Chapter 3 - The Woman Who Died TwiceThe name Eleanor Miller had not been spoken inside the Moretti estate for twelve years.
Now it hung between Lorenzo and his mother like a loaded gun.
Sophie stared at the silver locket.
It was oval, no larger than a quarter, with a tiny scratch running diagonally across the front.
She remembered that scratch.
She had made it herself.
She was nine years old, sitting on her mother's lap in their Brooklyn apartment, trying to open the locket with a kitchen knife.
Eleanor had laughed and taken the knife away.
“Some things are worth waiting to understand, sweetheart.”
Sophie had forgotten those words.
Until now.
“Where did you get that?” she whispered.
Isabella's trembling fingers tightened around the chain.
“Eleanor gave it to me.”
“When?”
Isabella looked toward the bedroom door.
Her expression changed.
Fear returned.
“He'll hear us.”
Lorenzo crouched beside her.
“Who, Mama?”
She stared at him.
For one heartbreaking moment, she seemed to see someone else.
“Salvatore?”
Lorenzo felt his chest tighten.
Salvatore Moretti had been dead for eight years.
He had been Lorenzo's father, his mentor, and the man whose empire Lorenzo inherited.
“It's me, Mama. Lorenzo.”
Isabella blinked.
Then her eyes filled with tears.
“Oh, my boy.”
She touched his cheek.
“You look so much like him.”
Lorenzo held her hand.
“What did Father do to Eleanor?”
Isabella's lips moved, but no sound came.
Then her gaze drifted toward the window.
“The black car,” she murmured.
“Which black car?”
“The one that followed her.”
Sophie moved closer.
“Mrs. Moretti, please. My mother died when I was ten. They told me a truck hit her car.”
Isabella looked at Sophie with an expression of profound sorrow.
“I tried to stop him.”
“Stop who?”
But the moment was slipping away.
Isabella's breathing quickened.
Her eyes lost focus.
“I have to make dinner,” she whispered. “Salvatore hates being kept waiting.”
Dr. Bellini stepped forward.
“That's enough for tonight.”
Sophie wanted to protest.
Instead, she watched the doctor check Isabella's pulse.
The old woman's hand slowly relaxed.
The locket fell into Sophie's palm.
Lorenzo stood.
“Bruno.”
His consigliere appeared in the doorway.
“Find everything we have on Eleanor Miller. Police reports, financial records, anything from twelve years ago.”
Bruno's face became unreadable.
“Boss, are you certain?”
Lorenzo turned.
“Why wouldn't I be?”
“Because your father handled that matter personally.”
The silence that followed was absolute.
Lorenzo stared at him.
“What matter?”
Bruno hesitated.
He had served the Moretti family for twenty-two years. He had buried men, negotiated ceasefires, and watched Lorenzo grow from an angry teenager into the most feared man in Brooklyn.
But he had never looked as uncomfortable as he did now.
“I was told Eleanor Miller was involved in a financial dispute.”
“With whom?”
“Your father.”
Sophie felt sick.
“What kind of dispute?”
“I don't know.”
Lorenzo took one step toward him.
“Bruno.”
“I swear to you, I don't know the details.”
Lorenzo studied his face.
Then nodded.
“Find them.”
Bruno left.
Sophie remained beside Isabella's wheelchair.
She had imagined discovering the truth about her mother's death a thousand times.
In those fantasies, the answers were simple.
A reckless driver.
A mechanical failure.
A mistake.
She had never imagined standing in a mansion owned by the son of the man who might have murdered her mother.
Lorenzo turned toward her.
“Sophie—”
“Don't.”
He stopped.
She clutched the locket.
“Please don't tell me you're sorry.”
“I wasn't going to.”
“Good.”
Her voice trembled.
“Because I don't know what that would mean coming from you.”
He accepted the words without argument.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Sophie asked the question that mattered most.
“Did you know my mother?”
Lorenzo searched his memory.
He had been twenty when Eleanor died.
At that age, he had been working the family's waterfront operations, trying to earn his father's approval.
He remembered accountants.
Drivers.
Lawyers.
Women who carried files between offices.
But no Eleanor Miller.
“No,” he said.
Sophie watched him carefully.
