Chapter 5 - THE MAN IN OUR PENTHOUSE
Dante called security.
Nobody answered.
That frightened him.
It frightened me more.
His private security team did not ignore Dante Moretti.
Not accidentally.
Within ten minutes, police loyal to no Moretti business interest were dispatched to the penthouse.
Dante hated involving them.
He did it anyway.
That told me how serious this was.
At 1:14 a.m., officers entered.
The penthouse was empty.
No forced entry.
No broken alarms.
But Dante’s biometric security key had been removed from the private safe.
So had three files.
Lorenzo Moretti’s estate documents.
My original foundation signature authorization book.
And our prenuptial agreement.
“Inside job,” Elias said.
Dante’s face went cold.
“Only four people know the secondary safe code.”
“Names.”
“Me. Isabella. My attorney.”
He stopped.
“And?”
“My uncle.”
Rafael Moretti.
Lorenzo’s younger brother.
The man who had raised Dante after his father died.
The man who sat beside me at every Christmas dinner.
The man who had given a toast at our wedding.
I remembered Rafael telling Dante, Take care of her. Romano women remember everything.
Apparently he knew exactly what that meant.
“Where is Rafael?” I asked.
Dante called.
Voicemail.
Again.
Nothing.
Then Elias found airport records.
Rafael’s jet had filed a flight plan for Montreal.
Departure: 2:30 a.m.
Dante reached for his coat.
“No.”
He looked at me.
“You’re not going after him alone.”
“I’m not bringing you.”
“I didn’t say bring me.”
That stopped him.
For eight years, I had instinctively stepped into Dante’s disasters beside him.
Tonight, I finally understood that leaving him did not require me to become reckless.
He called federal financial-crimes investigators.
Something old Dante would never have done.
The plane was stopped before takeoff.
Rafael was not onboard.
His luggage was.
Inside one suitcase were passports, cash, and Natalia’s foundation badge.
Inside another was Lorenzo Moretti’s estate file.
But no biometric key.
No signature book.
No prenup.
Then investigators found blood inside the trunk of Rafael’s abandoned car.
Not enough to prove death.
Enough to prove violence.
Dante stared at the photographs.
“Someone took him.”
“Or he staged it,” Elias said.
Dante nodded.
He no longer defended family automatically.
That change did not escape me.
My phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
A photograph loaded.
Rafael sat tied to a chair.
Bruised.
Alive.
Behind him stood Natalia.
Gold gala dress still on.
Champagne elegance replaced by a black coat and a gun in her hand.
My stomach tightened.
Then a message appeared.
YOU HAVE UNTIL 8 A.M.
I looked at Dante.
Another message.
BRING THE NORTH MERIDIAN CHARTER.
NO POLICE.
Then a third.
And bring Isabella.
Dante immediately said, “No.”
I ignored him.
The final message arrived.
She deserves to hear what Rafael did to her father.
My fingers went numb.
My father had died six years earlier after a stroke.
May you like
Or that was what the hospital told me.
Natalia was telling me Rafael Moretti had something to do with it.
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