Chapter 3 - THE SENATOR'S WIFE HAD A SECRET
Two days after the gala, Isabella Moretti invited me to lunch.
Not at a restaurant.
At her home.
The Moretti estate stood behind iron gates on Chicago's North Shore, surrounded by old trees and gardens that looked carefully maintained rather than extravagantly decorated.
I expected marble statues and armed men.
Instead, Isabella greeted me in a yellow cardigan, carrying a plate of homemade cookies.
“Sophie!”
She hugged me before I could decide whether hugging the mother of a mafia boss was appropriate.
“Come inside. You're too thin.”
I laughed.
“That's what my grandmother used to say.”
“Then she was a sensible woman.”
We ate tomato soup in a sunny kitchen.
Isabella asked about Toby, my job search, and the books I liked.
For nearly an hour, we avoided discussing the gala.
Then she set down her spoon.
“Sophie, may I ask you something difficult?”
“Of course.”
“Did Beatrice frighten you?”
I considered lying.
“Yes.”
Isabella nodded.
“She frightened me too.”
I looked at her.
“Why?”
Her hands trembled slightly.
“Because I knew she wasn't supposed to be there.”
Isabella explained that she'd founded the Moretti Children's Relief Foundation after losing her daughter, Lucia, to a congenital heart condition.
Lucia had been sixteen.
The foundation had originally helped families pay for transportation, temporary housing, medical equipment, and other expenses associated with serious childhood illness.
For decades, Isabella had personally reviewed applications.
Then, following her own illness and a period of memory difficulties, she had stepped back.
A new executive committee took control.
Beatrice Vane became chairwoman.
And everything changed.
“Families stopped receiving responses,” Isabella said.
“I thought the office was overwhelmed.”
She looked down.
“Then I began receiving letters from parents saying their assistance had been approved but never paid.”
I leaned forward.
“Did you tell Lorenzo?”
“I tried.”
Her eyes filled.
“But Beatrice told him I was becoming confused.”
I felt sick.
“She used your health against you.”
Isabella nodded.
At that moment, Lorenzo entered the kitchen.
He'd apparently heard the last sentence.
“Mama?”
She turned.
“Lorenzo.”
He approached.
“What didn't you tell me?”
Isabella looked ashamed.
“I didn't want to worry you.”
He knelt beside her chair.
“Please don't protect me from things that hurt you.”
She touched his cheek.
Then told him about the letters.
Lorenzo listened without interrupting.
When she finished, he asked, “Where are they?”
“In my desk.”
The letters filled two cardboard boxes.
Parents begging for promised assistance.
Families facing eviction after extended hospital stays.
Children waiting for mobility equipment.
One mother had written that she'd borrowed money for her son's medication after the foundation's reimbursement failed to arrive.
I stared at the page.
It felt horribly familiar.
Lorenzo noticed.
“You recognize that feeling.”
I nodded.
“Every word.”
Antonio entered with financial records.
He spread them across the dining table.
Several large payments had gone to a consulting company called Vane Civic Strategies.
Another series had been transferred to Northbridge Community Partners.
The organizations appeared to have received millions for fundraising and administrative services.
Lorenzo studied the signatures.
Then his expression changed.
“That's my mother's name.”
Isabella leaned closer.
A document bore her signature authorizing a seven-figure payment.
She shook her head.
“I never signed that.”
Antonio looked at Lorenzo.
“We'll need handwriting and electronic-record verification.”
Lorenzo nodded.
Then Isabella whispered something that made us all turn.
“Beatrice took my signature stamp last Christmas.”
That evening, a photograph arrived on my phone from an unknown number.
It showed Toby leaving our apartment building.
Beneath it were six words.
GOOD WAITRESSES LEARN WHEN TO BE QUIET.
I called Lorenzo.
He answered immediately.
“Sophie?”
I couldn't stop shaking.
“They know where Toby lives.”
May you like
There was a pause.
Then he said, “I'm coming.”
