Chapter 3 - The Diary Giovanni Moretti Left Behind
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For several seconds, nobody spoke.
Luca stood beside the fireplace, holding the list of his father's belongings.
Teresa sat in her wheelchair, staring at her trembling hands.
And I remained beside her, wondering how an ordinary wedding photograph had turned into something that frightened everyone in the room.
Finally, Luca broke the silence.
“Ma, what did you find in Dad's diary?”
Teresa looked up.
“Names.”
“What names?”
“People he trusted. People he didn't.”
Luca frowned.
“My father kept records of everyone he did business with.”
“This was different.”
Her voice shook.
“He wrote about things he was afraid of.”
I looked toward the wedding photograph.
Giovanni Moretti stood beside his young bride, smiling proudly.
It was difficult to imagine that the man in the picture had spent his final years afraid of anyone.
But I had learned that wealthy families could hide more pain than poor ones.
They simply had larger houses to hide it in.
Luca sat beside his mother.
“Tell me.”
Teresa closed her eyes.
“Your father discovered money was disappearing from the family foundation.”
Luca went still.
“The scholarship foundation?”
She nodded.
I knew about the foundation.
It paid college tuition for children whose parents had worked for Moretti-owned businesses.
Every Christmas, the mansion hosted a charity dinner celebrating the students it supported.
The newspapers called it one of the Moretti family's proudest achievements.
“How much money?” Luca asked.
“Millions.”
I felt a cold sensation move through my chest.
Luca stared at his mother.
“Dad never told me.”
“He was still investigating.”
“When?”
“Shortly before his death.”
Luca looked away.
Eleven years earlier, Giovanni Moretti had died from a heart attack during a business trip.
At least, that was what everyone believed.
Teresa continued.
“Your father wrote that someone close to the family had been using false invoices and shell companies to take money from the foundation.”
“Who?”
She shook her head.
“He didn't know for certain.”
“But there were names?”
“Yes.”
“Did you recognize any?”
Teresa hesitated.
Then whispered, “One.”
Luca leaned forward.
“Who?”
She looked toward the door.
“Victor Bellini.”
My stomach dropped.
Isabella's father.
A wealthy real estate developer who attended nearly every major Moretti family event.
I had seen him only twice.
Both times, he'd arrived in a black limousine and treated the staff as though we were part of the furniture.
Luca slowly stood.
“Victor was on the foundation's advisory board.”
Teresa nodded.
“Your father was suspicious of payments made through one of his companies.”
Luca looked at the list again.
Then frowned.
“Why would Isabella be searching for Dad's diary now?”
Teresa looked down.
“Because I told her I'd found it.”
I stared.
“You told her?”
Teresa nodded sadly.
“Three weeks ago, she asked why I was looking through Giovanni's old papers.”
“What did you say?” Luca asked.
“I told her I'd discovered something that might concern her father.”
Luca closed his eyes.
“Ma.”
“I didn't realize she would—”
He immediately knelt beside her.
“I'm not blaming you.”
Teresa's eyes filled with tears.
“She was so kind when you first brought her home.”
I understood.
That was how people like Isabella gained trust.
They didn't begin with cruelty.
They began with compliments.
Flowers.
Warm smiles.
Helpful suggestions.
Then little by little, they decided which belongings mattered, which conversations were necessary, and which memories were worth keeping.
“Where is the diary now?” Luca asked.
Teresa looked at me.
My heart jumped.
“Emma, would you close the curtains?”
I obeyed.
Then she pointed toward the old wooden cabinet beside the fireplace.
“Open the bottom drawer.”
I pulled it open.
Inside were folded blankets, a small sewing kit, and several photo albums.
“Remove the blue album.”
I did.
Beneath it was a velvet-lined compartment.
Teresa pointed again.
“Lift the bottom.”
I carefully raised the lining.
And there it was.
A narrow, dark leather notebook.
Its cover was worn.
The corners were softened with age.
A small gold letter G was embossed on the front.
I carried it to Teresa.
She touched the cover.
For a moment, her face softened.
“He kept this beside our bed.”
Then she handed it to Luca.
He opened the diary.
The first pages contained ordinary things.
Appointments.
Business meetings.
Names of friends.
Then the writing changed.
Dates appeared beside account numbers.
Several pages described payments that didn't match the foundation's financial reports.
Luca turned another page.
His expression hardened.
“Dad wrote that someone was using a company called Westbridge Consulting.”
Teresa nodded.
“He mentioned it several times.”
Luca continued reading.
Then stopped.
“Isabella's father owns Westbridge.”
I swallowed.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
He flipped through the remaining pages.
Near the back, Giovanni had written a sentence in heavy black ink.
If Victor discovers what I know, he'll come after the evidence.
Luca stared.
Then turned the page.
There was one final entry.
Written just four days before Giovanni died.
The proof isn't in my office. It's where Teresa will always know to look.
Teresa went pale.
Luca looked up.
“Ma?”
She didn't answer.
He repeated the question.
“Where would Dad expect you to look?”
Her eyes slowly moved toward the fireplace.
Then toward the wedding photograph.
My stomach tightened.
I followed her gaze.
The gold frame.
The smiling couple.
The picture Isabella had thrown into the trash.
Luca looked at me.
“Emma.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Bring me the photograph.”
I lifted it carefully from the mantel.
He turned it over.
On the back was a narrow wooden panel secured with four small brass fasteners.
Luca examined the frame.
Then looked at his mother.
“Did Dad ever open this?”
Teresa nodded.
“Once.”
“When?”
“The night before he left on his final business trip.”
I felt my heart pounding.
Luca carefully loosened the fasteners.
Then removed the back panel.
A thin brown envelope slipped onto the table.
Nobody moved.
Written across the front were five words.
For Teresa, if I cannot return.
Luca stared at it.
Then looked toward his mother.
And for the first time, I saw tears gathering in the eyes of the man everyone in Chicago feared.
But before he could open the envelope, the sitting room door swung open.
Isabella stood there.
Her eyes immediately found the photograph.
Then the envelope.
May you like
And the smile disappeared from her face.
“What,” she asked quietly, “have you done?”
