Chapter 4 - THE WOMAN WHO KNEW TOO MUCH|
The voice on the telephone spoke as though we were discussing a business appointment.
“You have something that belongs to us, Nico.”
I stepped away from Ava.
“What do you want?”
“A ledger.”
I knew immediately which ledger he meant.
Seventeen years earlier, my father had kept a handwritten record of every payment, every secret alliance, and every financial arrangement connected to the Marchetti organization.
He'd called it his insurance policy.
After he died, I'd spent years searching for it.
I never found it.
“My father took that ledger to his grave.”
The caller laughed.
“Then perhaps you should ask your wife where she put it.”
My breath caught.
“Elena knows nothing about my father's business.”
“Are you certain?”
He let the silence stretch.
Then he spoke again.
“Forty-eight hours.”
“For what?”
“Bring the ledger to the old freight terminal on South Canal Street.”
“I told you I don't have it.”
“Then find it.”
The line crackled.
“And Nico?”
I closed my eyes.
“If you bring your men, the next hospital call won't have a happy ending.”
The call disconnected.
For several seconds, I remained perfectly still.
Then I handed the phone to Dante, who had returned after speaking with the investigators.
“Preserve the recording and give it to the detective assigned to Elena's case.”
Dante nodded.
“Understood.”
Ava approached.
“What did they say?”
“They want my father's ledger.”
She frowned.
“I thought that disappeared years ago.”
“So did I.”
Ava glanced toward Elena's room.
“Why would Elena know anything about it?”
That was the question I couldn't answer.
My wife had never been involved in my criminal operations.
She'd spent her days working at a community center, collecting children's books, and arguing with me about how much money I donated to Chicago's public schools.
She believed generosity meant nothing if it came from hurting someone else.
She'd once made me return an expensive necklace after learning the jeweler underpaid its workers.
The woman had more courage in one finger than most of my associates possessed in their entire bodies.
But she was no criminal mastermind.
And she certainly wasn't hiding my father's missing ledger.
At least, that was what I believed.
An hour later, Detective Maya Torres arrived.
She was a woman in her early forties, dressed in a dark suit beneath a winter coat.
She introduced herself without appearing remotely impressed by my name.
“Mr. Marchetti, I'm handling the investigation into Elena Brooks's injuries.”
I extended my hand.
She ignored it.
“Your reputation precedes you.”
“Then you probably know I don't enjoy wasting time.”
“Good.”
She opened a notebook.
“Because neither do I.”
I almost smiled.
Elena would have liked her.
Torres asked about the divorce, Elena's recent movements, and every threat I could document.
I told her the truth.
Not the convenient version.
Not the version that protected my organization.
The truth.
I explained the photographs, the sabotaged brakes, and the threatening messages.
I also admitted that I'd concealed those threats from Elena.
Torres stared at me.
“You received evidence that someone intended to murder your wife, and you didn't notify law enforcement?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I thought handling it privately would keep her safer.”
“And how did that work out?”
I looked toward Elena's room.
“Terribly.”
The detective studied me for a moment.
Then she closed her notebook.
“You want to help her?”
“More than anything.”
“Then stop making decisions for her.”
Those words landed harder than I expected.
“Tell us what you know, preserve every piece of evidence, and let us investigate.”
I nodded.
She seemed almost surprised.
“I'm serious, Mr. Marchetti.”
“So am I.”
Torres left to interview the garage's security personnel.
Shortly afterward, Dr. Whitmore allowed me back into Elena's room.
She was awake.
Her eyes followed me as I approached.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then she looked at my hand.
“You still wear it.”
I glanced down.
My wedding ring was visible.
I'd forgotten to put my glove back on.
“Yes.”
Her lips trembled.
“Why?”
There were a hundred answers.
Because I'd never stopped loving her.
Because taking it off felt like burying someone who was still alive.
Because every morning for three months I'd awakened expecting to feel her beside me.
Instead, I chose the simplest.
“Because I never stopped being your husband in my heart.”
She looked away.
“That isn't fair.”
“I know.”
“You don't get to say things like that.”
“I know.”
Her voice sharpened.
“You told me our marriage was fake.”
I sat in the chair beside her.
“Elena, I lied.”
She gave a bitter laugh.
“That's supposed to make me feel better?”
“No.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Because I love you.”
She went completely still.
I continued before my courage failed.
“I loved you when we got married.”
“I loved you every morning you stole my coffee because you insisted yours tasted worse.”
“I loved you when you cried during commercials and pretended you had allergies.”
