Chapter 3 - The House Behind the GatesRoman Moretti did not live in a house.
He lived in a small country pretending to be a residence.
The estate sat thirty minutes outside Chicago behind limestone walls, electronic gates, cameras, and enough security to make me wonder whether Roman expected an invasion.
Maybe he did.
A black SUV carried me through the gates the afternoon I was released from the hospital.
I was wearing borrowed sweatpants, a button-front shirt because my shoulder hurt too badly to lift my arm, and the expression of someone who had recently discovered that her entire life could fit inside one grocery bag.
That was because it could.
My apartment lease had been terminated.
Apparently, my landlord had received an anonymous complaint alleging “dangerous criminal activity.”
He had given me seventy-two hours.
Roman’s security team retrieved my essentials before I was discharged.
Three pairs of jeans.
Four shirts.
My father’s watch.
A shoebox of photographs.
Two paperback mysteries.
And a coffee mug that said WORLD’S OKAYEST WAITRESS.
That was my empire.
Leo met me at the front door.
“Nora!”
He charged toward me.
Roman caught the back of his sweater.
“Slowly.”
“I know she has stitches.”
“Then behave like you know.”
Leo slowed dramatically and walked the remaining six feet as if approaching a sleeping bear.
“Hi.”
“Much safer.”
He pointed upstairs.
“I picked your room.”
Roman sighed.
“You offered two rooms.”
“I picked the better one.”
“You cannot pick someone else’s room.”
“I already did.”
I tried not to smile.
The Moretti mansion should have felt cold.
Instead, it felt strangely lived-in.
There were toy cars beneath an antique console table.
A child’s drawing had been attached to a refrigerator with a magnet shaped like a taco.
One expensive-looking vase contained three dandelions.
Roman noticed me looking.
“Leo believes they’re flowers.”
“They are flowers.”
“They’re weeds.”
“You’re going to lose that argument.”
“I lose most arguments with him.”
“That’s probably healthy for you.”
His eyes shifted toward me.
I expected offense.
Instead he said, “Probably.”
A woman named Elena showed me upstairs.
She was Roman’s aunt and, judging by the way she ignored his instructions, possibly the only person alive who wasn’t afraid of him.
“My nephew will tell you not to lift anything, not to leave the property, and probably not to breathe without consulting security,” she said.
“I heard that,” Roman called from downstairs.
“Good.”
My room overlooked a lake.
Not a decorative pond.
An actual lake.
There was a sitting room, fireplace, private bathroom, and closet larger than my apartment kitchen.
I stood in the doorway.
“No.”
Elena blinked.
“No?”
“This room is bigger than my apartment.”
“That is not a problem with the room.”
“I can’t stay here.”
Roman appeared behind us.
“Yes, you can.”
“I’m going to break something worth more than my annual salary.”
“That seems unlikely.”
“You haven’t seen me with red wine.”
His mouth twitched.
I pointed toward the bed.
“This is ridiculous.”
“It’s a guest room.”
“It has its own balcony.”
“Guests enjoy balconies.”
“What kind of guests do you have?”
Roman’s expression darkened.
“Not many.”
The humor disappeared.
Something about that answer felt lonelier than I expected.
I put down my bag.
“One week.”
Roman crossed his arms.
“Until the threat is resolved.”
“One week.”
“We can argue about it next week.”
“That sounds suspiciously like something someone says when they plan to win later.”
“I usually plan to win.”
“I noticed.”
He left before I could respond.
That evening, Leo insisted I eat dinner downstairs.
I expected a dining room with a forty-foot table.
Instead, Roman ate in the kitchen.
Not beside the kitchen.
In it.
At a scarred oak table that looked completely ordinary.
Leo had macaroni.
Roman had grilled chicken.
I was handed soup.
“I can chew,” I protested.
Elena pointed to my stitches.
“You can complain too. Yet here we are.”
Leo giggled.
Roman actually smiled.
It transformed his face.
That annoyed me more than it should have.
Men who looked frightening were easier to categorize.
Men who tucked napkins into their sons’ collars and cut apples into thin slices were complicated.
Halfway through dinner, Roman’s phone vibrated.
He read the message.
Every trace of warmth vanished.
“What?”
He stood.
“Stay here.”
That sentence never leads anywhere good.
“Roman.”
It was the first time I had used his first name.
He noticed.
So did I.
“What happened?”
His security chief, Marcus Shaw, entered.
“We found Gerald.”
My former manager.
“Where?” I asked.
Marcus hesitated.
Roman answered.
“In his car.”
Something about the way he said it chilled me.
“Is he dead?”
“No.”
Relief came too quickly.
Marcus continued.
“He was trying to leave the state.”
“Why?”
“We don’t know.”
Roman looked at me.
“But he had forty-eight thousand dollars in cash.”
My spoon stopped halfway to my mouth.
Gerald complained when someone used too many cocktail napkins.
Forty-eight thousand dollars wasn’t normal.
“Can I talk to him?”
“No,” Roman said.
“Yes,” Marcus said at the same time.
Roman looked at him.
Marcus remained impressively calm.
“The detectives want Miss Blake to identify whether he was the man she saw.”
