Chapter 3 - Emily Carter’s Dead HusbandEmily was waiting in my office at seven the next morning.
I hadn’t summoned her.
That bothered me.
She stood in front of my desk wearing her black housekeeper’s dress, hands clasped tightly at her waist.
“Marco told me we're being moved.”
“He shouldn’t have.”
“He didn't explain why.”
“Good.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“Mr. Moretti, if Lily did something—”
“She didn’t.”
“Then why are armed men standing outside our room?”
“For protection.”
“From whom?”
I studied her.
“Sit down.”
She remained standing.
“Why?”
“Because this conversation is going to become uncomfortable.”
That convinced her.
She sat.
I placed my phone on the desk and turned the anonymous message toward her.
The moment she read it, the blood drained from her face.
That was answer enough.
“Who was your husband?”
Emily said nothing.
“His employment application says Daniel Carter was an accountant.”
“He was.”
“For whom?”
Silence.
“Emily.”
“For your father.”
I leaned back.
The room became very quiet.
“My father employed hundreds of accountants.”
“Daniel wasn’t that kind.”
“What kind was he?”
Her fingers tightened.
“The kind who found money people didn't want found.”
For the next ten minutes, Emily dismantled almost everything I believed about the final year of my father’s life.
Daniel Carter had worked in forensic accounting.
Four years earlier, Antonio Moretti had quietly hired him to examine unexplained losses inside Moretti Holdings.
The discrepancies were enormous.
Not thousands.
Not millions.
Nearly eighty million dollars.
Daniel traced shell companies through Delaware, Panama, Switzerland and Luxembourg.
Eventually, one name appeared repeatedly behind proxy corporations.
Salvatore Moretti.
“My father knew?”
Emily nodded.
“Daniel told him.”
“When?”
“Three days before your father died.”
My chair creaked beneath my hand.
“And then?”
“Your father asked Daniel to prepare everything for you.”
“Why didn't he?”
Tears filled her eyes.
“Because Daniel died too.”
I knew her husband had died.
Her employment background check listed a highway accident.
“When?”
“Six days after your father.”
Something ugly settled in my stomach.
“Police report?”
“Brake failure.”
“You believe Salvatore killed him.”
“I don't know what I believe anymore.”
“That's not true.”
She looked at me.
“You came to work in my house.”
Her silence confirmed it.
“You weren't looking for employment.”
“I needed access.”
“To what?”
“Daniel’s files.”
I stood.
Emily flinched.
That bothered me more than it should have.
I walked to the window instead.
Manhattan stretched beneath us, cold morning light sliding between buildings.
“You used your daughter to get inside my home?”
“No.”
The answer came instantly.
I turned.
“Lily was never supposed to be involved. I took this job because Mrs. Ricci knew my mother. Lily stays here because childcare costs more than I can afford and you allow staff families on the property.”
She wiped her cheek angrily.
“I was searching quietly. That's all.”
“For eleven months?”
“Yes.”
“What did you find?”
“Nothing.”
I watched her.
Then she corrected herself.
“Until two months ago.”
She reached into her apron.
Marco moved instantly from the wall.
Emily froze.
“Slowly,” he warned.
She withdrew a tiny brass key.
She placed it on my desk.
“Daniel mailed this to me the day before he died.”
“What does it open?”
“I don't know.”
“Eleven months inside my house and you couldn't figure that out?”
“I thought it opened something here.”
“Why?”
“Because the envelope contained two words.”
She looked directly at me.
“Antonio’s library.”
My father's private library had been sealed since his death.
I walked there myself.
Emily followed.
So did Marco.
The room smelled of leather, dust and memories I had spent four years avoiding.
My father’s desk remained untouched.
His books.
His reading glasses.
A half-empty bottle of bourbon.
Everything preserved by grief disguised as tradition.
Emily handed me the key.
We searched for forty minutes.
Nothing.
Then Emily noticed a scratch beneath the old globe beside the fireplace.
We moved it.
Behind the pedestal was a narrow brass lock.
The key fit.
A panel clicked open.
Inside sat a metal box.
My pulse hammered.
