Chapter 4 - Luca Found Grace’s Letters in the Wall of His Father’s Study.
The police searched the Moretti estate because Grace’s phone had been found there.
That sentence would have been unthinkable a week earlier.
Luca signed consent for areas under his control and told his attorneys not to obstruct lawful warrants for the rest.
His late father’s study became the center.
Domenico Moretti had been dead eleven months.
The room remained almost untouched.
Not because Luca worshipped him.
Because grief mixed badly with unfinished business.
Vanessa had used the study occasionally.
So had family counsel.
Police found nothing in the desk.
Nothing in the safe.
Then a crime-scene technician noticed one wall panel did not align.
Behind it:
A narrow document cavity.
Old house.
Old men.
Old secrets.
Inside were dozens of letters.
Not Grace’s.
Luca’s.
Addressed to Grace Marino.
Nine years old.
Some sealed.
Some opened.
All retained.
The first was dated four days after Luca left Chicago for New York.
Grace,
Vanessa says you are avoiding calls because you need space. I don’t believe her. Call me yourself.
Then:
I know about the pregnancy. I am not angry. I am terrified and I want to come home.
There.
Then:
My father says you left. I do not believe him.
Another:
If you are scared of me, tell me. If you are scared of him, I need to know.
Then:
I will leave the organization if that is what it takes.
There.
Police photographed.
Catalogued.
Not Luca grabbing them first.
Good.
He received copies later.
I learned because Leo called me.
Not directly.
The guardian ad litem, Ms. Fiona Park, asked whether I was comfortable with a supervised video call.
I said yes.
Leo appeared first.
Mia beside him.
The estate kitchen behind.
Not dining room.
Good.
“Claire!”
Mia looked relieved.
My chest hurt.
“Hi.”
“Your eye looks weird.”
Children.
“Thank you.”
“It’s yellow now.”
“Also thank you.”
Leo smiled.
Good.
Then he said:
“Our dad found letters.”
There.
Our dad.
Not Father.
Not Luca.
Tentative.
“What letters?”
“Mama letters.”
He meant letters to Grace.
“Do you want to tell me?”
He nodded.
“He tried to find her.”
Mia said:
“Vanessa hid them.”
I looked at Fiona Park.
She stepped in.
“Police believe the letters were retained by Domenico Moretti’s office. We do not yet know who physically placed them there.”
Good.
No assigning facts beyond proof.
Leo rolled his eyes.
“Vanessa knew.”
“Maybe.”
I said.
He frowned.
“Mom said.”
“Your mom may be right. Police still have to prove different pieces.”
He stared.
“You sound like lawyer.”
“I’ve had a bad week.”
Good.
Then Mia asked:
“Are you coming back?”
“No.”
Her face fell.
I continued.
“I’m not coming back as a maid.”
There.
Important.
“Why?”
“Because someone hurt me at work and I don’t feel safe working there anymore.”
Good.
Not:
Because your family is evil.
Not their burden.
“Can you visit?”
I looked at Fiona.
She looked at me.
“That is your choice if the children’s placement team approves.”
I said:
“Maybe.”
Mia nodded.
Good.
No promise.
Then Luca walked into frame.
He stopped when he saw me.
“Claire.”
“Mr. Moretti.”
His face tightened.
“Luca.”
I said nothing.
Power still existed.
Names do not erase payroll.
Then he asked the twins:
“Can I speak to Claire after?”
Leo looked at me.
My choice.
“Okay.”
After the twins went with the independent caregiver, Luca stayed.
He looked exhausted.
No vest.
No tie.
Black T-shirt showing tattoos.
Still dangerous.
Still a man on a screen asking.
“How are you?”
“Better.”
“Do you have a safe place?”
“Yes.”
“Do you need anything?”
“No.”
He nodded.
Good.
Then:
“I owe you wages.”
I frowned.
“For what?”
“You were injured while working.”
“I’m filing workers’ compensation.”
His face changed.
“Of course.”
Good.
“I also owe you unused leave and severance if you resign.”
“Yes.”
There.
Not gift.
Employment obligations.
My attorney from a worker-rights clinic was handling it.
Luca accepted.
Then he said:
“I want to apologize.”
“For Vanessa?”
“No.”
That surprised me.
“For this house.”
There.
“That’s broad.”
“Yes.”
He looked at his hand.
The dagger-and-rose tattoo.
“My father hired people who treated staff as property. I inherited them. Vanessa managed them. I did not look closely.”
Good.
“You’re apologizing for not managing your mansion?”
“I’m saying I benefited from not seeing.”
There.
Better.
I took time.
