Chapter 3 - MATTEO MORETTI
Matteo Moretti came back to Chicago two days later.
He asked for a private family meeting.
I refused the word family.
I was not family.
Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
I agreed to attend with an attorney.
Her name was Rebecca Sloan.
Fifty-five.
Tenant-rights lawyer.
She had represented two West Addison families nineteen years earlier.
When I called, she remembered my father instantly.
“Thomas Bennett?”
“Yes.”
Silence.
“My God.”
“You knew him?”
“He called me twelve times.”
My chest tightened.
“Did you believe him?”
“I did.”
That answer hurt and healed something simultaneously.
Rebecca had tried to get the original maintenance files.
Rourke's law firm claimed most were destroyed in the fire.
They weren't.
Some had been sitting in Moretti archives.
Some beneath my father's toolbox.
We arrived at Moretti headquarters at ten.
Matteo sat at the end of a conference table.
Older than photographs.
Gray.
Cane beside him.
Vincent sat on his right.
Eleanor on the left.
Lucia joined remotely from Seattle after returning to her son.
Matteo looked at me for several seconds.
Then:
“You saved Lucia.”
I sat.
“My father warned you.”
No warm-up.
No billionaire deference.
Cancer wasn't part of my history, but nineteen years of being treated as invisible had given me similar immunity to powerful men's discomfort.
Matteo flinched.
“Thomas Bennett.”
“Yes.”
“I remember him.”
I placed a copy of the letter on the table.
“Do you remember this?”
Matteo read it.
His face changed.
Slowly.
“I don't remember receiving it.”
Rebecca slid the certified receipt forward.
“Your office did.”
He studied the signature.
Not his.
Executive assistant.
Dead now.
Matteo looked toward Vincent.
“I was traveling that week.”
“That's possible,” Vincent said.
“Check.”
“We will.”
Matteo looked back at me.
“Claire, I swear to you—”
“Don't.”
He stopped.
“I don't need a promise yet.”
Silence.
“I need facts.”
Rebecca almost smiled.
We began.
The West Addison building had been acquired by Moretti Properties eighteen months before the fire.
Old building.
Deferred maintenance.
The regional manager requested $310,000 in electrical repairs.
Denied.
Why?
Moretti Properties was preparing for a major bank refinancing.
Large maintenance expenses would reduce reported operating income.
The regional office approved temporary fixes.
Thomas Bennett objected repeatedly.
My father.
The man blamed afterward.
Then came the night of the fire.
Official cause:
Electrical overload originating near apartment 3B.
Contributing factor:
Improper bypasses allegedly performed by building superintendent.
Thomas.
But the original electrician invoices showed the bypass work had been performed by a contractor hired by regional management.
Not my father.
Matteo stared at the document.
“I never saw this.”
Vincent asked:
“Did Rourke?”
Matteo said nothing.
We turned to the compensation fund.
Moretti's insurer paid part.
The company contributed part.
Total:
$4.8 million.
Intended for displaced tenants, uninsured losses, medical expenses, and claims.
Only $1.6 million could be traced to victims.
Another $700,000 went to legitimate legal expenses.
That left $2.5 million.
Gone.
Rourke Risk & Settlement Consulting received $1.4 million.
Three other entities received the rest.
All linked to Thomas Rourke.
Vanessa's father.
Matteo rubbed his forehead.
“I approved settlement administration.”
Rebecca asked:
“Did you approve paying Rourke nearly thirty percent of the fund?”
“No.”
“Did you review the final accounting?”
Silence.
There was the first truth.
“No.”
I stared at him.
“Why?”
Matteo looked toward Eleanor.
Then down.
“Because the company was expanding.”
Not good enough.
He knew it.
“We had three developments under financing. The fire was becoming a public disaster. Thomas told me every additional week increased exposure.”
“So you let him handle it.”
“Yes.”
“And my father?”
Matteo's face changed.
“Rourke said Thomas had admitted making the modifications.”
I nearly stood.
“He lied.”
“I know that now.”
