Chapter 6 - The Dinner of Fifty Liars
The underground room had no windows.
The chains around Dante's wrists were bolted to the chair. A second restraint held one ankle. Nico stood near the iron door, examining the lock with the grim concentration of a man who understood that some mistakes could not be corrected.
I held Sophie against me.
Victor's voice faded from the speaker.
For several seconds, the only sound was water dripping somewhere inside the walls.
Then Dante spoke.
“Mara, take Sophie and move away from the door.”
“I'm not leaving you here.”
“That's not a request.”
“Good. Then you won't mind if I ignore it.”
His eyes flashed with anger.
Even chained to a chair, bleeding, and trapped underground, Dante Moretti managed to look as though he could order the whole world to kneel.
I had no patience left for it.
“You knew my husband was involved in something dangerous. You knew Teresa had arranged my employment. You knew Victor was connected to this passage. Yet you let me spend three years cleaning your house, believing that the man I loved had been killed by accident.”
Dante said nothing.
“I'm done being the last person to learn what happens to my own family.”
Nico crouched beside the lock.
“She has a point.”
Dante glared at him.
“Not helping.”
“I wasn't trying to.”
Nico pulled a thin strip of metal from his sleeve and slid it into the keyhole. He worked for several seconds, then stopped.
“This isn't a normal lock.”
“Can you open it?” I asked.
“Eventually.”
“How long?”
“Depends how much Victor spent.”
A faint click sounded.
Nico froze.
The lock had engaged a second mechanism.
He backed away.
“Not a chance.”
Dante tugged against the chains.
“There's a release lever behind the wall.”
“Of course there is.”
“Third brick from the left.”
Nico pressed the brick.
Nothing happened.
“Lower.”
He pressed again.
A metal panel shifted beneath the door.
The chains around Dante's wrists released with a sharp clatter.
He rose immediately, seized Nico by the throat, and slammed him against the wall.
“You have one minute to explain why I shouldn't kill you.”
Nico didn't fight back.
“Because Victor will kill Mara and Sophie before you finish.”
Dante's grip tightened.
“Did you bring this danger to my family?”
“I brought the danger back to the people who created it.”
“Did you know Miguel was going to die?”
“No.”
“Did you know he was taking you to Pier 19?”
“Yes.”
Dante struck him across the face.
Sophie cried out.
“Stop!”
Both men froze.
My daughter stared at Dante with furious little eyes.
“You promised you wouldn't be angry if I told the truth.”
Dante slowly released Nico.
“I wasn't angry with you.”
“Then don't hurt Uncle Nico.”
For a long moment, Dante said nothing.
Then he stepped back and lowered his head.
“I'm sorry, Sophie.”
It was the first apology I had heard from him that sounded like it cost him something.
Nico wiped blood from his lip.
“We need to get out.”
He pointed toward the wall, where a narrow ventilation shaft ran above the pipes.
“There's a maintenance tunnel behind that panel. It leads to the wine cellar.”
Dante retrieved his pistol and checked the magazine.
“Victor controls the main corridors. Russo will be at the gates. Lorenzo will be upstairs.”
“You forgot the guests,” I said.
Dante looked at me.
“The annual dinner.”
Fifty guests had been invited to the mansion, including lawyers, businessmen, politicians, and several people whose wealth came from places no newspaper had ever investigated. The dinner was supposed to begin at eight the following evening.
But Victor had mentioned the dinner several times while searching for the ledger.
He hadn't intended to cancel it.
He had intended to use it.
“What time is it?” I asked.
Dante checked his watch.
“Eleven forty.”
“Then why did Victor say we could finish what should have happened at Pier 19?”
“Because he believes he has everything he needs.”
Nico looked at the ledger under my coat.
“Except that.”
I pulled the book out.
Dante's gaze sharpened.
“Where did you find it?”
“In your mother's archive.”
“You found the original?”
“No. This is a copy. The original is still missing.”
Nico took the ledger from my hands and turned several pages.
His expression changed.
“What?”
He tapped a column of figures.
“This isn't a succession ledger.”
“What is it?” Dante asked.
“A payment record. The names are cover identities. The numbers track money moved through the estate.”
He flipped to the page bearing Sophie's name.
“And this entry isn't an inheritance.”
My blood turned cold.
“What does transfer approved mean?”
Nico looked at Dante.
Then at me.
“It means someone has authorized a transfer of custody.”
The room seemed to tilt.
“Custody of whom?”
“Sophie.”
I clutched my daughter.
“No.”
Nico's face was grim.
“Three days from now, someone intends to remove her from your care under a false legal order. If the papers are properly prepared, the authorities will believe it's legitimate.”
Dante's expression hardened into something terrifying.
