Chapter 7 - THE MOTHER WHO RAISED METhe woman I had called Mom for nineteen years was the last person I wanted to suspect.
Isabella Moretti had held me through nightmares.
She had taught me how to braid my hair.
She had stood beside me at my high school graduation, crying harder than anyone.
When Adrian proposed, she had embraced me and whispered, "Your father would be so proud."
And now I had heard her threatening him.
I sat on the floor of the storage unit, the recorder in my lap.
Marcus crouched beside me.
"Claire."
I shook my head.
"Don't."
"We need to leave."
"Play it again."
"You've heard it three times."
"Again."
He hesitated.
Then pressed the button.
My father's voice filled the room.
Isabella's warning.
The slammed door.
Silence.
I stared at the recorder.
"She knew."
Marcus said nothing.
"She knew he was investigating something."
"Yes."
"And she threatened him."
"It sounds that way."
I looked up.
"Then why did she raise me?"
Marcus didn't answer.
Because there was no answer that wouldn't hurt.
The following morning, Adrian confronted his mother in the estate's conservatory.
Isabella Moretti was sixty-eight, elegant, and famous for never raising her voice.
She was arranging white roses when Adrian entered.
"Darling."
He didn't kiss her cheek.
She noticed.
"What's wrong?"
"Thomas Bennett."
Her hands stopped.
Only for a second.
Then she resumed trimming a stem.
"What about him?"
"Did you know he was investigating the foundation?"
She set down the scissors.
"Your father told you?"
"Answer me."
Isabella looked at him.
"Thomas was a good man."
"That's not what I asked."
Her expression cooled.
"Mind your tone."
Adrian stepped closer.
"Did you threaten him?"
Silence.
Then Isabella said, "Who told you that?"
"There's a recording."
Her face changed.
Not much.
But enough.
"Where?"
"Claire has it."
Isabella gripped the edge of the table.
"Claire?"
"Yes."
"Where is she?"
"Somewhere safe."
His mother looked toward the windows.
For the first time, Adrian saw something beneath her immaculate composure.
Panic.
"Adrian, listen to me carefully. That recording is dangerous."
"Because it implicates you?"
"Because it doesn't tell the whole story."
"Then tell me."
Isabella sat down.
For a long moment, she said nothing.
Then she whispered, "Thomas discovered that someone was laundering money through the foundation."
"I know."
"He believed your father was responsible."
"Was he?"
"No."
"Then who?"
Isabella looked at her son.
"I was."
Adrian stared at her.
The room went silent.
His mother continued.
"I moved money. But not for the reasons you think."
"What reasons?"
"To pay someone who was threatening our family."
"Who?"
She shook her head.
"Someone your father believed was dead."
Adrian felt cold.
"Who?"
Before she could answer, the conservatory doors opened.
Vittorio stood in the doorway.
"Isabella."
His wife went pale.
Vittorio looked at Adrian.
"Leave us."
Adrian didn't move.
His father's voice hardened.
"Now."
Adrian stepped between them.
"No."
Vittorio stared at his son.
"Then you can hear this too."
He turned toward Isabella.
"Tell him what happened to Thomas Bennett."
She closed her eyes.
Vittorio's voice broke.
"Tell him why the little girl we raised spent nineteen years believing a lie."
I received Adrian's call while sitting in a roadside diner outside Milwaukee.
I almost didn't answer.
Then I saw the voicemail notification.
He had left one message.
"Claire, my mother admitted she moved the money. She says she was being blackmailed. I don't know the rest yet."
I stared at the screen.
A second message arrived.
"Whatever happens, I need you to know something. I didn't marry you because my family owed yours a debt. I married you because I loved you."
I closed my eyes.
That was the problem with Adrian.
He could say something beautiful after doing something devastating.
And a part of me still wanted to believe him.
Marcus returned from the counter carrying two coffees.
"Anything?"
"Adrian says Isabella was being blackmailed."
Marcus frowned.
"By whom?"
"He doesn't know."
I looked at the recorder.
"We need to examine the rest of the files."
We spent the afternoon sorting through my father's ledgers.
Most entries were coded.
Company names.
Account numbers.
Dates.
But one name appeared repeatedly.
Eleanor Vale.
Payments had been made to an account associated with that name for nearly twenty years.
The first payment was dated six months before my father's death.
The most recent was dated two weeks before my kidnapping.
I looked at Marcus.
"Who is Eleanor Vale?"
He went very still.
"Marcus?"
He sat down.
"I've heard that name."
"Where?"
"In old family conversations."
"What conversations?"
He looked at me.
"Vittorio's first wife."
I stared.
"What?"
"Before Isabella."
I shook my head.
"Adrian's father was married before?"
"Yes."
"What happened to her?"
Marcus swallowed.
"She disappeared."
"When?"
"Almost thirty years ago."
I looked down at the ledger.
Twenty years of payments.
A missing wife.
A murdered father.
And a kidnapping that had nearly killed me.
My phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
A woman spoke.
"Claire Bennett?"
"Yes."
"My name is Eleanor Vale."
I couldn't breathe.
She continued.
"I knew your father."
My fingers tightened around the phone.
"Where are you?"
"That isn't important."
"Why are you calling me?"
A long silence.
Then she said:
"Because the Morettis didn't take you in to repay a debt."
May you like
My heart hammered.
"They took you in because they were afraid of what your father left you."