“You don’t get forgiveness because you noticed after I got hit.”
“I know.”
Good.
Then:
“Do you know where Grace is?”
His eyes changed.
“No.”
Police had traced Donnelly’s car that night.
It left Chicago.
Drove west toward a Moretti-owned farm property in DeKalb County.
Camera picked up the plate.
Then it returned three hours later.
Grace was not visible.
Search warrant executed.
No Grace.
But blood in a storage shed.
DNA pending.
My stomach turned.
Luca saw.
“Do not assume.”
he said.
I looked at him sharply.
He corrected.
“Sorry.”
Then:
“The detective told me not to assume the worst.”
Good.
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
There.
Honest.
“Every minute.”
Good.
Then he said:
“There’s another thing.”
What now?
“The letters mention twins.”
Of course.
He knew Grace carried two babies before she disappeared.
He had written:
Two heartbeats and I’m not there. I don’t know how to forgive my father for keeping me here.
Then Domenico showed him a private medical letter stating Grace had miscarried both babies and left Illinois.
“What?”
I whispered.
Luca nodded.
“My father told me the pregnancy ended.”
There.
“He showed me a doctor’s report.”
“Real?”
“No.”
Police had already checked.
The clinic named on the paper had never treated Grace.
The physician’s signature belonged to Dr. Victor Sayegh, a Moretti family doctor who died three years ago.
His old office records contained no matching visit.
The report was fabricated.
Maybe by Domenico.
Maybe Vanessa.
Maybe both.
Evidence would decide.
Luca had spent nine years mourning two unborn children and a woman he believed chose to vanish after losing them.
While all three were alive.
“I don’t know what to do with that.”
he said.
For once, I had nothing helpful.
“Don’t do anything yet.”
I said.
He looked at me.
“Is that your advice?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because every time somebody in this family panics, someone else loses a choice.”
There.
He went still.
Then nodded.
“Fair.”
I hated how much that word sounded like surrender.
The call ended when Fiona returned.
Good.
No endless emotional dependence.
That afternoon, police confirmed the blood from the DeKalb shed belonged to Grace.
Not a large amount.
Enough to prove she had been there.
No body.
Then they found tire tracks from a second vehicle.
Registered to the Moretti Family Foundation.
Driver logs showed Vanessa had authorized it the same night.
The driver was not Donnelly.
It was a woman named Dr. Serena Holt.
A psychiatrist who operated a private residential clinic outside Rockford.
Why a psychiatrist?
Police found the answer in Vanessa’s messages.
SHE IS AGITATED AND PARANOID. GET HER SOMEWHERE QUIET UNTIL WE FIX THIS.
There.
Not murder.
Control through diagnosis.
Again.
Dr. Holt surrendered after a warrant.
She claimed Vanessa told her Grace was a suicidal family member in crisis who needed emergency evaluation.
No legal paperwork supported involuntary detention.
Grace had been brought bleeding from a cut on her hand after fighting Donnelly.
Holt sedated her.
Illegally.
Then when she learned police were looking, she panicked.
Instead of calling authorities, she transferred Grace to a private recovery property in southern Wisconsin under another patient’s name.
That decision turned panic into another crime.
Good.
Police moved.
Luca wanted to go.
Of course.
They told him no.
For once, the most feared man in Chicago stayed in his own kitchen while ordinary detectives drove toward his missing family.
That may have been the hardest thing he had ever done.
I was at the worker-rights clinic signing my resignation when Elena called.
“Claire.”
Her voice was shaking.
My pen stopped.
“What?”
“They found her.”
I could not breathe.
“Alive?”
“Yes.”
There.
Grace was alive.
Weak.
Drugged.
Angry.
Very angry.
Good.
She had been locked in a guest cottage behind the recovery property with one nurse and no phone.
The nurse claimed Holt said Grace was under court-ordered observation.
There had been no order.
Grace tried to leave twice.
The second time she cut her hand breaking a window latch.
That was the blood at DeKalb? Wait the cut happened later. Need consistency. Police found Grace's blood at DeKalb from struggle before transport; she had cut palm on shed door. Fine. At Wisconsin she aggravated it.
She was taken to a hospital.
Not Moretti property.
Not private family doctor.
A real hospital with police outside and her own attorney on the way.
Good.
Then Elena said:
“She knows the twins are with Luca.”
My stomach tightened.
“What did she say?”
A pause.
“She said, ‘Tell him biology bought him one conversation. Nothing else yet.’”
I laughed.
Not because funny.
Because Grace was alive enough to set terms.
Perfect.
May you like
For nine years, everyone had decided around her.
This time, she was coming back with her own voice.
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