Chapter 4 - The Warning in Black Ink|
Dante folded the card once and slipped it into his inside pocket.
He did it so calmly that Clara might have missed the movement if she hadn't been watching him.
“Who gave you that?” he asked the woman in silver.
“I don't know. A waiter brought it to our table. He said it was for you.”
“Which waiter?”
She pointed toward the service doors.
Dante's security chief was already moving.
“Lock down the east corridor,” Dante ordered. “No one leaves through the service entrance until we identify the person who delivered it.”
The woman in silver went pale.
Victoria stepped backward.
“Surely that isn't necessary. It's probably some tasteless joke.”
Dante turned his head.
“Does it look funny to you?”
Victoria said nothing.
Clara rose slowly from her chair.
“Why does that card mention me?”
“Because someone wants you frightened.”
“It's working.”
The honesty surprised him. His expression softened, but he didn't offer a comforting lie.
“Then you should know what you're dealing with before you decide what to do.”
He gestured toward a quieter alcove beside the ballroom. Clara followed him, though she kept enough distance to remind herself that she didn't know him.
Two security officers remained within sight.
“My mother died when I was seventeen,” Clara said. “If she knew something about your family, she never told me.”
Dante looked at the locket.
“Your mother wasn't involved with my family. She was involved with a man who worked for us.”
“Who?”
“Michael Moretti. My uncle.”
Clara waited.
“Twenty years ago, money disappeared from several shipping accounts. A junior accountant discovered that the records had been altered. He tried to report it. Before the investigation could begin, he died in what the police called an accident.”
“Your uncle?”
“No. The accountant.”
Dante's voice grew colder.
“Michael was accused of ordering the alterations. He denied it. A woman who worked in the legal office helped preserve copies of the original records.”
Clara's hand tightened around her locket.
“My mother?”
“I believe so.”
“Why would she never tell me?”
“Perhaps she was protecting you. Perhaps she thought the danger had passed. I won't pretend to know what was in her mind.”
That answer, at least, sounded honest.
Clara looked toward the ballroom. Guests were pretending not to watch them, but their glances kept returning.
“I don't want money. I don't want favors. And I don't want to be used to settle a family feud.”
“Good.”
“Good?”
“I don't trust people who ask for nothing because they often expect everything. You told me what you want. That's better.”
For the first time, Clara almost smiled.
Then she remembered the card.
“Who would want me forgotten?”
“Someone who believes your mother kept evidence that could destroy him.”
“Is that evidence real?”
“I don't know yet.”
Dante took out his phone and made a call.
“Rosa, I need the old Bennett file. Every document, every witness statement, every missing page. Start with the complaint from twenty years ago.”
He listened.
“No. Don't contact the people named in it. I want the records secured first.”
He ended the call.
Clara watched him carefully.
“You make it sound as if people disappear when you ask questions.”
“Sometimes they do.”
“Did you make them disappear?”
His security chief, returning from the corridor, stopped at the edge of the alcove.
Dante didn't react with anger.
“I've done things I'm not proud of,” he said. “I've threatened men. I've used my reputation to force people into decisions. I won't ask you to believe I'm a good man because I put a jacket around your shoulders.”
“Then why help me?”
“Because I know what happens when powerful people decide someone ordinary is expendable.”
He looked toward Victoria, who was now whispering urgently with Beatrice.
“And because I suspect someone has been using you as cover for something much worse than a cruel evening.”
Clara felt cold.
“What does that mean?”
“Your employment records. The donor lists you've been preparing. The guest information you've been correcting for three weeks.”
He held her gaze.
“Did Victoria ever ask you to copy private documents, change dates, or deliver envelopes without asking what was inside?”
Clara thought of the sealed packets she had carried to the accounting office. The donor spreadsheet Victoria had ordered her to amend. The late-night requests to reprint records after everyone else had left.
“Yes,” she whispered.
“How many?”
“I don't know. Maybe six or seven.”
Dante's face hardened.
“Then we need to find out what you were carrying.”
Before Clara could ask another question, a waiter hurried into the alcove.
“Mr. Moretti? There's a woman at the front desk asking for Miss Bennett.”
“Who is she?”
“She says her name is Evelyn.”
Clara stopped breathing.
“My mother is dead.”
The waiter swallowed.
“She said she knew your mother. And she told the receptionist to give you this.”
He held out a small envelope.
May you like
On the front, in handwriting Clara recognized from the letters stored in her apartment, were five words:
Clara, if you are reading this, run.
