Chapter 2 - THE WIFE BEHIND THE LOCKED DOOR
Lorenzo had been married to Camila Varela Moretti for six years.
Their wedding had been the social event of the Chicago season.
Four hundred guests.
White orchids.
A string quartet flown in from Vienna.
Photographs in magazines that never mentioned the real reason half the men in attendance carried weapons beneath their tailored jackets.
Camila had been beautiful, ambitious, and fearless.
Lorenzo had mistaken those qualities for loyalty.
Now, standing beside the pantry with a receiver in his hand, he wondered whether he'd ever known her at all.
"How are you hearing their conversation?" he whispered.
Sophie pointed toward the east wing.
"The old intercom system."
"That system hasn't worked in years."
"It works now."
"Who repaired it?"
"I did."
He stared.
The woman who silently polished silver and changed bed linens had repaired an obsolete surveillance system without anyone noticing.
"You're not a maid."
Sophie's expression hardened.
"I'm the woman who cleans your house."
"That's not what I meant."
"I know."
Before he could respond, footsteps sounded beyond the kitchen.
Sophie caught his sleeve.
"Pantry. Now."
He followed her into the narrow room.
She closed the door until only a sliver of light remained.
Through it, they watched a man enter the kitchen.
Marco Bellini.
Lorenzo's head of estate security.
The same man who had personally vetted Sophie.
Marco opened a cabinet, removed a bottle of whiskey, and poured himself a drink.
His phone rang.
"Yeah," he answered.
A pause.
"He's still in New York."
Another pause.
"No, the staff are gone."
He listened.
Then said:
"Nobody gets through the gate after ten. Those are Santino's orders."
Lorenzo's jaw tightened.
Santino's orders.
Not his.
Marco ended the call and left.
Sophie exhaled.
"Now you understand."
Lorenzo looked at her.
"Marco too?"
She nodded.
"Not everyone. But enough."
"How many?"
"I don't know."
He studied the door.
Then asked:
"Why hasn't Santino simply killed me?"
Sophie hesitated.
"Because he needs you alive until the transfer clears."
"What transfer?"
She reached into her apron and removed a folded document.
It was a copy of a corporate authorization.
The signature at the bottom was Lorenzo's.
Except he hadn't signed it.
The document transferred controlling voting rights in Moretti Holdings to a newly established trust.
The trustee was Camila Moretti.
The financial administrator was Santino Russo.
Lorenzo read the document twice.
Then looked at Sophie.
"Where did you find this?"
"In your wife's dressing room."
"You searched her room?"
"She told me to clean it."
A faint, humorless smile crossed Sophie's face.
"She didn't tell me not to read what she'd left on the vanity."
Lorenzo folded the paper.
His hands were steady.
His pulse wasn't.
For twenty years, he'd built an empire from the remains of his father's failing businesses.
Shipping.
Construction.
Real estate.
Legitimate companies tangled with criminal interests he'd inherited and expanded.
Now two people he'd trusted intended to take everything.
And apparently kill him afterward.
He looked at Sophie.
"Why didn't you call the police?"
Her expression changed.
"Because I tried that once."
He waited.
She looked toward the floor.
"My brother was a financial investigator. He reported something he found inside one of your companies."
Lorenzo went still.
"What was his name?"
"Daniel Mercer."
The name struck him immediately.
Daniel Mercer.
An accountant found dead eighteen months earlier.
The official report called it a suicide.
Lorenzo had signed off on the company's cooperation with the investigation.
He remembered Santino telling him the matter was closed.
He looked at Sophie.
"Daniel was your brother?"
She nodded.
"And he didn't kill himself."
The kitchen clock struck nine.
Then the receiver crackled again.
Camila's voice emerged.
"Bring the woman upstairs."
Santino asked:
"Which woman?"
Camila answered:
"The maid. Sophie Mercer."
Lorenzo slowly turned toward her.
Her face had gone white.
May you like
Camila knew.
And she'd been waiting.
