Chapter 6 - THE BOX UNDER THE FLOOR|
Elena stared at Claire's face on the hospital screen.
“My mother died when I was fourteen.”
“I know,” Claire answered.
“She never told me anything about the Marchettis.”
“Maybe she was trying to protect you.”
I recognized those words immediately.
I'd used the same excuse to justify destroying our marriage.
But Elena didn't seem interested in excuses.
She wanted answers.
“What exactly did my mother leave?”
Claire shifted against her pillow.
“Do you remember receiving a wooden jewelry box after her funeral?”
Elena went very still.
“Yes.”
“What happened to it?”
“I kept it.”
“Where?”
Elena glanced at me.
“In the house.”
I frowned.
“Our house?”
She shook her head.
“The little house on Maple Street.”
I remembered the place.
It was a narrow, two-story house on Chicago's Northwest Side.
Elena had inherited it from her grandmother.
After our divorce, she'd refused the mansion, the lakefront condominium, and every financial settlement my attorneys offered.
She moved into that little house instead.
At the time, I'd secretly arranged for renovations because I feared the aging furnace would fail during winter.
She discovered what I'd done.
Two days later, she sent me a check covering every repair.
There was a note attached.
I don't want your money, Nico.
I wanted your love.
I'd kept the note in my wallet.
It was still there.
Claire continued.
“Your mother may have hidden the documents inside the box.”
Elena frowned.
“I've opened that box hundreds of times.”
“Did you ever remove the bottom panel?”
“No.”
“That's where your aunt's letter said to look.”
I felt a surge of urgency.
“Then we should retrieve it.”
Elena immediately shook her head.
“We need to tell Detective Torres first.”
She looked directly at me.
“No secret missions.”
“No armed men.”
“No disappearing witnesses.”
I held her gaze.
“Agreed.”
Claire looked surprised.
“So the famous Nico Marchetti can actually follow instructions.”
Elena's mouth twitched.
“Occasionally.”
The tiny joke hit me harder than it should have.
For one second, it sounded like our old life.
Then Elena winced.
Dr. Whitmore, who had been monitoring the conversation from the doorway, stepped forward.
“That's enough for tonight.”
Claire nodded.
“Elena, one more thing.”
“What?”
“Don't trust anyone who tells you your mother was an innocent bystander.”
Elena frowned.
“What do you mean?”
Claire's eyes softened.
“Your mother was brave.”
“Much braver than any of us knew.”
Then the call ended.
Detective Torres arrived forty minutes later.
Elena explained everything she remembered about the jewelry box.
Torres listened carefully.
Then she made a call requesting officers to secure the Maple Street property.
I stood beside the window while she spoke.
My instincts screamed that I should send Dante and twenty armed men ahead.
But I stayed silent.
When Torres finished, she turned toward me.
“I assume you have security personnel near the house.”
“Two men.”
“Tell them to remain outside and avoid entering.”
I called Dante.
He didn't argue.
Perhaps he was beginning to understand that the rules had changed.
The next morning brought the first piece of good news.
Elena's neurological examination had improved.
The bleeding remained small and stable.
Dr. Whitmore told us she expected a favorable recovery, although Elena would need rest and follow-up care.
The baby's heartbeat remained reassuring.
When the doctor played the sound through a portable monitor, Elena began crying.
I had never heard anything like it.
A rapid, steady rhythm.
Our daughter's heart.
The sound filled the quiet hospital room.
I stared at the monitor.
For years, I'd believed power meant controlling the world around me.
But that tiny heartbeat demanded something entirely different.
Responsibility.
Elena noticed my expression.
“Are you crying?”
“No.”
She gave me a skeptical look.
“You're terrible at lying.”
I wiped my face.
“Apparently.”
Her smile disappeared slowly.
“I wish you'd been there when I first heard it.”
I looked at her.
“How many weeks?”
“Twelve.”
She lowered her eyes.
“I had an appointment the morning after the divorce hearing.”
A terrible ache spread through my chest.
“You knew then?”
