Chapter 6 - The Cousin Who Knew Everything
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Luca Moretti arrived at the safe house at ten the next morning.
He wore a charcoal suit, a navy tie, and the expression of a man who had never doubted his welcome anywhere. He had been Vincent's cousin, adviser, and closest confidant since they were teenagers. When Vincent's father died, Luca had helped him keep the family business from collapsing.
I remembered him from our marriage.
He had brought flowers when Noah was born. He had helped repair the nursery door after Vincent accidentally broke the hinge. He had once sat beside me in the hospital waiting room while Vincent underwent emergency surgery after a car accident.
I had trusted him.
That was the part that frightened me most.
“Vincent,” Luca said, embracing him briefly. “I heard about Claire's apartment. Is she all right?”
“She's alive.”
Luca turned toward me.
“Thank God. Claire, you must have been terrified.”
I studied his hands.
No gold falcon ring.
“Where were you last night?” I asked.
His smile paused.
“Working.”
“Where?”
He looked at Vincent, apparently expecting him to intervene.
Vincent didn't.
Luca's expression cooled.
“Why am I being interrogated?”
“Because someone tried to kill me,” I said. “And the shooter was wearing a ring like yours.”
He glanced at his bare hand.
“I lost that ring months ago.”
“How unfortunate.”
“Claire,” Vincent warned softly.
I turned on him.
“Don't protect him because you love him.”
The words hung between us.
Vincent's eyes darkened, but he did not tell me to stop.
Luca gave a short, disbelieving laugh.
“You've been away for three years, and suddenly you think you understand this family better than I do?”
“No,” I said. “I think I understand evidence better than you do.”
I placed the recording on the table.
Luca watched the footage without changing expression.
Then he shrugged.
“Anyone could have bought a similar ring.”
“The jeweler who made yours used a custom stamp,” Vincent said. “You ordered twelve of them for the family years ago.”
Luca's eyes shifted toward him.
“Are you accusing me?”
“I'm asking questions.”
“You're letting your ex-wife turn you against your own blood.”
Vincent stepped closer.
“Someone fired into her home. Until I know who did it, everyone is a question.”
For the first time, Luca seemed uncertain.
He recovered quickly.
“Then let me handle security. I'll find the shooter.”
“No,” I said.
Both men looked at me.
“If Luca is involved, giving him access to the investigation would be reckless. If he's innocent, an independent investigator should have no trouble clearing him.”
Luca smiled without warmth.
“An independent investigator? You mean the police? The same people who have spent years trying to bring this family down?”
“I mean someone who isn't personally loyal to any of you.”
Vincent considered it.
Then he picked up his phone and called a former federal prosecutor named Rebecca Shaw, whom he had met during an investigation into corporate fraud. She had since become a private compliance consultant and was known for refusing cases that smelled like cover-ups.
She agreed to meet us that afternoon.
Luca left the house without another word.
The moment the door closed, I turned toward Vincent.
“You should have told me he was coming.”
“I wanted to see his reaction.”
“You used me as bait?”
“No. I wanted him to know we had evidence.”
“You don't get to make that distinction after someone shoots at me.”
He looked stricken.
“I wasn't trying to endanger you.”
“But you were willing to let me walk into a room with the man we suspect ordered it.”
Vincent lowered his head.
“You're right.”
I had expected an argument. Instead, his admission left me with nowhere to put my anger.
“I need you to understand something,” I said. “I am not your employee. I'm not one of your soldiers. You don't get to move me around the board because it makes your plan easier.”
“I understand.”
“Do you?”
He looked at me for a long time.
“I am trying to.”
That answer was honest enough to hurt.
Rebecca Shaw arrived at three, carrying a laptop and a thin folder. She listened to the entire story without interrupting, then examined my mother's letter, the hidden message, and the recording.
“I'm not going to promise you protection,” she said. “But I can promise you that if we establish a chain of evidence, I will take it to the appropriate federal authorities.”
“Can you investigate Luca?” I asked.
“I can examine the financial connections. I cannot conduct a criminal investigation on my own.”
She opened her laptop.
“Let's start with the names.”
Over the next two hours, we mapped companies, bank transfers, and old business partnerships. The same shell companies appeared again and again, their ownership hidden behind layers of trusts and registered agents.
Then Rebecca stopped typing.
“That's strange.”
“What?” Vincent asked.
She turned the screen.
A transfer had been made from a company associated with Victor Sloane to a consulting firm controlled by Luca.
The date was two days before the shooting.
The amount was exactly $2.4 million.
Rebecca leaned back.
“That doesn't prove a murder conspiracy. But it's enough to justify a closer look.”
I stared at the figures.
“Can we trace where the money went?”
“Not without records from the banks and the companies involved.”
I looked at Vincent.
“Can you get them?”
He hesitated.
“Some of the companies are connected to my legitimate businesses.”
“Then authorize the records to be reviewed.”
“Claire, those files could expose years of financial activity.”
“That's what evidence does.”
His jaw tightened.
I knew what he was weighing: his empire against the truth.
Finally, he signed the authorization.
Rebecca gathered the documents.
“I'll start with the transfers. Nobody contacts Luca or Victor until I know what we have.”
Vincent nodded.
Then his phone rang.
He answered, listened for three seconds, and went completely still.
“What do you mean, Noah is missing?”
My heart stopped.
I grabbed his arm.
“What happened to my son?”
Vincent's face had gone white.
“The preschool says a man came to collect him.”
“Who?”
“They thought he was authorized.”
I couldn't breathe.
“Who took my child?”
May you like
Vincent looked at me, and for the first time in his life, the most feared man in Chicago appeared utterly helpless.
“Luca,” he whispered. “Luca signed the pickup authorization.”
