Chapter 4 - The Brother in the House
Luca stared at his own name.
“That's impossible.”
Giovanni said nothing.
“Gio, I didn't change anything.”
“The system says you did.”
“I don't even know how to access staff scheduling.”
Franco looked skeptical.
“Your credentials do.”
Luca slammed his hand against the table.
“Then somebody used them.”
Giovanni's voice stayed calm.
“Who has access?”
“Nobody.”
“Think.”
“I said nobody.”
Giovanni stepped closer.
“Lauren was nearly killed.”
Luca's anger disappeared.
He looked at me.
“I didn't do this.”
I believed his fear.
I wasn't sure I believed his innocence.
“Where were you at 4:37 Tuesday?” I asked.
He blinked.
“What?”
“When the schedule was changed.”
He thought.
“At the Lexington office.”
“Alone?”
“No. Meetings all afternoon.”
Franco was already checking.
A minute later, he looked up.
“He was in a conference room from four until six. Twelve witnesses.”
Giovanni's attention shifted.
“His laptop?”
Luca answered.
“In my office.”
“Locked?”
“My office, yes. Laptop…”
He stopped.
Franco understood.
“Peter Lang.”
Luca's face changed.
“He came into my office that afternoon.”
Giovanni's eyes darkened.
“Why?”
“He needed signatures.”
Franco closed the laptop.
“Lang used Luca's credentials, changed Lauren's shift, borrowed Luca's vehicle through Carlo, then paid Voss through an intermediary.”
“Carlo didn't borrow my car,” Luca said slowly.
Everyone looked at him.
“I gave Carlo the spare key months ago.”
Giovanni's voice sharpened.
“And you neglected to mention that?”
“I forgot.”
“You forgot someone had unrestricted access to your vehicle?”
“Unlike you, Giovanni, I don't assume everyone around me is planning a coup.”
“Maybe you should.”
“Enough,” I said.
Both brothers turned.
I pointed at the screen.
“You're arguing while Peter Lang is disappearing.”
Franco's phone rang.
He answered.
His expression changed.
“Where?”
He listened.
“We're coming.”
Giovanni reached for his coat.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Lang's car was found at Pier 17.”
“Was he inside?”
“No.”
Franco looked at Giovanni.
“But there was blood.”
They left me at the townhouse with Rosa and four security guards.
I hated every second of it.
Two hours later, Giovanni returned.
He looked exhausted.
“No Lang?” I asked.
“No.”
“Whose blood?”
“Unknown.”
“Carlo?”
“Possibly.”
He poured himself water.
I watched him.
“You think Lang is dead.”
“I think someone is removing evidence.”
“Who?”
“That’s what I intend to find out.”
My recovered phone buzzed.
We both looked at it.
Unknown number.
Giovanni held out his hand.
I ignored him and answered.
“Hello?”
A man's voice.
“You should've stayed invisible, Lauren.”
Giovanni crossed the room.
I put the call on speaker.
“Who is this?”
“You've caused considerable inconvenience.”
Giovanni spoke.
“Then talk to me.”
The caller laughed.
“There he is.”
“Name your price.”
“This isn't about money.”
“What is it about?”
“Your father built the Moretti organization on loyalty. You built yours on rules.”
Giovanni's eyes narrowed.
“Rules make men predictable.”
The caller continued.
“You don't touch civilians. You don't involve families. You protect employees.”
I looked at Giovanni.
“Such admirable principles,” the voice said. “They also make excellent weaknesses.”
Giovanni's hand tightened around the edge of the table.
“What do you want?”
“I wanted to know whether hurting a housekeeper could pull Giovanni Moretti away from his businesses.”
“And?”
“It did.”
The call ended.
I stared at Giovanni.
“Pull you away from your businesses.”
He was already reaching for another phone.
“Franco.”
He listened.
His face changed.
“When?”
A pause.
“Lock everything.”
He hung up.
“What happened?”
“Three warehouses were hit twenty minutes ago.”
“While you were here.”
“Yes.”
I understood.
The attack on me had never been the objective.
I was bait.
Someone had tested Giovanni's response.
Learned how much security he would move.
Then repeated the distraction on a larger scale.
“I gave them exactly what they wanted,” I whispered.
“No.”
Giovanni looked at me.
“They used you. That's different.”
His phone buzzed again.
A message.
He read it.
Then handed it to me.
A photograph filled the screen.
Peter Lang sat tied to a chair.
Alive.
Beside him stood Carlo Bellini.
Underneath were six words:
TRADE THE HOUSEKEEPER FOR THE ACCOUNTANT.
I looked at Giovanni.
“No.”
He took the phone back.
“You're right.”
His voice was quiet.
“There will be no trade.”
Then another message arrived.
This one included an address.
And a deadline.
May you like
MIDNIGHT.
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