“You destroyed my father's name because another man told you it was convenient.”
“No.”
“Then what would you call it?”
Matteo's voice broke.
“Cowardice.”
The room went silent.
That answer stopped me.
Not because it fixed anything.
Because it was the first answer that wasn't defensive.
Matteo continued.
“I wanted the fire behind us.”
He looked at Lucia on the monitor.
“My daughter nearly died. My wife was falling apart. I told myself paying claims and moving forward was responsible.”
Then he looked at me.
“I did not ask enough questions because I was afraid of what the answers would cost.”
My father lost his career because this man avoided an uncomfortable answer.
I wanted to hate him.
I did, a little.
Then Rebecca said:
“There is more.”
Everyone looked at her.
She had reviewed recent Moretti corporate filings.
Rourke Risk did not disappear after West Addison.
It became Rourke Advisory Group.
For nineteen years, Moretti companies had continued paying it.
Legal consulting.
Risk management.
Government relations.
Total fees:
$38 million.
Vincent sat forward.
“I know the firm is retained.”
Rebecca nodded.
“Do you know it subcontracts work back through companies partly owned by Moretti executives?”
Matteo's face changed.
“What?”
This was no longer just an old crime.
The West Addison relief fund had not been a one-time theft.
It had been the beginning of a system.
Thomas Rourke had apparently learned something from the fire:
Moretti money moved easily when nobody wanted to ask ugly questions.
Vincent pulled the vendor list toward him.
One subcontractor stood out.
VR Strategic Communications.
VR.
Vanessa Rourke.
Payments over four years:
$6.2 million.
Vincent's fiancée had been receiving millions from his family company through her father's consulting network.
He stared at the page.
“She told me her firm worked mostly with healthcare clients.”
Matteo looked at his son.
“Did you know Moretti paid her?”
“No.”
“Does the board?”
“I doubt it.”
Rebecca sat back.
“So the same network that absorbed West Addison victim money nineteen years ago is still billing Moretti companies today.”
I looked at Vincent.
Now I understood his expression in the ballroom.
He had already suspected his future father-in-law.
He just hadn't known the trail began with the fire that nearly killed his sister.
Then Matteo asked the question nobody expected.
“How much did Thomas Bennett lose?”
I laughed without humor.
“You want a number?”
He looked ashamed.
“No.”
“Good.”
I stood.
“Because you couldn't afford it.”
Not money.
Years.
Reputation.
A daughter's trust.
My father's last decade.
No check repaired those.
Rebecca and I left.
In the elevator, she said:
“You were hard on him.”
“Was I wrong?”
“No.”
The doors opened.
Then she added:
“Just don't make the mistake they made.”
“What mistake?”
“Thinking accountability means only one kind of guilt matters.”
I frowned.
She continued.
“Rourke may have stolen. Matteo may have looked away. Different conduct.”
I understood.
The truth needed precision.
Not rage.
That afternoon, Vincent called.
“Vanessa knows.”
My stomach tightened.
“How?”
“Her father.”
“Of course.”
“What happened?”
“She came to my office.”
“And?”
“She gave me back the ring.”
I stopped.
“Vincent…”
“Don't.”
“What?”
“Don't apologize.”
“I wasn't.”
He almost laughed.
Then:
“She said if I investigate her father, the engagement is over.”
“What did you say?”
A pause.
“That the engagement was already over when she assaulted you.”
I closed my eyes.
This wasn't romance.
Not yet.
This was a man discovering that love without character was expensive.
Then Vincent said:
“Claire, Vanessa threatened to release something about your father.”
My pulse jumped.
“What?”
“She claims Rourke has proof Thomas took money after the fire.”
For one second, the old doubt returned.
My father.
Angry.
Drinking.
Broke.
Could he—
Then I remembered the toolbox.
The letters.
He had kept everything.
“What proof?”
“A check.”
“How much?”
“Two hundred thousand dollars.”
My breath caught.
Payable to Thomas Bennett.
Dated three months after the fire.
And according to Vanessa—
May you like
endorsed by my father.
---