“I loved you on the day we signed those divorce papers.”
Her eyes filled.
“Stop.”
“And I love you now.”
“Stop, Nico.”
I stopped.
She wiped her face with the back of her hand.
“You can't do this.”
“I know.”
“You can't destroy someone and come back three months later saying you didn't mean it.”
“I know.”
She stared at the ceiling.
“I thought I was going to die tonight.”
My heart twisted.
“I know.”
“No, you don't.”
Her voice broke.
“I was lying on that concrete floor, and I couldn't move.”
“I kept thinking about the baby.”
She placed a trembling hand over her stomach.
“I kept thinking she would never hear my voice.”
I leaned forward.
“Elena—”
“And the worst part was that I wanted you.”
A tear rolled into her hair.
“After everything you said, after everything you did, I still wanted you to come.”
I covered my face.
There was no punishment on earth severe enough to make those words feel deserved.
“I am so sorry.”
She shook her head.
“Sorry doesn't fix what happened.”
“No.”
She studied me for a long moment.
Then she whispered, “Someone told me why you divorced me.”
I lifted my head.
“What?”
“Two weeks ago.”
“Who?”
“A woman named Claire Bennett.”
My spine stiffened.
“Elena, what did she tell you?”
“That someone had threatened you.”
I swallowed.
“She said you were trying to protect me.”
“Did you believe her?”
“Not at first.”
Elena looked at my ring again.
“Then she showed me something.”
“What?”
“A photograph of our bedroom.”
My blood ran cold.
“The one they sent me?”
She nodded.
“And a copy of the message.”
I stared at her.
“You knew?”
“I knew someone was blackmailing you.”
“Why didn't you call me?”
Her expression hardened.
“Because I didn't know whether I could trust you.”
I deserved that answer.
Every word of it.
She continued.
“Claire said she had evidence of who was behind the threats.”
“She wanted to meet tonight.”
“At the garage?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
Elena shut her eyes.
“Claire gave me an envelope.”
“Then a man appeared.”
“Did you recognize him?”
Her breathing quickened.
“I thought I did.”
“Elena, take your time.”
“He told Claire she had made a terrible mistake.”
“What did he look like?”
“Tall.”
“Gray hair.”
“Expensive coat.”
My chest tightened.
“Vincent?”
Her eyes flew open.
“You know?”
I gripped the edge of my chair.
“Was it Vincent Moretti?”
“I heard his voice.”
“Are you certain?”
She started crying.
“Nico, I know that voice.”
“Please don't make me say it again.”
I reached toward her but stopped.
She noticed.
For a second, grief softened her expression.
Then she whispered, “Claire tried to run.”
“What happened?”
“The man grabbed my arm.”
I glanced at the bruises Dr. Whitmore had mentioned.
“He said the baby made everything complicated.”
My stomach dropped.
“Elena, did he hit you?”
She shook her head slowly.
“I don't remember.”
“There was a bright light.”
“Then a horrible sound.”
“And then I was on the ground.”
I forced myself to remain calm.
“Where's the envelope?”
Her face changed.
The fear disappeared, replaced by something I hadn't seen in months.
Determination.
“I hid it.”
“Where?”
She glanced toward the door.
Then she leaned closer.
“Nico, promise me something.”
“Anything.”
“Don't kill him.”
I stared at her.
She tightened her fingers around mine.
“Whatever Vincent has done, promise me you'll let the police handle it.”
I thought about the man who'd helped raise me.
The man who may have threatened my wife and unborn child.
Then I looked into Elena's eyes.
“I promise.”
She studied me as though searching for a lie.
Finally, she released a shaky breath.
“The envelope is in the bottom of my hospital bag.”
I frowned.
“How did it get there?”
“I don't know.”
“But I remember hiding it inside the lining of my coat before I lost consciousness.”
I found the bag beside the closet.
Her coat had been folded into a plastic evidence pouch by the hospital staff.
I left it untouched.
Instead, I called Detective Torres and explained what Elena remembered.
Twenty minutes later, Torres returned with an evidence technician.
They examined the coat.
Inside its damaged lining was a small waterproof envelope.
Torres opened it while Elena and I watched.
Inside was a flash drive.
And a photograph.
The photograph showed my father standing beside Vincent Moretti.
Between them was a young woman with long dark hair.
I recognized her instantly.
My mother.
The woman I'd been told died in a car accident when I was twelve.
On the back of the photograph were four handwritten words.
“She was going to testify.”
May you like
And beneath them was a date.
The day before my mother died.
