Chapter 6 - The Man I Trusted MostI turned before Marco cleared his holster.
Salvatore hit him first.
The chair crashed backward.
Marco's gun slid beneath the table.
Two guards drew weapons.
“Don't!”
My shout stopped them.
Marco lay on the floor, Salvatore’s knee against his chest.
He wasn't fighting.
That frightened me more.
“Get off me,” Marco said quietly.
Salvatore grabbed the gun.
“You son of a—”
“Enough.”
I looked at Marco.
“Is it true?”
“No.”
No hesitation.
No fear.
“Then why reach for your weapon?”
“Because somebody outside that window just raised a rifle.”
Glass exploded.
Everyone dropped.
The shot struck the wall exactly where I had been standing.
Marco rolled, grabbed me by the jacket and dragged me behind the desk.
A second round shattered a monitor.
Security swarmed.
Marco shouted coordinates.
Within seconds, the shooter fled.
I stared at him.
If Marco wanted me dead, he had just saved my life.
Again.
“Your mother lied,” he said.
“Or someone lied to her.”
Salvatore lowered the gun.
Nobody apologized.
There wasn't time.
We traced the sniper's escape vehicle.
Stolen.
Professional.
The address my mother gave me was a secluded estate outside Bedford.
I went.
Not alone.
Marco followed from two miles away despite my mother's instructions.
Salvatore remained behind.
At 12:18 p.m., I walked into a greenhouse behind an old stone mansion.
Lily was sitting at a table eating strawberries.
Mrs. Ricci stood nearby.
And beside the window was a woman I had buried eighteen years ago.
My mother.
Her hair was silver now.
Her face thinner.
But her eyes were the same.
She turned.
For a long time, neither of us spoke.
Then she whispered, “Nicky.”
Nobody had called me that since childhood.
I hated how much it hurt.
“You're alive.”
Tears appeared.
“Yes.”
“You let me bury you.”
“I know.”
“You let me stand beside an empty coffin.”
“I know.”
“You let Dad raise me believing you were dead.”
Her mouth trembled.
“Yes.”
I stepped backward when she approached.
“Don't.”
She stopped.
Lily watched us.
My mother looked toward her.
“Maybe we should talk somewhere else.”
“No. First tell me why you accused Marco.”
“Because Antonio suspected him.”
“Proof?”
She hesitated.
“Exactly.”
“Nicholas—”
“Why did you disappear?”
Her shoulders dropped.
“Because someone tried to kill you.”
I stopped.
She told me about a night eighteen years earlier.
A bomb beneath my first car.
A driver noticed the wiring before I got inside.
My father believed it was retaliation from a rival family.
My mother discovered otherwise.
Someone inside our organization had ordered it.
She began investigating.
Then threats came.
Against me.
Against my father.
Against everyone she loved.
She staged her death and disappeared to follow the money from outside.
“Why not tell Dad?”
“I did eventually.”
“Four years ago.”
She nodded.
“That got him killed.”
“By whom?”
“I still don't know.”
I stared at her.
“You told me Marco.”
“Antonio believed someone in Marco's security network was involved.”
“That isn't the same thing.”
“I needed you away from him.”
“So you lied.”
“To get you here alive.”
I laughed bitterly.
Apparently manipulation was the Moretti family love language.
“Did you drug me?”
“No.”
“Did you pay Vale?”
“No.”
“M-17?”
Her face changed.
“That was my investigation account.”
The forty-one million wasn't stolen.
It funded private investigators, informants, safe houses and years of surveillance.
Then she showed me something that changed the entire case.
A photograph.
Dr. Vale meeting Mrs. Ricci.
I looked toward the older housekeeper.
She didn't flinch.
“Explain.”
Ricci stepped forward.
“I was working with your mother.”
“For how long?”
“Eighteen years.”
I almost laughed.
Everyone in my childhood had apparently lived a second life.
“Vale approached me two years ago,” Ricci continued. “He thought I was willing to help.”
“With what?”
“Access to your bedroom.”
My eyes hardened.
“I refused.”
“Then how did he get access?”
“Your security.”
Marco.
Again.
But Ricci shook her head.
“Not Bellini.”
She placed a photograph on the table.
Marco's deputy.
Anthony DeLuca.
A man who had worked beside Marco for twelve years.
A man with unrestricted access to my residence.
“He disabled cameras,” Ricci said. “Changed guard schedules. Let Vale inside.”
“Why?”
“Money.”
“From whom?”
“We couldn't identify the account.”
I studied the photograph.
“Where is DeLuca?”
My phone rang.
Salvatore.
“Nicholas.”
He sounded breathless.
“What happened?”
“DeLuca knows.”
“Knows what?”
“That we found him.”
A gunshot sounded through the phone.
Then silence.
“Salvatore?”
Another gunshot.
The call ended.
I looked at my mother.
“We're going back.”
“No.”
“My uncle is there.”
“He stole from your father.”
“He's still my family.”
My mother stared at me.
Something softened.
“You sound like Antonio.”
“I'll decide whether that's a compliment later.”
Lily jumped down.
“I'm coming.”
“No.”
She crossed her arms.
“You don't get a vote.”
She frowned.
“That's rude.”
Despite everything, my mother laughed.
The sound struck me like a memory.
I looked away.
Emily arrived thirty minutes later under escort.
The moment Lily saw her, she ran.
“Mama!”
Emily dropped to her knees and caught her.
She sobbed into her daughter's hair.
I watched them.
Something inside my chest shifted.
My mother stood beside me.
“You care about them.”
I didn't answer.
“You always did hide behind silence when the truth frightened you.”
“Eighteen years and you're already criticizing me?”
A tiny smile.
“I've been saving it up.”
My phone vibrated.
Marco.
“Salvatore's alive.”
I exhaled.
“DeLuca?”
“Gone.”
“Find him.”
“We're trying.”
Then Marco paused.
“But we found what he was looking for.”
“What?”
“Your father's recorder.”
My eyes narrowed.
“What was on it?”
“His last conversation.”
“With whom?”
Marco went silent.
“Marco.”
“Your mother.”
I turned toward her.
Her face changed.
Marco continued.
“And boss?”
May you like
“What?”
“The recording was made the night your father died.”