“You're sure?”
“I would tell you if I remembered her.”
She looked away.
She wanted to believe him.
That frightened her almost as much as the accusation against his father.
An hour later, Sophie sat alone in a guest bedroom in the east wing.
Someone had brought clean clothes and a tray of food.
She touched neither.
Instead, she opened the locket.
Inside were two miniature photographs.
One showed Eleanor holding Sophie as a baby.
The other showed a young Isabella Moretti standing beside Eleanor in front of a modest brick building.
Both women were smiling.
Behind them hung a sign.
HARBOR HOUSE COMMUNITY CENTER.
Sophie recognized the place.
Her mother had volunteered there every Saturday.
The building had burned down the year before Eleanor died.
She turned the locket over.
Something rattled.
Sophie frowned.
She examined the edge.
A tiny hinge had been concealed beneath the decorative border.
Using a hairpin, she carefully opened the second compartment.
Inside was a folded strip of paper.
The writing was faded but legible.
If anything happens to me, find Daniel Mercer.
Below the name was a date.
October 17.
Twelve years earlier.
The day before Eleanor died.
Sophie stared at the message.
Then someone knocked.
She quickly closed the locket.
“Who is it?”
“Lorenzo.”
Her heart accelerated.
She opened the door only a few inches.
He had changed into a black sweater.
Without the trench coat and gun, he looked younger.
More exhausted.
“I found something,” he said.
Sophie said nothing.
“Your mother's death was investigated by the NYPD. The original case file was closed within forty-eight hours.”
“That isn't unusual for a traffic accident.”
“No.”
He paused.
“But the officer who signed the report received a $200,000 payment through a company controlled by my father.”
Sophie felt her knees weaken.
Lorenzo continued.
“The truck driver disappeared three days after the accident.”
“Disappeared?”
“No employment records. No bank activity. No confirmed address.”
She gripped the doorframe.
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because you deserve to know.”
“And because you want me to trust you?”
He looked at her.
“No. Because the truth doesn't become less important when it's ugly.”
Sophie studied him.
Then opened the door.
“I found a name.”
She showed him the note.
Lorenzo read it.
His expression changed.
“Daniel Mercer.”
“You know him?”
Lorenzo looked up.
“He was my father's attorney.”
“Where is he now?”
“Dead.”
Sophie stared.
“When?”
“Eleven years ago.”
“How?”
“House fire.”
Sophie slowly sat on the edge of the bed.
Her mother's community center had burned.
Her mother had died.
Now the attorney she had named was dead too.
Three tragedies.
All connected to the Moretti family.
Lorenzo reached for his phone.
Before he could dial, it rang.
Bruno.
He answered.
“What?”
Bruno's voice was strained.
“We found Arthur Miller.”
Lorenzo glanced toward Sophie.
“Is he safe?”
There was a pause.
“Boss, there's a problem.”
“What problem?”
“Arthur isn't at his apartment. We found blood in the kitchen and signs of a struggle.”
Sophie stood abruptly.
“What's happening?”
Lorenzo raised one hand.
“Keep looking,” he told Bruno.
Then he ended the call.
Sophie had heard enough.
“My father?”
“We don't know where he is.”
She grabbed her coat.
“I'm going to find him.”
Lorenzo stepped in front of the door.
“Not alone.”
“Move.”
“Sophie, listen to me.”
“You don't get to tell me what to do!”
He stepped aside.
She stopped, surprised.
Lorenzo's voice softened.
“I know what my father may have done. I know what my family has done to yours. But someone took Arthur tonight, and walking into Brooklyn alone won't bring him back.”
Tears filled her eyes.
“He's all I have left.”
Lorenzo looked at the locket in her hand.
“Then we find him.”
Before Sophie could answer, his phone vibrated.
An unknown number.
A photograph appeared.
Arthur Miller sat tied to a chair in a dark room.
His face was bruised.
Around his neck hung a handwritten cardboard sign.
THE DAUGHTER FOR THE FATHER.
Beneath the photograph was a message.
Bring Sophie Miller to Pier 19 before midnight. Come alone.
Lorenzo stared at the screen.
May you like
Then a second message arrived.
And tell her that Eleanor Miller is still alive.
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