Chapter 2 - THE MAN MY FATHER TRIED TO WARN
My father had been a city building inspector.
Not a gangster.
Not a businessman.
Not anyone I thought could possibly have been connected to Vincent Moretti.
He checked fire codes, elevator permits, and structural repairs.
He complained about paperwork.
He wore the same brown work boots until the soles cracked.
And nine years ago, he died in what police called a highway accident.
Now Vincent's mother was telling me Michael Reed had warned her someone wanted him dead.
I stared.
“What did my father know?”
The woman looked toward Vincent.
“My name is Teresa Moretti.”
Then she turned back to me.
“Your father inspected one of our family's warehouses.”
My chest tightened.
“What happened there?”
Teresa's expression darkened.
“He found something that wasn't supposed to be there.”
Vincent leaned closer.
“What?”
She hesitated.
“Records.”
“What kind of records?”
“Construction invoices. Charitable payments. Property transfers.”
I frowned.
“That doesn't sound like something worth killing someone over.”
Teresa gave me a sad look.
“Not until you realize the invoices were fake.”
Vincent's eyes narrowed.
“How much money?”
“Millions.”
The word landed heavily.
Teresa explained that years earlier, several Moretti-owned properties had been renovated using contractors linked to a city redevelopment fund.
Some of the money was supposed to support affordable housing and neighborhood clinics.
My father discovered that projects listed as completed had never been finished.
Money had disappeared.
Then he found signatures approving payments.
One belonged to a Moretti executive.
Another belonged to a city official.
And one—
Teresa stopped.
Vincent watched her carefully.
“One what?”
She swallowed.
“One belonged to your father.”
Vincent's expression hardened.
“My father was dead by then.”
Teresa nodded slowly.
“Exactly.”
The room went silent.
Someone had used the signature of Antonio Moretti after his death.
Vincent looked toward me.
“Did Michael keep copies?”
I shook my head.
“I don't know.”
Then I remembered something.
My father's old metal toolbox.
Mom never threw it away.
She said she couldn't.
It still sat in our basement beneath Christmas decorations and Tyler's childhood bicycle.
I looked at Vincent.
“He might have.”
Vincent took out his phone.
“We can arrange for your family to have the documents reviewed.”
I immediately shook my head.
“No one goes to my house without me.”
His expression changed.
Then he nodded.
“Fair.”
That mattered.
The most feared man in Chicago had just accepted a boundary.
I didn't know what to make of him.
Then my phone buzzed.
Tyler.
I answered.
“Hannah?”
His voice was shaking.
“What happened?”
“Someone broke into the basement.”
My blood turned cold.
“Are you safe?”
“Mom and I are upstairs. The police are here.”
I gripped the phone.
“What did they take?”
A pause.
Then Tyler said:
“Dad's toolbox.”
I closed my eyes.
Too late.
Someone already knew.
But Tyler wasn't finished.
“They left something.”
“What?”
“A photograph.”
My pulse hammered.
“Of what?”
His voice dropped.
“Dad.”
I swallowed.
“Where?”
“Standing beside Vincent Moretti.”
I slowly turned toward Vincent.
He looked at me.
May you like
Then Tyler whispered the final detail.
“Hannah, the photo was taken two days after Dad supposedly died.”
