Chapter 4 - THE DEBT THAT BUILT OUR MARRIAGEMy father had been dead for nineteen years.
For nineteen years, I had believed he died because he stepped in front of a bullet meant for another man.
That was the story the Moretti family told.
It was the story Adrian told.
It was the story I repeated whenever someone asked why a girl named Claire Bennett had grown up inside one of Chicago's most powerful families.
But now I was staring at a photograph suggesting my father had been the intended victim all along.
I looked at Marcus.
"Tell me what that means."
"I don't know."
"Don't lie to me."
"I'm not."
"Then why was my father's name in Daniel Cross's pocket?"
Marcus sat across from me.
"Claire, I worked for the Morettis for eleven years. Your father died before I joined them."
"But you've heard things."
"Rumors."
"What rumors?"
He hesitated.
I slammed my palm against the table.
"Marcus."
He flinched.
I had never shouted at him before.
"Your father wasn't just a driver or a bodyguard," he said.
I stared at him.
"What?"
"He handled financial records for the family. Some of the older men called him the accountant."
I shook my head.
"My father owned a repair shop."
"He did. That part was real."
"Then what are you saying?"
"That he may have been keeping records the Morettis didn't want other people to see."
I stood too quickly.
Pain shot through my ankle.
Marcus reached toward me.
I pulled away.
"Don't."
He stopped.
I limped toward the window.
My father had been a gentle man.
He taught me how to ride a bicycle.
He made pancakes shaped like stars.
He cried at my mother's funeral.
The idea that he had secretly worked inside the Moretti financial network felt impossible.
And yet—
I remembered something.
When I was seven, my father had brought home a small wooden music box.
He told me it belonged to my grandmother.
He made me promise never to throw it away.
"Marcus."
"Yes?"
"I need to go home."
"Chicago?"
"No."
"My parents' house."
Adrian received the news about Daniel Cross at 6:18 the following morning.
His security director placed the crime scene report on his desk.
Cross had been killed by a single gunshot.
There were no defensive wounds.
No signs of a struggle.
Whoever killed him had been someone he trusted.
Adrian studied the report.
"Who found him?"
"Police responding to an anonymous call."
"Any witnesses?"
"No."
"Security footage?"
"Warehouse cameras were disabled."
Adrian turned the page.
Then stopped.
A photograph of Claire's father lay beside the body.
His pulse quickened.
"Why wasn't I told about this immediately?"
"We were waiting for confirmation."
Adrian stood.
"Get me my father."
His father, Vittorio Moretti, had retired from daily operations years earlier.
At seventy-one, he lived in a fortified estate north of the city, surrounded by gardens, old photographs, and men who still called him Don Vittorio.
He answered on the fourth ring.
"Adrian."
"Do you remember Thomas Bennett?"
Silence.
Then Vittorio said, "Of course."
"Tell me how he died."
"You know how he died."
"Tell me again."
A longer silence.
"What's this about?"
"Daniel Cross is dead."
Adrian heard his father's breathing change.
"Come see me," Vittorio said.
"Answer the question."
"Not on the phone."
The line went dead.
Adrian stared at the receiver.
For the first time in his life, he wondered whether the man who raised him had lied about the night that brought Claire into their family.
My parents' house stood on a quiet street west of Chicago.
The grass was overgrown.
The porch railing needed paint.
But inside, everything remained almost exactly as I remembered.
My mother's yellow curtains.
My father's old radio.
The narrow staircase where I used to sit and listen to them argue about whether I was old enough to have a bicycle.
Marcus stayed outside while I searched.
I went directly to my childhood bedroom.
The music box was in the back of the closet, wrapped in a faded pillowcase.
It was made of dark cherrywood.
A tiny ballerina stood beneath a glass dome.
I wound the key.
The familiar melody began.
My throat tightened.
I hadn't heard it in years.
Then I turned it over.
Four screws held the base in place.
One was newer than the others.
I found a screwdriver in my father's old toolbox.
My hands trembled as I removed the bottom panel.
Inside was a folded piece of paper.
And a brass key.
The paper contained an address.
A storage facility in Milwaukee.
Below it, in my father's handwriting, were seven words.
If anything happens, trust the records, not them.
I sat on the floor.
For a moment, I couldn't breathe.
Then the front door opened downstairs.
I heard Marcus speak.
"Sir, she doesn't want visitors."
A familiar voice answered.
"Move."
Adrian.
I closed my eyes.
Of course.
Even when I tried to leave, his world kept finding me.
He appeared in the bedroom doorway.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
He looked thinner.
There were dark circles beneath his eyes.
His gaze dropped to my walking boot.
Something painful crossed his face.
"Claire."
I stood slowly.
"How did you find me?"
"Marcus told me you were in danger."
I looked past him.
Marcus stood in the hallway.
"I'm sorry," he said.
Adrian stepped forward.
"I didn't come to force you home."
"Then why are you here?"
"Because Daniel Cross was involved in your kidnapping."
"I know."
Adrian stopped.
"You know?"
I held up the photograph.
"Apparently, I know more than you."
He studied it.
His face drained.
"Where did you get that?"
"From the man who died carrying it."
Adrian looked at me.
"Claire, listen carefully. My father wants to see me."
"Good for him."
"He knows something."
"So do I."
I held up the brass key.
His eyes narrowed.
"What's that?"
"The reason my father died."
Before he could answer, my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered on speaker.
A woman's voice said, "Mrs. Bennett?"
"Yes."
"My name is Evelyn Price."
I gripped the phone.
"Where are you?"
"Somewhere safe. For now."
Adrian moved closer.
Evelyn continued.
"I have Lily Monroe's original medical records."
My heart pounded.
"And?"
"She was never having an asthma attack."
Adrian went completely still.
Evelyn's next words came in a whisper.
"She was given a medication that made her appear to be suffocating."
I looked at Adrian.
His face had turned white.
May you like
Then Evelyn said something worse.
"The medication was administered before the kidnapping."
Related Stories