“No.”
“I found out two days later.”
She swallowed.
“I took six pregnancy tests because I couldn't believe it.”
I closed my eyes.
“Elena.”
“I kept looking at the phone.”
She stared at her hands.
“I wanted to tell you.”
“Why didn't you?”
Her eyes filled.
“Because the last time I told you I loved you, you looked at me like I was a stranger.”
I couldn't answer.
She continued quietly.
“I wrote you a letter.”
“What letter?”
“A long one.”
“I told you about the baby.”
“I told you I wasn't asking for money.”
“I told you that whatever happened between us, I wanted our daughter to know her father.”
My chest tightened.
“You sent it?”
She nodded.
“Registered mail.”
I stared.
“I never received anything.”
Elena's expression changed.
“What?”
“I swear to you.”
She studied me.
“I have the delivery confirmation.”
“Who signed for it?”
“I don't remember.”
I reached for my phone.
“Dante.”
He answered immediately.
“Boss?”
“I need every piece of correspondence received at my office during the first month after the divorce.”
“Anything specific?”
“A registered letter from Elena.”
There was a pause.
“Elena sent you a letter?”
“Yes.”
Dante hesitated.
“Vincent handled your personal mail during that period.”
My stomach dropped.
“Of course he did.”
After ending the call, I looked at Elena.
“Someone intercepted it.”
She stared at me.
Then tears spilled down her cheeks.
“You really didn't know?”
“No.”
She pressed her lips together.
“For three months, I thought you knew about our baby and didn't care.”
I moved toward her.
“Elena, look at me.”
She did.
“I would never abandon our child.”
“You abandoned me.”
The words stopped me.
She looked away.
“And I was carrying her.”
There was nothing I could say.
Because no matter how many threats I'd received, no matter how terrified I'd been, she had experienced the abandonment as real.
And it had been real.
I had left.
I had hurt her.
I had allowed her to believe she was alone.
That morning, I began understanding that earning forgiveness would take far more than uncovering a conspiracy.
It would take changing the man who'd created so much of the damage.
At eleven seventeen, Detective Torres returned.
Her expression told me something had gone wrong.
“What happened?” I demanded.
She closed the door.
“The Maple Street house was broken into overnight.”
Elena sat upright.
“What?”
“The back door was forced.”
“Was anything stolen?”
Torres hesitated.
“Someone searched the upstairs bedroom.”
I stepped forward.
“And the jewelry box?”
“We found it.”
Relief flooded Elena's face.
Then Torres continued.
“But it was empty.”
The relief vanished.
Elena looked devastated.
“No.”
She shook her head.
“It was under my bed.”
“I never moved it.”
Torres placed a photograph on the bedside table.
It showed the wooden box lying open on the floor.
The velvet lining had been torn out.
The false bottom was missing.
Someone had known exactly where to look.
I stared at the photograph.
Then I noticed something near the edge of the frame.
A small white card.
There was writing on it.
“Detective, what's that?”
Torres glanced down.
“We recovered it near the box.”
“What does it say?”
She handed me a clear evidence photograph.
The handwriting was neat.
Almost elegant.
“Your mother should have stayed silent.”
Beneath it was the same black crown symbol.
Elena covered her mouth.
I read the message again.
Then my phone rang.
Vincent Moretti.
I answered.
“Hello, Uncle Vincent.”
His voice was warm.
Almost affectionate.
“Nicholas, I heard about Elena.”
I stared at the threatening message.
“How thoughtful of you to call.”
“I'm worried about you, son.”
“Are you?”
“Of course.”
He paused.
“Family is everything.”
I looked at Elena.
My family.
My real family.
My wife, even if she no longer wanted that title.
Our unborn daughter.
And the mother whose death had been buried beneath twenty-seven years of lies.
“Yes,” I said quietly.
“Family is everything.”
Vincent sighed.
“Then listen carefully, Nicholas.”
His voice changed.
May you like
The warmth disappeared.
“Tell Elena to stop searching for things that belong to dead women.”
