Chapter 5 - THE DEAD MAN WHO WAS STILL GIVING ORDERS
Dominic Moretti's father had been buried five years earlier.
I'd seen the newspaper photographs.
A black funeral procession.
Hundreds of mourners.
A gold-trimmed coffin carried into a private family mausoleum.
Vittorio Moretti had supposedly died of a heart attack.
So when Caleb claimed he was still alive, I thought he'd lost his mind.
Dominic didn't.
He looked as though someone had reached into his chest and stopped his heart.
“Say that again.”
Caleb shook his head.
“Forget it.”
Dominic grabbed the front of his jacket.
“Where is he?”
Caleb's voice cracked.
“You think I wanted any of this?”
“Where?”
“He'll kill me.”
Dominic released him.
For several seconds, he said nothing.
Then he turned to Victor.
“Take Caleb downstairs. No one speaks to him without me.”
Caleb struggled.
“Dominic, listen—”
“Get him out.”
The door closed.
Silence settled over the study.
I sat down because my ankle couldn't support me anymore.
Dominic stared at his father's photograph on the mantel.
Finally, he spoke.
“My father was a cruel man.”
I said nothing.
“He taught me that fear was more reliable than loyalty. That affection was a weakness people could exploit.”
He looked at me.
“I spent most of my life trying not to become him.”
“Did you believe he was dead?”
“Yes.”
His answer was immediate.
“Then someone fooled you too.”
Dominic gave a humorless laugh.
“Apparently.”
A knock came.
Dr. Sullivan entered carrying a medical bag.
He examined my ankle while Dominic stood beside the window.
The swelling was severe.
“You have a significant sprain,” the doctor said. “Possibly ligament damage. I want imaging today.”
“I have work.”
Dominic turned.
“No, you don't.”
I glared at him.
“Are you always this controlling?”
“Yes.”
“At least you're honest.”
For the first time that morning, he almost smiled.
Dr. Sullivan fitted a supportive boot around my ankle.
When he finished, Dominic crouched beside my chair.
“Emily, I need to ask you something.”
“What?”
“Why did you take a job here?”
I blinked.
“Because your estate paid better than the hotel.”
“Who recommended you?”
“A woman at an employment agency.”
“Her name?”
I tried to remember.
“Patricia something.”
Dominic's expression darkened.
He crossed the room and opened an old personnel file.
Then he turned the screen toward me.
A photograph appeared.
A middle-aged woman with blonde hair.
“Is this her?”
“Yes.”
Dominic closed his eyes.
“What's wrong?”
He looked at me.
“That's not an employment agent.”
“Who is she?”
“My father's former personal assistant.”
My heart pounded.
Dominic continued.
“She disappeared after his funeral.”
I stared at the photograph.
Three years ago, that woman had insisted I apply to the Moretti estate.
She'd even paid my bus fare to the interview.
I remembered something else.
Before I left, she'd touched my necklace.
And whispered, Your mother would be proud.
Dominic watched my expression.
“What did she say to you?”
I told him.
His face drained of color.
Then his phone vibrated.
An unknown number.
He answered on speaker.
A man's voice filled the room.
Older.
Smooth.
Cold.
“Hello, son.”
Dominic gripped the desk.
May you like
The voice continued.
“I believe you've finally found Margaret Carter's daughter.”
