Chapter 3 - THE WATCH ON KELLER’S WRISTSofia woke to white sheets.
For one confused second, she thought she had died.
Then she heard Emma arguing with someone.
“My mommy likes strawberry jelly.”
A male voice answered patiently.
“The kitchen sent grape.”
“Strawberry.”
“I understand.”
“Grape is yucky.”
“I’ll inform the kitchen.”
Sofia opened her eyes.
Emma stood beside a hospital window wearing pink pajamas Sofia had never seen before.
Marco DeLuca stood beside her holding two miniature jelly containers like evidence in a criminal trial.
Emma pointed to one.
“Yucky.”
Marco sighed.
“I negotiate million-dollar contracts with less resistance.”
“Marco?”
Sofia’s voice came out weak.
Emma spun around.
“Mommy!”
She climbed onto the bed.
Sofia wrapped her arms around her.
“You scared me.”
“You slept a lot.”
“How long?”
“Thirteen hours,” Marco said.
Sofia looked around.
Private hospital room.
Fresh flowers.
A tray of untouched food.
Fear replaced confusion.
“Where’s Mr. Moretti?”
Marco’s expression changed slightly.
“Working.”
Sofia knew that tone.
“Working” meant something she probably did not want explained.
Dr. Russo arrived a few minutes later.
The diagnosis was pneumonia, severe dehydration and exhaustion.
No permanent damage.
Three days of hospital care.
At least a week of rest after discharge.
Sofia immediately objected.
“I need my job.”
Marco answered before the doctor could.
“You still have it.”
“You don’t decide that.”
“Mr. Moretti does.”
“And he said?”
“He said if anyone lets you near a mop before the doctor clears you, he’ll fire them.”
Sofia stared.
Marco smiled faintly.
“Mrs. Finch is furious because technically that includes her.”
Emma giggled.
For a moment, normal life felt possible.
Then Sofia noticed two armed men outside the hospital room.
Her smile vanished.
“Why is security here?”
Marco became serious.
“Precaution.”
“Because of the men last night?”
“Partly.”
“What’s the other part?”
Marco hesitated.
Sofia had spent years around people who assumed housekeepers did not notice things.
She noticed everything.
“The photograph,” she said.
Marco’s eyebrows lifted.
“I saw your phone before I passed out. A man wearing a watch.”
“You remember that?”
“I remember Mr. Moretti’s face.”
Marco looked toward the door.
“That isn’t my story to tell.”
Across Chicago, Adrian Moretti was asking Patrick Keller the same question for the fourth time.
“Where did you get the watch?”
They sat inside Keller’s property-management office.
No warehouse.
No cellar.
No violence.
Adrian had deliberately chosen daylight, windows and witnesses in adjoining rooms.
He had spent years building legitimate companies alongside the darker inheritance his father had left him.
He had learned that the most useful weapon was often not fear.
It was paperwork.
Keller’s hands shook.
“I bought it.”
“From whom?”
“Pawn shop.”
“Which one?”
“I don’t remember.”
Adrian placed an old photograph on the desk.
Two young men stood beside a fishing boat.
Adrian at twenty-three.
His brother, Matteo, at twenty-one.
On Matteo’s wrist was the watch.
Silver face.
Cracked blue bezel.
Custom inscription beneath the case.
A.M. + M.M. — BROTHERS FIRST.
Their mother had commissioned two identical watches.
Adrian still owned his.
Matteo had been wearing his the night he disappeared.
“You didn’t buy it randomly,” Adrian said.
Keller looked away.
“You knew what it was.”
“No.”
“Then why did Bellini photograph you wearing it?”
Keller flinched.
There.
Adrian saw it.
“You were supposed to let me see the picture.”
Keller said nothing.
Adrian leaned back.
“This wasn’t an accident.”
Still nothing.
“Bellini wanted my attention.”
Keller’s lips trembled.
“He said you’d come eventually.”
Adrian felt ice enter his veins.
“What else did he say?”
“That you would start with the watch.”
“And finish where?”
Keller shut his eyes.
“He said I’d know when.”
Adrian stood.
Keller panicked.
“That’s all I know!”
Adrian walked toward the door.
“Then prison may be safer for you.”
“What?”
Adrian looked back.
“The city has received documentation showing fraudulent tenant fees, illegal collections and multiple housing violations in your buildings.”
Keller went white.
“You called the city?”
“I called everyone.”
Keller almost laughed in disbelief.
“You’re Adrian Moretti.”
“Yes.”
“You don’t call building inspectors.”
“Apparently I do now.”
Keller stared at him.
Adrian left.
Outside, Marco was waiting beside the Lincoln.
“What happened?”
“It was bait.”
“Bellini?”
Adrian nodded.
“To lead us where?”
“I don’t know.”
His phone rang.
Hospital.
Sofia.
Adrian almost ignored it.
Then answered.
“How are you?”
Her response was immediate.
“Why are there armed men outside my room?”
“Good morning to you too.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
“I don’t want my daughter around guns.”
Adrian glanced at Marco.
“That is a reasonable objection.”
Marco raised an eyebrow.
Sofia continued.
“And I don’t want you paying my hospital bills.”
“That objection is less reasonable.”
