Chapter 6 - 6
“Tell me the truth.”
My voice sounded strange in the quiet study.
Massimo didn't move.
“Emily—”
“No. Don't say my name like that. Don't look at me like I'm fragile. Just tell me what you know.”
He stared at the floor.
I had never seen him look so defeated.
“My father ordered an investigation into Daniel Fitzgerald,” he said.
My chest tightened.
“Why?”
“Because Daniel discovered money disappearing from one of our companies.”
“What money?”
“Twenty-seven million dollars.”
I stared at him.
“My father found stolen money?”
“Yes.”
“And your family killed him for it?”
Massimo shook his head.
“I don't know who killed him.”
“But you know something.”
He swallowed.
“My father believed Daniel was going to expose the theft.”
“Was he?”
“Yes.”
I felt tears burning behind my eyes.
“Then why didn't you tell me?”
“Because I didn't know who you were until tonight.”
“You knew my last name.”
“Fitzgerald isn't exactly uncommon.”
I looked away.
I wanted to scream.
Instead, I asked the question that terrified me most.
“Did you know about the investigation when my father died?”
Massimo nodded slowly.
“I was twenty-six. My father had me overseeing the company's shipping division. I heard arguments. I saw documents. But I wasn't part of the investigation.”
“Did you ever ask what happened to Daniel?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“My father said he'd resigned.”
I laughed bitterly.
“Convenient.”
Massimo flinched.
“I didn't learn about his death until months later.”
“Did you do anything?”
He looked at me.
“No.”
The honesty hurt more than a lie would have.
“Why?”
“Because I was a coward.”
I stared at him.
He continued.
“I knew my father was dangerous. I knew there were things happening in the company that weren't legal. But I told myself if I stayed out of it, I wasn't responsible.”
His voice broke.
“I was wrong.”
For a long moment, neither of us spoke.
Then I stepped away.
“I need to find my mother.”
Massimo straightened.
“And I will help you.”
“Why should I trust you?”
“You shouldn't.”
I looked at him.
He continued quietly.
“Not yet. Trust is something I'll have to earn.”
I wanted to hate him.
It would have been easier.
But the man in front of me wasn't asking for forgiveness.
He was admitting he didn't deserve it.
And somehow, that made everything harder.
Luca entered a few minutes later.
Massimo instructed him to contact an attorney named Sarah Mitchell, a former federal prosecutor who now handled complex financial investigations.
He also told Luca to preserve every security recording from the estate and provide copies to law enforcement.
I watched carefully.
“Why Sarah?” I asked.
“Because she once prosecuted my father.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“And you trust her?”
“She hates me.”
“That sounds promising.”
For the first time that night, Massimo almost smiled.
Sarah arrived shortly after sunrise.
She was in her forties, with sharp gray eyes and the exhausted expression of someone who had spent years dealing with powerful men who believed rules were optional.
She listened without interrupting as I explained the kidnapping.
Then she asked to hear the call recording.
“I didn't record it,” I admitted.
“That's okay. Preserve the call log, messages, and anything else you've received. We'll give the police what we have.”
She turned toward Massimo.
“And you?”
He handed her the medical folder.
Sarah examined the documents.
Then she looked at him.
“Where did you get these?”
“From my private files.”
“Who had access?”
“Adrian. Dr. Hale. My security team.”
She nodded.
“I'm going to arrange for an independent forensic review of the records.”
“Can you find my mother?” I asked.
Sarah's expression softened.
“I'll work with the detectives handling the kidnapping. But I need you to understand something.”
“What?”
“The person who took her wants you to do something. That gives investigators a potential opportunity, but it also means we can't act impulsively.”
I nodded.
“Okay.”
“Promise me you won't try to meet the kidnapper alone.”
I hesitated.
Sarah noticed.
“Emily.”
“I promise.”
At nine that morning, the police confirmed that my mother's house had been entered through the back door.
There were signs of a struggle.
Her phone had been found on the kitchen floor.
No ransom note.
No witnesses.
But one neighbor remembered a black SUV parked outside shortly before midnight.
The same kind of vehicle used by Pascale security.
I looked at Massimo.
He looked sick.
“Half the city drives black SUVs,” Sarah said. “We can't assume it's connected to his people without more evidence.”
She was right.
But the coincidence felt unbearable.
By noon, I was sitting in Massimo's rehabilitation room, staring at the exercise equipment.
I hadn't slept.
I hadn't eaten.
And I was beginning to wonder whether taking this job had destroyed my family.
Massimo entered quietly.
“Emily.”
I didn't look up.
“You should rest.”
“My mother is missing.”
“I know.”
“Then stop telling me to rest.”
He nodded.
“Fair.”
He positioned his wheelchair beside the therapy table.
“Sarah says the detectives are reviewing traffic cameras.”
I stared at my hands.
“What if she's already dead?”
The words came out before I could stop them.
Massimo's expression changed.
He reached toward me, then hesitated.
“Emily, we don't know that.”
I shook my head.
“I can't lose her too.”
He moved closer.
This time, when he offered his hand, I took it.
His fingers were warm.
Strong.
And trembling.
I looked down.
“Your tremor is worse.”
He gave a humorless smile.
“Stress.”
“Maybe. But we still need a proper neurological evaluation.”
He nodded.
“Whatever you say.”
I looked at him.
“Don't do that.”
“What?”
“Agree with everything because you feel guilty.”
He sighed.
“There's no winning with you.”
“Not when you're trying to avoid the work.”
For a moment, the tension eased.
Then I noticed something.
Massimo's right foot had shifted slightly on the wheelchair footrest.
“Did you move your foot?”
He looked down.
“No.”
“Try again.”
He stared at me.
“Emily—”
“Just try.”
He concentrated.
Nothing happened.
I waited.
“Don't force it. Just think about bringing your toes upward.”
His jaw tightened.
Then something moved.
Barely.
A tiny contraction along the front of his lower leg.
I leaned closer.
“Again.”
He tried.
The movement returned.
Small.
Inconsistent.
But visible.
Massimo stared at his foot.
His breathing changed.
“Did you see that?”
“Yes.”
His eyes filled with tears.
For eight months, he'd been told not to expect much improvement.
Now he was seeing movement he hadn't noticed before.
I kept my voice steady.
“It's encouraging, but we need to document it and have your physician reassess your neurological status.”
He nodded without looking away from his foot.
Then he laughed.
A broken, disbelieving sound.
“Emily.”
I looked up.
“Thank you.”
Before I could answer, Sarah burst into the room.
Her face was pale.
“We have a problem.”
Massimo straightened.
“What happened?”
Sarah held up a tablet.
“Someone just sent the police a video.”
My heart stopped.
“Of my mother?”
Sarah nodded.
She pressed play.
My mother appeared on the screen, sitting in a dimly lit room.
Her hands were bound.
A bruise marked her cheek.
But she was alive.
I covered my mouth.
“Mom.”
Then a man stepped into the frame.
He wore a dark jacket.
His face was partially hidden.
But when he leaned toward the camera, I saw it.
A thin scar above his left eyebrow.
The same scar my mother had described.
The man looked directly into the lens.
“Emily Fitzgerald,” he said. “You have twenty-four hours.”
He stepped aside.
Behind him, a second person emerged from the shadows.
A woman.
Dark hair.
Familiar face.
Camila Reyes.
My former supervisor.
The woman who had recommended me for the job.
She looked straight into the camera and whispered, “Emily, don't give them the records.”
May you like
Then someone struck her from behind.
The video ended.