“Who signed the authorization?”
Nico turned to the final page.
There were two signatures.
Teresa Moretti.
Raymond Russo.
Beneath them was a third line, stamped with the seal of the Moretti family.
DANTE MORETTI.
Dante stared at his own name.
“I never signed this.”
“Then someone forged your signature,” I said.
“Or someone used an authorization I didn't know existed.”
He took the ledger and turned toward the ladder.
“We're going upstairs.”
“How?” I asked.
“We use the dinner.”
Nico frowned.
“You want to walk into a room full of Victor's allies?”
“I want every person who helped forge that order in one place.”
Dante's eyes met mine.
“And I want my mother to explain why she signed it.”
He led us through the maintenance tunnel, up a narrow staircase, and into the wine cellar. The passage emerged behind a rack of bottles in the mansion's western wing.
The lights were on.
Music played faintly from the grand ballroom.
Servants hurried through the corridors carrying silver trays and arrangements of white roses. Guests had already arrived for the preliminary reception, their expensive clothes and polished shoes untouched by the storm outside.
Nobody appeared to notice three fugitives emerging from a wall.
Dante stopped a passing footman.
“Where is Victor?”
The young man went pale.
“Mr. Shaw is in the ballroom, sir.”
“And Teresa?”
“In the blue drawing room.”
“Lorenzo?”
“Arrived ten minutes ago.”
Dante nodded.
Then he looked at me.
“You stay with Sophie in the private dining room. Two guards will escort you.”
“No.”
“Mara.”
“I am not leaving my daughter alone with another person who works for you.”
His jaw tightened.
“Then stay beside me.”
Nico gave a humorless smile.
“That's a terrible idea.”
Dante ignored him.
We entered the ballroom through the main doors.
The reception stopped in stages. First, the guests near the entrance went silent. Then the people beside the bar turned. Finally, all fifty conversations collapsed into an uneasy hush.
Dante Moretti stood in the doorway, his shirt stained with blood, his hair disheveled, and his younger brother beside him.
For one extraordinary moment, nobody breathed.
A glass slipped from someone's hand and shattered across the marble.
Lorenzo Moretti stood near the fireplace, dressed in a black tuxedo. His smile remained in place for exactly two seconds.
Then he saw Nico.
And his hand went to his chest.
Not in surprise.
In fear.
Nico noticed.
“So you do remember me,” he said.
Lorenzo's lips parted.
“Nico?”
The guests began whispering.
Dante walked into the center of the room.
“Ladies and gentlemen, forgive the interruption. It appears my family has a few matters to settle before dinner.”
Victor emerged from the crowd.
“Mr. Moretti, perhaps this isn't the time.”
Dante turned toward him.
“Actually, Victor, I think it's perfect.”
He raised the ledger.
“Someone has been using this estate to move money, falsify legal documents, and arrange the disappearance of a child. I intend to find out who.”
Victor smiled sadly.
“An extraordinary accusation.”
“Then you won't mind if I ask the police to investigate.”
The ballroom doors opened.
Detective Raymond Russo entered with six uniformed officers.
He wore a dark suit and the same silver watch Sophie had described.
His gaze moved from Dante to Nico, then settled on me.
“I'm afraid there's been a misunderstanding,” he said. “I'm here to take custody of Sophie Alvarez.”
A woman beside him unfolded a legal document.
It carried the seal of a family court.
The signature at the bottom belonged to Dante Moretti.
Sophie pressed herself against my side.
Dante's expression became deadly.
“That's a forgery.”
Russo held up the paper.
“That's a court order.”
He extended his hand toward my daughter.
“Come along, Sophie. Your new family is waiting.”
Before I could move, Sophie looked up at him.
Then she spoke in a voice so small that the entire ballroom leaned forward to hear it.
“You're the man who knocks on my window.”
Russo's smile vanished.
She pointed at his wrist.
“And you have Papa's watch.”
Every face turned toward the silver timepiece.
Russo instinctively covered it with his other hand.
Dante stepped between him and Sophie.
“Take one more step toward my daughter,” he said, “and I promise this will be the last room you ever enter.”
Russo reached for his pistol.
So did Dante.
But before either man could fire, Teresa Moretti entered the ballroom.
She was dressed in white silk, her silver hair pinned perfectly at the back of her head. She carried a small velvet box.
She looked at Nico.
Then at the document in Russo's hand.
Finally, she turned to me.
“Mara,” she said, her voice trembling, “I'm sorry.”
She opened the velvet box.
Inside lay a tiny gold bracelet engraved with Sophie's name.
Beneath it sat a photograph of my daughter as a newborn.
May you like
And on the back, in Teresa's handwriting, were six words.
The child belongs to the Moretti family.