“I didn’t see a man.”
“You saw a sleeve.”
“Silver cuff link,” I corrected.
Roman went still.
“What?”
“I remembered in the hospital. The person throwing the glass—or firing whatever that thing was—had a silver cuff link.”
“What shape?”
I closed my eyes.
I saw the ballroom again.
Glass.
Lights.
Leo.
A raised arm.
Silver.
“Like a bird.”
Marcus and Roman exchanged a look.
“What?” I asked.
Neither answered.
“Roman.”
His jaw tightened.
“My brother wears falcon cuff links.”
The kitchen became very quiet.
I had heard Roman had a younger brother.
Adrian Moretti.
Chief financial officer of Moretti International.
Photographed often beside Roman.
Smiling where Roman rarely did.
“The person might not have been your brother.”
“Those cuff links were made for my father,” Roman said. “There are three pairs.”
“Who has them?”
“My brother.”
He paused.
“My uncle.”
Another pause.
“And me.”
Leo was listening.
Roman noticed immediately.
“Elena.”
His aunt stood and took Leo’s hand.
“Movie upstairs?”
“I want to stay.”
“Tonight you don’t.”
Leo looked at his father.
Roman knelt.
“You’re safe.”
“Is somebody bad coming?”
“No one is getting through these gates.”
“Promise?”
Roman touched his cheek.
“Promise.”
Leo left reluctantly.
The moment he disappeared, I said, “You shouldn’t promise things you can’t control.”
Roman stared at the doorway.
“I know.”
There was history in those two words.
I didn’t ask.
Marcus placed a tablet on the table.
“We recovered partial footage from a photographer’s camera.”
The image showed the ballroom seconds before the attack.
I was visible carrying my tray.
Leo stood six feet ahead.
Roman was speaking with the mayor.
Behind Leo were dozens of guests.
Marcus zoomed in.
“There.”
A figure near a column.
Male.
Tuxedo.
Face obscured.
His right arm raised.
A silver flash at his wrist.
My stomach tightened.
“That’s him.”
“You’re sure?” Roman asked.
“The angle. The sleeve. Yes.”
Marcus advanced one frame.
The figure turned.
Still no face.
But someone stood beside him.
Gerald.
My manager.
Talking to the attacker.
Roman’s gaze became lethal.
“Bring him here.”
Marcus shook his head.
“Police have him.”
“Then I’m going there.”
I stood too quickly.
Pain stabbed my side.
Roman caught my elbow.
“Sit.”
“I want to know why he was paid.”
“Nora.”
“He ruined my job, got me thrown out of my apartment, and might have helped someone attack a six-year-old.”
“You’re injured.”
“I’m not fragile.”
“I know.”
His answer was immediate.
That stopped me.
Roman’s grip loosened, but his hand remained at my elbow.
“I know exactly how strong you are.”
His voice had gone quieter.
“That doesn’t mean I’m going to let you walk into danger because you’re angry.”
I pulled my arm free.
“You don’t let me do anything.”
For a moment, the old Roman returned.
The man used to being obeyed.
Then something surprising happened.
He nodded.
“You’re right.”
Marcus raised an eyebrow.
Roman ignored him.
“You’re right,” he repeated. “But if you go, you go with security.”
“Fine.”
“And you stay beside me.”
“I can live with that.”
“Temporarily.”
“Don’t ruin the moment.”
Twenty minutes later, we were headed downtown.
Gerald was being questioned at a private security office while police coordinated warrants.
He looked terrible.
Sweating.
Pale.
Hands trembling.
The moment he saw me, he began crying.
“Nora.”
I had never seen Gerald cry when an employee’s mother died.
But he cried now.
“I’m sorry.”
Roman stopped beside me.
Gerald’s eyes moved to him.
Fear overtook guilt.
“I didn’t know they were going to hurt the kid.”
Roman’s voice turned soft.
Soft was worse.
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
“You accepted forty-eight thousand dollars from someone you don’t know?”
“They contacted me through an encrypted account.”
“For what?”
Gerald looked at me.
“To schedule Nora for that ballroom section.”
My stomach dropped.
“Me?”
Roman became absolutely still.
Gerald nodded.
“They specifically asked for Nora.”
Nobody spoke.
I felt suddenly cold.
“The attack wasn’t only about Leo,” Marcus said.
Gerald started shaking his head.
“I swear, I thought they wanted her near Moretti’s table so she could overhear something. That’s all.”
“Why me?”
“I don’t know.”
Roman turned to Marcus.
“Find every payment. Every message.”
Then Gerald said something that changed the entire investigation.
“There was one instruction I didn’t understand.”
Roman stopped.
“What?”
Gerald swallowed.
“They told me that when Nora arrived, I was supposed to confirm something.”
“What?”
Gerald looked directly at me.
“Whether she was wearing Michael Blake’s watch.”
My hand flew instinctively to my wrist.
My father’s watch.
The room blurred.
This wasn’t about a random waitress.
It had never been about a random waitress.
May you like
Someone had been waiting for Michael Blake’s daughter.
And somehow, Roman Moretti’s son had been placed directly in the line of fire.
Related Stories
