Chapter 4 - THE MAN WHO COULD NOT SIGN
I stared at the photograph until the faces blurred.
“My father wouldn't be there,” I whispered. “He hasn't been outside the neighborhood in weeks.”
Luca moved closer to the screen.
“Do you recognize the man beside Vanessa?”
“Yes. Dr. Samuel Harlan. He ran the rehabilitation clinic that treated my father.”
Daniel enlarged the photograph.
My father stood between them in a wheelchair, wearing his old brown coat. His expression was distant, his head tilted slightly to one side. A dark envelope rested on his lap.
I knew that coat.
I'd buttoned it for him the last time he visited his doctor.
“Where was this taken?” Luca asked.
“Midway Private Aviation Terminal,” Daniel replied. “The photograph was uploaded to a business account connected to one of the shell companies.”
“Who took it?”
“We're checking.”
I felt sick.
My father could understand everything people said to him. He could recognize faces, remember dates, and follow complicated conversations. His stroke had damaged the right side of his body and made speaking difficult, but it hadn't erased his mind.
He would never willingly help someone steal money.
Unless he had been deceived.
Unless someone had told him the paperwork was part of his treatment.
“Take me to him,” I said.
Luca didn't hesitate.
“Marco, arrange the car.”
Daniel objected.
“We don't know whether the clinic is involved. We shouldn't rush into a confrontation.”
“We're not confronting anyone,” Luca replied. “We're checking on a man whose identity may have been stolen.”
Twenty minutes later, we arrived at the rehabilitation center where my father attended physical therapy.
The building was quiet, with a small garden near the entrance and a reception desk that always smelled faintly of disinfectant. I'd spent countless afternoons there, waiting for appointments to finish.
My mother was sitting beside my father when we entered the treatment room.
She looked up, startled.
“Emma? What are you doing here?”
Then she saw Luca.
Her face changed.
“Who is this man?”
“My employer.”
She rose immediately.
“You brought your employer to your father's therapy?”
“I need to ask Dad something.”
My father looked toward me.
I knelt beside his wheelchair and showed him the photograph.
“Dad, did you meet Dr. Harlan three days ago?”
His eyes moved across the image.
Then he shook his head.
I swallowed.
“Did anyone take you to an airport?”
Another shake.
My mother covered her mouth.
Luca remained near the doorway, giving us space.
I took my father's hand.
“Did you sign any documents for Dr. Harlan?”
He stared at me.
Then his fingers tightened around mine.
With visible effort, he raised his left hand and pointed at the envelope in the photograph.
He tapped it twice.
“You remember the envelope?” I asked.
He nodded.
“Did you sign it?”
He shook his head violently.
My mother began to cry.
I felt a wave of relief so intense it almost made me dizzy.
But then my father reached toward his coat pocket.
He struggled with the fabric until I helped him remove a small folded piece of paper.
It was a receipt from the rehabilitation center.
On the back, someone had written a phone number and three words in Italian.
Non fidarti di lui.
Don't trust him.
I looked up at Luca.
He read the note.
“Who wrote this?”
My father pointed toward the name printed on the receipt.
Dr. Samuel Harlan.
Daniel took a photograph of the note and began tracing the phone number.
Meanwhile, Luca asked the clinic administrator to provide a record of everyone who had visited my father during the previous month.
The administrator looked nervous.
“Mr. Moretti, I can't release confidential patient information without proper authorization.”
My mother stepped forward.
“I am his wife. I authorize it.”
After verifying her identity, the administrator retrieved the visitor log.
One name appeared four times.
Vanessa Bellini.
My mother stared at it.
“Why would that woman visit my husband?”
Nobody had an answer.
Luca's jaw tightened.
“Did your husband know her?”
“Never.”
I turned toward my father.
“Dad, did Vanessa tell you she was helping with your treatment?”
He nodded.
My stomach twisted.
“What did she say?”
He struggled to speak. The words emerged slowly, each one costing him effort.
“Money.”
I leaned closer.
“She said she had money?”
He nodded again.
“For... clinic.”
My mother sat down hard.
The clinic had been struggling financially before it closed. My father had been told that a private donor might fund additional therapy sessions. We'd been grateful, even though the donor's identity had never been disclosed.
Now the pieces were falling into place.
Someone had used the promise of medical care to gain access to my father.
Someone had obtained his personal information.
Someone had registered companies under false identities and routed money through accounts connected to Luca's business.
And Vanessa had visited my father repeatedly.
I stood.
“We need to find Dr. Harlan.”
Luca nodded.
“We will.”
Before we could leave, my father's therapist approached us with a sealed envelope.
“Mr. Reed asked me to keep this safe,” she said. “He couldn't explain what it meant at the time.”
My father watched her hand it to me.
Inside was a photocopy of a bank transfer.
The recipient account belonged to Bellini Hospitality Consulting.
The amount was $480,000.
At the bottom, beneath a handwritten note, was a name.
Adrian Bellini.
I looked at Luca.
“Why would my father have this?”
He studied the paper.
“Because someone wanted him to know where the money went.”
My father gripped my wrist.
His eyes were suddenly fierce.
He pointed at the note on the receipt again.
Don't trust him.
May you like
But this time, he wasn't pointing at Dr. Harlan's name.
He was pointing at Luca.
