Chapter 2 - The House with No Photographs
Lucian Moretti took me from my wedding in a black armored sedan.
That sentence should have frightened me more than it did.
Maybe humiliation changes the scale by which you measure danger.
For the first ten minutes, neither of us spoke.
I sat in the back seat wearing a wedding dress that took up more space than my dignity felt entitled to.
Lucian sat across from me.
No one had touched my veil.
No one had offered me sympathy.
Strangely, I appreciated that.
Outside, Chicago passed in fragments of stone buildings, traffic lights, and people who had no idea my life had detonated inside a cathedral twenty minutes earlier.
I finally asked, “How did you know Adrian’s men searched my office?”
Lucian answered without hesitation.
“I had them followed.”
“That is not reassuring.”
“It wasn’t intended to be.”
“Why were you following Adrian?”
“Because Northline Advisory exists.”
I looked at him.
“So?”
“It didn’t exist until five days before my brother’s death.”
That changed the air.
Lucian’s brother, Matteo Moretti, had died eighteen months earlier in what newspapers described as a late-night car accident near Lake Shore Drive.
I remembered the headlines.
Young businessman killed.
Speed suspected.
No foul play.
I looked at Lucian.
“You think the Vale Foundation paid for his murder.”
“I think someone connected to the foundation paid Northline three hundred thousand dollars. Three days later, Matteo died.”
“Correlation isn’t proof.”
His mouth shifted.
“You really are an accountant.”
“I’m a forensic accountant.”
“Important distinction?”
“To me.”
“Good.”
That one word surprised me.
Most men like Adrian treated my work as something cute until it became inconvenient.
Lucian treated it like a weapon.
The car turned through wrought-iron gates.
A stone estate appeared beyond rows of winter trees.
Not a mansion designed to impress.
A fortress designed not to need permission.
Inside, the Moretti residence was quiet.
Too quiet.
No family photographs.
No decorative clutter.
No visible history.
I noticed because grief teaches you to look for evidence that people once existed.
“You don’t keep pictures out,” I said.
Lucian looked toward the empty console table.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because houses get searched.”
He said it casually.
I decided not to ask by whom.
A woman in her sixties approached from the hallway.
Silver hair.
Black dress.
Sharp eyes.
“Lucian.”
Then she looked at me in the wedding dress.
Her eyebrows rose.
“This is Elena Ward.”
“I assumed she wasn’t the caterer.”
Despite everything, I almost laughed.
“This is Rosa,” Lucian said. “My aunt.”
Rosa examined me for three seconds.
Then she took my hand.
“No crying until you’ve eaten.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“That was not a question.”
She disappeared toward the kitchen.
Lucian motioned toward a study.
Inside, one wall contained three computer monitors.
A folder waited on the desk.
I sat.
Lucian opened it.
Northline Advisory.
Registration documents.
Bank transfers.
Fake business address.
Then photographs.
One showed Adrian entering a downtown hotel.
Another showed Charles Vale meeting a man I did not recognize.
Another showed Vanessa.
I looked closer.
She was leaving a fertility clinic.
Date: eight months earlier.
I frowned.
“You said her hand was on her stomach at the wedding,” Lucian said.
“You noticed?”
“I notice theater.”
“What are you implying?”
“Nothing yet.”
He placed another photograph beside it.
Vanessa entering the Vale Foundation offices two nights before my wedding.
Then one of Adrian meeting the same unknown man from Charles’s photograph.
I pointed.
“Who is he?”
“Gordon Pike.”
The name meant nothing to me.
“He owns Northline?”
“On paper, no. In reality, probably.”
“What does he do?”
Lucian met my eyes.
“Problems.”
I stared.
“That is not a profession.”
“It is in certain neighborhoods.”
My skin prickled.
I looked back at the payment.
Three hundred thousand dollars.
The authorization initials were A.V.
Adrian Vale.
My stomach tightened.
“I copied this entry months ago.”
“And?”
“I asked Adrian about it.”
Lucian became still.
“What did he say?”
“That Northline handled donor security.”
“Did you believe him?”
“At the time.”
“And later?”
“I found invoices without service descriptions. Then reimbursement requests that matched the exact payment down to the cent.”
“Money went out and came back?”
“Yes. Laundering pattern.”
Lucian leaned back.
“What else?”
I thought.
There had been a second transfer.
Smaller.
Seventy-five thousand.
Different company.
Same week.
“I need access to my files.”
“We recovered your laptop.”
I stared.
“You said Adrian’s men took it.”
“They did.”
Lucian’s expression did not change.
“My people took it from them.”
I should have been horrified.
Instead, I said, “Did they damage it?”
That actually made him smile.
“No.”
“Good.”
He slid the laptop toward me.
