Chapter 4 - THE SAFE HOUSE WITH NO WINDOWS|
By sunset, Donatella had been moved to a secure apartment above a private garage on the outskirts of Kansas City. The building belonged to a company that officially repaired luxury automobiles. In reality, it served as one of Ettore Moretti's emergency safe houses.
Donatella hated every second of it.
The windows were reinforced. Two armed guards waited outside the apartment. A security camera watched the hallway, and a thick steel door separated her from the rest of the building.
"I am not a prisoner," she told Ettore when he brought her a glass of water.
"No," he replied. "A prisoner would have fewer choices."
"Then let me go home."
"Your address is compromised. Someone photographed you this morning, broke into the restaurant, and threatened to kill you. Going home would be irresponsible."
"Staying here with a mafia boss is supposed to be safer?"
He set the water on the table.
"At the moment, yes."
Donatella folded her arms, wincing when the movement pulled at her injured shoulder.
"You're very comfortable deciding what happens to other people."
The observation struck a nerve. Ettore had spent decades making decisions for people who rarely dared question him. He could order a shipment rerouted, close a business, or make a powerful rival disappear from the city. Yet the woman in front of him was looking at him as if his authority meant absolutely nothing.
"I won't lock you in," he said finally. "You can move around the apartment. You can speak to my lawyer. You can call anyone you trust, provided we verify the number first."
"And if I want to leave?"
"I'll tell you the risks. The decision will be yours."
It was the first concession he had made without demanding something in return.
Later, a doctor treated Donatella's shoulder. She refused pain medication until the doctor assured her it would not interfere with her concentration. Then she asked Marco for access to a computer.
Ettore frowned when he learned about it.
"She needs rest."
"She says she needs the restaurant's transaction database," Marco replied.
"Of course she does."
Ettore entered the room to find Donatella sitting at the desk, her hair loose around her face and a spreadsheet open on the screen.
"You were whipped this morning," he said. "Shot at this afternoon. And now you're working?"
"Someone is stealing millions from your organization. Apparently, nobody else noticed."
"You're allowed to be frightened."
"I am frightened."
Her voice softened, and for a moment she looked every bit as young as she was.
"But being frightened doesn't make the money disappear."
Ettore said nothing. He watched as she compared invoices with payment authorizations, tracing transfers through a network of shell companies. Within an hour, she had identified three businesses that had never delivered a single product to La Bella Vita.
All three were registered to different owners.
All three used the same mailing address.
And all three had received authorization through an account controlled by the Moretti family's chief financial officer, Vincent Caruso.
Ettore stared at the screen.
"Vincent has worked for my family for twenty-two years."
"Then he's had plenty of time to learn where you keep your trust."
"Are you certain?"
"No. But the numbers are."
She opened another file. A payment had been made six days earlier to a private medical facility outside the city. The recipient's name was obscured, but the reference code matched a series of transfers Donatella had discovered in her mother's old records.
ISABELLA CONTINUITY FUND.
Ettore gripped the edge of the desk.
"That account was closed twenty-eight years ago."
"Apparently, someone forgot to tell the money."
Donatella enlarged the transaction details. The most recent payment had been approved using a digital signature that belonged to a man officially declared dead decades earlier.
Ettore whispered the name.
"Salvatore Moretti."
Donatella turned toward him.
"Who was he?"
"My father."
For several seconds, neither spoke.
Ettore's father had died in a car fire when Ettore was twenty-three. His death had been ruled accidental, and the family had held a private funeral. If Salvatore's signature was genuine, either someone had forged it with extraordinary precision—or the Moretti family had buried the wrong man.
Before Donatella could ask more, her phone vibrated.
A message had arrived from a number she hadn't seen in twelve years.
It contained no greeting, only a photograph of an elderly woman sitting beside a hospital window.
Beneath the image were six words:
YOUR MOTHER DIDN'T DIE ALONE, DONATELLA.
She recognized the woman immediately.
May you like
It was her mother's older sister, Teresa.
The aunt who had supposedly died before Donatella was born.
