Chapter 4 – THE WATER’S EDGE

The Moretti mansion was a war zone.

Glass shattered behind us. Men shouted.

I dragged Noah through the massive kitchen, weaving past stainless steel counters.

My heart pounded so hard I could taste blood in my throat.

“Keep your head down, sweetheart,” I whispered, pushing him toward the heavy wooden door disguised as a pantry shelf.

I shoved it open, revealing the dark, narrow servant’s passage.

We plunged into the darkness.

It was damp and smelled of old earth.

“Miss Hannah, I’m scared,” Noah whimpered, his white cane tapping against the stone walls as we ran.

“I know, honey. I’m right here. Keep holding my hand.”

We reached the end of the tunnel.

I pushed open the heavy iron grate and we tumbled out into the freezing Chicago rain.

The night was pitch black.

The wind howled off the lake at the edge of the estate.

Fifty yards away stood the old stone boathouse.

“Come on,” I urged, pulling him through the wet grass.

My maid’s uniform was soaked instantly. Noah’s little tuxedo jacket was drenched.

We reached the heavy steel door of the boathouse.

I fumbled with the key Luca had given me.

My hands were shaking violently.

“Come on, come on,” I muttered.

Click.

The lock turned.

I shoved the door open, pulled Noah inside, and slammed it shut, sliding the massive deadbolt into place.

The boathouse was pitch black and freezing.

It smelled like gasoline and old wood.

I sank against the door, gasping for air.

Noah stood in the center of the dark room, shivering violently.

“Are they coming to get me?” he whispered.

“No,” I said, moving to him and pulling him into a tight hug. “Your dad won’t let them.”

Noah buried his face in my neck.

“If I go to the institute, they won’t shoot Daddy anymore.”

My heart broke completely.

“Don’t you ever say that,” I said fiercely. “Your dad loves you more than anything in the world. He doesn’t care about the money. He cares about you.”

Noah cried softly, his little fingers tracing the peeling blue star on his cane.

“Mommy couldn’t save me.”

“She tried, Noah. She left the tape to protect you.”

I looked around the dark boathouse. Moonlight filtered through the high, dirty windows.

In the corner, sitting under an old tarp, was a dusty wooden desk.

Something caught my eye.

A loose brick in the wall directly behind the desk.

It was jutting out slightly, unlike all the others.

“Stay right here, honey,” I whispered.

I walked over to the desk, pulled the tarp away, and pushed against the loose brick.

It slid backward into the wall.

I reached my hand into the dark cavity.

My fingers brushed against cold metal.

I pulled it out.

It was a small, heavy black lockbox.

It had the initials C.M. engraved on the lid.

Caroline Moretti.

“Noah,” I breathed. “I found something else.”

He turned his head. “What is it?”

“A box. With your mom’s initials.”

I sat on the dusty floor and examined the box.

It had a small, three-digit combination lock.

“Do you know any numbers your mom loved?” I asked, my voice trembling.

Noah thought for a second.

“My birthday. August twelfth.”

I spun the dials. 0-8-1-2.

It didn’t work.

“What else?”

“Her anniversary?” Noah suggested. “Daddy said they got married in May. The fourth.”

0-5-0-4.

Nothing.

I stared at the lock, my mind racing.

What number would a mother use to protect her final secrets?

I looked at Noah. I looked at his white cane lying on the floor beside him.

The blue star.

“Noah,” I said softly. “How old were you when your mom put that star on your cane?”

Noah swallowed.

“Seven. She died two days after my seventh birthday.”

I took a deep breath.

I turned the dials to 0-0-0-7.

Click.

The lock snapped open.

I lifted the lid.

Inside were stacks of bank statements, highlighted in yellow marker.

But sitting on top of the papers was a photograph.

I picked it up, holding it toward the moonlight to see clearly.

It was a picture taken at a restaurant.

Vanessa was sitting at a table.

She was kissing a man.

A man I recognized immediately.

It wasn’t a rival mafia boss.

It wasn’t a stranger.

It was Marcus Thorne.

Luca’s best friend. Luca’s second-in-command. The godfather to Noah.

My blood turned to ice.

Vanessa hadn’t orchestrated this alone.

Marcus was the mastermind.

Suddenly, a loud, violent BANG echoed against the steel door of the boathouse.

Someone was outside.

“Open the door, Hannah.”

The voice was smooth, cultured, and perfectly calm.

It was Marcus.

Share