I opened it.
Password prompt.
Then a second encryption key.
The desktop appeared.
My files were intact.
I searched Northline.
There.
A spreadsheet.
I opened it.
Three transfers.
$300,000 to Northline Advisory.
$75,000 to Calder Security Consulting.
$18,500 to Saint Agnes Memorial Fund.
Lucian leaned closer.
“Saint Agnes?”
I nodded slowly.
“It’s a cemetery fund.”
“For what?”
“Maintenance, burials, indigent services.”
He stared at the amount.
“Matteo is buried at Saint Agnes.”
My breath caught.
I clicked the supporting document.
Invoice date.
One day before Matteo died.
Service description:
PRIVATE PLOT ACCESS / AFTER-HOURS PREPARATION.
Lucian stood so fast the chair moved behind him.
I looked up.
“What?”
His face had changed completely.
Not rage.
Something worse.
Memory.
“My brother’s grave was already prepared.”
The words landed heavily.
I looked back at the invoice.
“You’re saying someone paid the cemetery before he died.”
“Yes.”
“That would mean—”
“They knew exactly when he was going to die.”
Silence.
Then I noticed a handwritten approval note scanned at the bottom of the document.
Authorized verbally — C.V.
Charles Vale.
Lucian saw it.
His jaw hardened.
Before either of us could speak, someone knocked once.
A man entered.
Tall.
Dark suit.
Scar near his eyebrow.
“Boss.”
Lucian looked at him.
“What?”
“We have a problem.”
The man glanced at me.
Then back at Lucian.
“Vale security is outside Ms. Ward’s apartment.”
“Doing what?”
“Waiting.”
“For me?” I asked.
He nodded.
Lucian’s eyes narrowed.
“How many?”
“Six.”
I looked at my laptop.
Then at the file.
“They think I still have something.”
Lucian agreed.
“Probably.”
“But if Adrian’s men already searched my office—”
“Then they know what’s missing.”
I froze.
The mailed flash drive.
My father’s attorney.
“Daniel Hargrove.”
Lucian’s eyes sharpened.
“Who?”
“My father’s attorney. I mailed him the backup.”
“When?”
“Six months ago.”
“Where does he live?”
“Lincoln Park.”
Lucian was already standing.
I grabbed his sleeve.
“What?”
“If Adrian knows I made a backup, Daniel could be in danger.”
Lucian looked at the man with the scar.
“Marco.”
“Already calling.”
No answer.
Again.
No answer.
My stomach dropped.
Then Marco looked at the screen.
“His home alarm triggered twelve minutes ago.”
Lucian grabbed his coat.
I stood too.
“No.”
He looked at me.
“I’m coming.”
“You are wearing a wedding dress.”
“I’m aware.”
“You are also a target.”
“So is Daniel because of me.”
Lucian studied me.
For several seconds, neither of us moved.
Then he exhaled.
“Rosa.”
His aunt appeared as if summoned by irritation.
“Yes?”
“Find her something to wear.”
Rosa looked at my dress.
Then at Lucian.
“You brought a bride home and now you want me to undress her?”
Lucian closed his eyes.
“Aunt Rosa.”
I laughed.
I could not help it.
The sound surprised everyone, including me.
Rosa smiled.
“Good. She still works.”
Ten minutes later, I wore black pants, boots, and one of Rosa’s wool coats.
Lucian waited by the door.
As we walked outside, he said, “Stay behind me if anything happens.”
“I don’t take orders well.”
“I noticed.”
“Then why say it?”
“Hope.”
We drove toward Daniel Hargrove’s house.
Three blocks away, police lights appeared.
My heart dropped.
Lucian’s phone rang.
Marco answered through the car.
“Hargrove is alive.”
I exhaled.
Then Marco continued.
“But someone got there first.”
“Who?”
“Unknown.”
“What did they take?”
There was a pause.
“The safe.”
I closed my eyes.
The flash drive had been inside it.
Lucian looked at me.
“Anything else on the drive?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
I swallowed.
“The full Vale Foundation ledger.”
“And?”
“My notes.”
“What notes?”
“The names I believed were connected to the fraud.”
Lucian’s voice lowered.
“Was my name on that list?”
I looked at him.
“Yes.”
The car became silent.
Not because I believed Lucian was guilty.
Because I had just admitted I once thought he might be.
He stared at me for a long moment.
Then said, “Good.”
I blinked.
“Good?”
“You were suspicious of everyone.”
“That is literally my job.”
“It may be why you’re still alive.”
Then his phone lit up.
A message from an unknown number.
Lucian opened it.
A photograph.
The stolen safe.
Open.
The flash drive sitting on top.
May you like
Under it, six words.
BRING ELENA IF YOU WANT THE TRUTH.
