.”
“Some have,” he admitted. “Which is why we're not calling just anyone.”
He dialed a number.
When someone answered, his tone changed.
“Detective Morales. It's Moretti. I have evidence of an attempted murder, a forged signature, and a threat against a civilian family.”
He listened.
Then added, “No, this isn't business. This is my mother.”
After the call, he looked at me.
“Morales is sending officers to your building.”
I exhaled for the first time in what felt like hours.
But Mrs. Moretti suddenly grabbed the armrest.
Her fingers were moving.
Notebook.
I turned.
“What about it?”
She signed faster.
Wrong notebook.
Luca stared at her.
“What?”
She pointed toward the leather book in his hands.
Then toward her wheelchair.
I knelt beside her.
She reached beneath the seat cushion and pulled out a small, tightly folded envelope.
On the front, written in trembling blue ink, were three words.
For Luca only.
Inside was a photograph.
Luca as a little boy, standing beside his father.
And behind the photograph was a memory card.
Mrs. Moretti pointed at it.
Then signed something that changed everything.
Your father knew Vanessa's father.
Luca stared at the card.
“My father died twelve years ago.”
Mrs. Moretti nodded.
May you like
Then signed:
That's when it started.