I carried it to the desk.
Inside were ledgers, photographs and a small digital recorder.
On top rested an envelope.
My name was written across it in my father's handwriting.
NICHOLAS.
My hands suddenly felt too large.
Too clumsy.
I opened it.
Son,
If you are reading this, then I failed to clean my own house before someone stopped me.
Trust evidence, not blood.
Salvatore has been stealing from the company, but the money is not the real danger.
He has been paying people close to us.
Security.
Doctors.
Board members.
And someone I still cannot identify.
Daniel Carter helped me discover it. Protect him and his family if anything happens to me.
I stopped reading.
Emily covered her mouth.
My father had known about her.
About Daniel.
About Lily before Lily was even born.
I continued.
There is something else.
For months I have been experiencing dizziness, confusion and sleeplessness. My doctors call it stress.
I no longer believe them.
My eyes locked on those words.
Sleeplessness.
Marco read over my shoulder.
“Jesus.”
I kept reading.
If the same symptoms ever happen to you, do not trust the diagnosis.
Trust Daniel.
And Nicholas—
If I am dead, do not avenge me until you know everything.
Anger is easy to manipulate.
That sentence hurt worse than the rest.
Because my father knew me.
He knew exactly what I would want to do.
A floorboard creaked outside.
Marco drew his weapon.
He opened the door.
Nobody.
Then my phone rang.
Salvatore.
I answered.
“Nicholas.”
His voice was warm.
Familiar.
Almost fatherly.
“Your security people are making everyone nervous. Is something wrong?”
I looked at my father's letter.
“No.”
“Did you sleep?”
The question felt different now.
“No.”
A soft exhale.
“That's unfortunate.”
I stared at Emily.
She stared back.
Salvatore continued.
“Come to breakfast. We should discuss the board meeting.”
“What board meeting?”
A pause.
Then he laughed.
“The one tomorrow.”
I knew of no board meeting.
“What exactly are we discussing?”
Another pause.
“Your health.”
There it was.
I smiled without humor.
“My health?”
“People are worried, Nicholas.”
“Are you?”
“Of course.”
I closed my father's letter.
“Then I'll see you tomorrow.”
After hanging up, Marco checked his phone.
His expression changed.
“Boss.”
“What?”
“The lab rushed your water sample.”
Emily stood.
“And?”
Marco looked at me.
“There's a sedative in it.”
Nobody spoke.
“How much?”
“Enough to knock you out. But that's not the strange part.”
He handed me the report.
The chemical name meant nothing to me.
“What am I looking at?”
“The sedative itself wouldn't cause chronic insomnia.”
“Then?”
“There’s a second compound.”
He pointed lower.
“A stimulant.”
I stared at him.
“They've been sedating you?”
“Sometimes.”
“And stimulating you?”
“Other times.”
Marco nodded.
“Someone has been deliberately destroying your sleep cycle.”
Emily whispered, “For three years?”
I looked toward my father's letter.
Three years of doctors.
Three years of pills.
Three years of feeling my judgment deteriorate.
This wasn't attempted murder.
It was slower.
More calculated.
Someone wanted me alive.
Exhausted.
Unstable.
Easy to remove.
Tomorrow's board meeting suddenly made perfect sense.
Salvatore didn't need to kill me.
He needed witnesses willing to declare me incapable of running my own company.
But one question remained.
Why tomorrow?
Marco’s phone rang.
He answered.
His face hardened.
“What happened?”
He ended the call.
“Vale disappeared.”
“Find him.”
“We already did.”
I waited.
Marco swallowed.
“He's dead.”
Emily gasped.
“Where?”
“Parking garage downtown.”
“How?”
“Gunshot.”
I looked down at my father's letter.
Someone was cleaning up.
And tomorrow morning, the board intended to remove me.
We had less than twenty-four hours.
Then a tiny voice came from the doorway.
“Mr. Moretti?”
We turned.
Lily stood there clutching her rabbit.
She looked at Emily.
“Mama, why are you crying?”
And suddenly I realized something none of us had considered.
May you like
If Lily had seen Salvatore—
Salvatore might have seen Lily too.
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