“Mr. Moretti—”
“Adrian.”
A pause.
“What?”
“If you’re going to yell at me, use my first name.”
“I’m not yelling.”
“You’re close.”
Marco looked out the window to hide his smile.
Sofia lowered her voice.
“I appreciate what you did. But I don’t want to owe you.”
“You don’t.”
“People always owe men like you.”
The sentence landed harder than she intended.
Adrian became silent.
Sofia regretted it immediately.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
“I shouldn’t have said—”
“You’re right.”
That surprised her.
Adrian looked through the windshield at Chicago moving beyond the glass.
“People have owed my family things for generations. Money. Loyalty. Silence.”
“So what do you want from me?”
“Nothing.”
“I don’t believe that.”
He thought about Emma dividing the bread.
“Then believe this. I would rather pay a hospital bill than watch your daughter learn how to starve politely.”
Sofia could not answer.
Adrian continued.
“When you’re discharged, the apartment isn’t safe.”
“I’m not moving into your mansion.”
“I didn’t ask you to.”
“You were going to.”
“I was considering it.”
“No.”
“Fine.”
“Fine?”
“I can arrange somewhere else.”
Sofia blinked.
She had expected resistance.
“Why are you agreeing?”
“Because I said I’m helping. Not owning you.”
For the first time, she heard something beneath the hard surface of his voice.
Not charm.
Not manipulation.
Effort.
As though treating someone gently required muscles Adrian had forgotten how to use.
Sofia glanced at Emma drawing on a hospital notepad.
“Thank you.”
Adrian’s response was quiet.
“You’re welcome.”
Then Emma seized the phone.
“Mr. Adrian!”
Adrian winced at the volume.
“Hello, Emma.”
“Marco got yucky jelly.”
“I heard.”
“I need strawberry.”
“Clearly an emergency.”
“Yes.”
Marco muttered from beside him, “Thank you for validating this.”
Emma said, “Also Mommy needs soup.”
“I can arrange that.”
“And a puppy.”
Sofia snatched the phone back.
“No puppy.”
Adrian almost laughed.
It surprised him enough that he stopped.
Sofia heard it.
“You laughed.”
“No.”
“You did.”
“Pneumonia has damaged your hearing.”
That afternoon, Adrian arranged temporary housing for Sofia and Emma in a modest but secure apartment owned by one of his legitimate companies.
He told himself that solved the immediate problem.
It did not.
At six thirty, Marco entered Adrian’s office carrying an envelope.
“No return address.”
Inside was a photograph.
Matteo Moretti.
Alive.
Older.
The picture was dated four years after his disappearance.
Behind Matteo stood a red brick building.
Adrian recognized it instantly.
1178 West Partridge.
Sofia’s apartment building.
On the back of the photograph were six handwritten words.
YOUR BROTHER LIVED IN 5C TOO.
Adrian stared at the sentence.
Sofia’s apartment.
The same room.
The same building.
The same landlord connected to Bellini.
None of this was chance.
“Get the building records,” Adrian said.
Marco was already reaching for his phone.
Within an hour, they had the old tenant files.
Apartment 5C had been rented nine years earlier under the name Michael Russo.
Fake name.
Fake documents.
But the emergency-contact phone number belonged to someone Adrian knew.
Someone who had been inside his family for thirty years.
Father Benedict Moretti.
Adrian’s uncle.
A priest.
And one of the few people Adrian had trusted completely.
Adrian felt the betrayal before he understood it.
“Call him.”
Marco did.
No answer.
Again.
Nothing.
Adrian drove to Saint Catherine’s parish.
The church door stood open.
The sanctuary lights were on.
“Uncle?”
No response.
Adrian entered the rectory.
A chair lay overturned.
A cup had shattered on the floor.
Then he saw blood.
Not much.
A narrow streak leading toward the back door.
Adrian drew his weapon.
He followed it into the alley.
Nobody there.
Only a phone lying beneath the fire escape.
Father Benedict’s phone.
The screen was cracked.
A recorded message was waiting.
Adrian pressed play.
His uncle’s frightened voice filled the alley.
“Adrian, if you’re hearing this, Bellini knows you found the watch.”
A breath.
“Matteo did not betray you.”
Another breath.
“And he did not abandon the family.”
Adrian gripped the phone.
“He disappeared because he discovered something your father had done.”
Then shouting sounded in the recording.
Benedict spoke faster.
“Do not trust the old accounts. Do not trust anyone who tells you Matteo is dead.”
A crash.
And then the final words:
“Find the girl from apartment 5C.”
The recording ended.
Adrian stared at the phone.
The girl.
There was only one girl currently living in apartment 5C.
Emma Romano.
But Emma had not even been born when Matteo disappeared.
Which meant Benedict was talking about someone else.
Adrian suddenly remembered Sofia’s employment paperwork.
Place of birth.
Chicago.
Former surname.
Sofia Elena Russo.
Russo.
The same surname Matteo had used while hiding.
Adrian went perfectly still.
Marco saw the realization.
“What?”
Adrian looked toward the city.
“We need to get to the hospital.”
“Why?”
“Because Sofia didn’t move into 5C by accident.”
May you like
He started toward the car.
“And I don’t think she knows why.”
Related Stories
