Chapter 8 - A Message From the Past|
Vincent summoned Thomas Vale to his office before sunrise.
The security chief arrived wearing a charcoal suit and an expression of mild irritation, as though he had been called away from an insignificant task.
“You asked to see me, sir?”
Vincent placed the printed report on his desk.
“Explain this.”
Thomas glanced down.
“A routine protective detail.”
“Protective details are authorized by me. I did not authorize anyone to follow my wife.”
“Mrs. Moretti is carrying your child. We considered the possibility that someone might target her.”
“Who is we?”
Thomas remained still.
Vincent rose from his chair.
“Look at me.”
Thomas did.
“Did you send that car?”
“I approved the assignment.”
“On whose instructions?”
A brief pause.
“Mr. Adrian Moretti expressed concern.”
Vincent's expression became unreadable.
“My cousin does not control my household.”
“No, sir.”
“Then why is he giving orders concerning my wife?”
Thomas said nothing.
Vincent picked up the report and tore it in half.
“Your access is suspended. You will surrender your devices, and Marcus will escort you out.”
Thomas's composure finally cracked.
“Sir, I have served this family for twelve years.”
“And in those twelve years, you should have learned the difference between protection and intimidation.”
Two guards entered.
As they led Thomas away, he turned back.
“You're making a mistake, Vincent.”
“Perhaps.”
Thomas lowered his voice.
“You don't understand what your cousin is trying to prevent.”
Vincent took one step forward.
“Then explain it.”
Thomas looked at the guards, then back at Vincent.
“I can't.”
The door closed behind him.
For several minutes, Vincent stood alone in his office. He wanted to call me. He wanted to tell me he had dealt with the problem. But he could already imagine my response: another promise, another attempt to make me feel safe inside a world I had never chosen.
Instead, he called Marcus.
“Find out what Adrian knows.”
“About the surveillance?”
“About everything.”
That afternoon, I received a call from an unfamiliar woman.
“Is this Claire Bennett?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Elena Ruiz. I used to work in the Moretti organization.”
My grip tightened around the phone.
“How did you get my number?”
“Someone gave it to me because I asked to speak with you.”
“Who?”
“I can't tell you that yet. I need to know whether Vincent has told you about the money.”
“What money?”
A pause.
“Five years ago, after your wedding, a charitable foundation was established in your name. It received several large transfers. The public records describe them as donations, but some of the payments came from companies connected to the Moretti family.”
I frowned.
“I never established a foundation.”
“I know.”
“Then why is my name on it?”
“That's what I was trying to determine before I left.”
My mouth went dry.
“Are you saying Vincent used my name?”
“I'm saying someone did. The foundation's records show your signature on documents you may never have seen.”
I glanced toward the kitchen, where Madison was making tea.
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I believe the foundation was used to move money, and someone is preparing to make you responsible for it.”
The room seemed to tilt.
I had signed hundreds of documents during my marriage. Vincent's business managers often brought paperwork to the mansion, and I trusted him when he told me which pages needed my signature. Sometimes I signed in a hurry, believing the documents concerned charity events or household expenses.
I had never imagined that my name could be used to conceal something illegal.
“I need proof,” I said.
“I have copies. But if I give them to you, I need protection.”
“I can't promise you protection.”
“No,” Elena said. “But you can promise not to hand me back to the people I'm afraid of.”
I thought of the photograph beneath Madison's door.
“I won't do that.”
We agreed to meet at a crowded café the next afternoon. I told Evelyn immediately, and she insisted on arranging the meeting through her office.
Before we hung up, Elena added one final detail.
“There's something else. The foundation wasn't created by Vincent.”
“Who created it?”
“Adrian Moretti.”
I stared at the phone.
May you like
My husband's cousin had arranged the surveillance. Now his name was connected to a foundation I had never knowingly established.
And if Elena was telling the truth, someone had been preparing to make me the fall person for a financial scheme before I ever knew I was pregnant.
