Chapter 4 - THE BOX MY MOTHER BURIEDI didn’t sleep.
The Moretti guest room had linen sheets softer than anything I owned and curtains thick enough to stop daylight.
None of that mattered.
At three in the morning, I sat barefoot on the floor with Needle in my lap.
Luca’s men had retrieved him from my apartment.
He was furious about the armored transport.
He expressed this by biting Gideon.
I respected him for it.
“Your cat is violent,” Luca said from the doorway.
I looked up.
He had changed into black trousers and a gray T-shirt.
No jacket.
No weapons visible.
Although with Luca I had started assuming weapons were more like organs.
Present even when unseen.
“You kidnapped him.”
“I rescued him.”
“He disagrees.”
Needle hissed.
Luca stared.
Needle stared back.
Neither blinked.
“You two have similar personalities,” I said.
“That’s insulting.”
“To the cat.”
He almost smiled again.
Then his expression changed.
“We found something.”
I rose.
“What?”
“Come downstairs.”
The library table was covered with photographs.
Old records.
Financial documents.
Copies of newspaper articles.
Gideon stood beside a woman I hadn’t met.
Early forties.
Dark suit.
Hair pulled back.
She had the posture of someone trained to break fingers professionally.
“Camille Rourke,” Luca said. “Head of intelligence.”
Camille looked at me.
“Your mother was smarter than all of them.”
“All of who?”
She pointed to the documents.
“Your father. Luca’s father. Federal investigators.”
“That sounds unlikely.”
“It’s not.”
She handed me a yellowed photo.
My mother.
Young.
Maybe thirty.
Standing beside a man I recognized immediately from portraits online.
Antonio Moretti.
Luca’s father.
My mother wore a dark business suit.
No smile.
Behind them stood Daniel Mercer.
My father.
I gripped the photo tighter.
“What was she doing there?”
“Building ledgers,” Camille said.
“For Antonio?”
“For everyone.”
I looked at Luca.
His jaw tightened.
Camille continued.
“Margaret Hale Mercer was hired in 1996 to audit shipping companies Antonio Moretti partially controlled.”
“Partially.”
Camille gave me a flat look.
“Allegedly.”
“Right.”
“She discovered Daniel Mercer was diverting funds.”
“Thirty-eight million.”
“That was the official number.”
Luca’s eyes narrowed.
“What was the real number?”
“Closer to two hundred million.”
Even Luca reacted.
“How did we not know?”
“Because it wasn’t just cash.”
Camille spread out documents.
“Shell companies. Bonds. offshore accounts. blackmail files. ownership certificates.”
I stared at numbers I didn’t understand.
“What does any of this have to do with me?”
Camille looked at me.
“Your mother copied the ledger.”
My heartbeat changed.
“The ledger proving who stole what?”
“And who paid whom.”
Luca’s face darkened.
“Politicians?”
“Judges. Contractors. intelligence officers. corporate executives.”
Gideon added, “Some are still alive.”
“Some,” Camille agreed, “are more powerful today.”
I sat down.
“My mother had this?”
“We believe so.”
“Then where is it?”
Camille pointed at me.
“That’s why someone wants you.”
I shook my head.
“No.”
“She left clues.”
“I would know.”
“Would you?”
That hurt.
Because the truth was—I probably wouldn’t.
My mother had been private.
Especially near the end.
Cancer stripped her body, but it never loosened her secrets.
Three days before she died, she gave me the walnut sewing box.
“Keep making beautiful things,” she whispered.
I thought it was sentiment.
Now I wondered if it was instruction.
“The false bottom,” I said.
Camille leaned forward.
“You mentioned it.”
“My mother told me never to open it.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
Luca looked at me.
“Why not?”
“Because sometimes you respect the dead even when they’re being ridiculous.”
Gideon sighed.
“Unfortunately, someone else opened it.”
“Or stole it before opening it.”
Camille placed a photograph on the table.
Security footage from my building.
A hooded figure carrying my mother’s sewing box.
Time stamp: 10:14 p.m.
During the fitting-room attack.
“Can you identify them?”
“No.”
“Look at the hands.”
I leaned closer.
The person wore gloves.
But one sleeve had pulled back.
A small tattoo showed above the wrist.
Three black lines.
Luca’s expression sharpened.
“I know that mark.”
Camille nodded.
“Bellandi network.”
I looked between them.
“Which is?”
“An old rival family,” Gideon said.
“Organized crime?”
“They prefer investment consortium.”
“Of course they do.”
Luca ignored the sarcasm.
“The Bellandis lost millions during the Mercer theft.”
“So they want the ledger.”
“Everyone wants the ledger.”
“Wonderful.”
I stood.
“Then let them have it.”
Silence.
Luca’s gaze hardened.
“If it exists, giving it away won’t protect you.”
“Why?”
“Because you can identify clues your mother left.”
“I can barely identify my own life right now.”
He stepped closer.
“They already threatened you by name.”
I crossed my arms.
“Then what do you suggest?”
“We find it first.”
“And then?”
“Destroy it.”
Camille looked at Luca.
Gideon looked at Luca.
I looked at Luca.
“You mean that?”
“Yes.”
“What if it contains evidence against your family?”
“It probably does.”
“You’d destroy leverage worth billions?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
His answer came without hesitation.
“Because paper is replaceable.”
His eyes met mine.
“You’re not.”
Something uncomfortable moved through me.
I looked away first.
Camille cleared her throat.
“Before we all become emotionally confused, there’s another issue.”
Luca’s face cooled instantly.
“Speak.”
“Vivien disappeared again.”
I laughed.
“Of course she did.”
“She wasn’t at her apartment when surveillance arrived.”
“Who helped her?”
“We don’t know.”
Luca walked toward the window.
“Her father?”
“Possibly.”
I knew the name from magazines.
Charles Cross.
Hotel empire.
Real estate.
Political fundraisers.
Old Manhattan money pretending it wasn’t hungry.
Camille placed another image down.
“Vivien met Daniel Mercer nine months ago.”
The room froze.
My lungs forgot how to work.
“My father?”
“Alive,” Camille said.
I gripped the table.
“You told me he vanished.”
“He did.”
“For twenty-seven years.”
“Yes.”
“And he’s alive?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“We don’t know.”
I looked at Luca.
“You knew?”
“No.”
His answer was immediate.
I believed him.
Camille showed me a grainy photograph.
Vivien entering a private dining room in Monaco.
A man followed her.
Older.
Gray-haired.
Using a cane.
The profile was enough.
My father.
Daniel Mercer.
Alive.
Walking into a restaurant while I had spent six years visiting my mother’s grave alone.
Something broke inside my chest.
I sat slowly.
“He never called.”
No one spoke.
“He never wrote.”
My voice became smaller.
“My mother died.”
Luca moved toward me.
I raised a hand.
“Don’t.”
He stopped.
“I need five minutes.”
“You have them.”
I walked into the hall.
Needle followed.
Smart cat.
I locked myself in the powder room and stared into the mirror.
My father was alive.
He had built another life somewhere.
He had known my mother was dying.
He had known I existed.
And now people were trying to kill me over the secrets they shared.
I splashed water on my face.
My reflection looked unfamiliar.
Then I noticed something behind me.
On the marble counter.
A sewing needle.
I turned.
There hadn’t been one when I entered.
I was sure.
Attached to it was a red thread.
My blood went cold.
Someone was inside the Moretti mansion.
I opened the door.
“Luca!”
The lights cut out.
Not again.
Footsteps thundered.
A hand covered my mouth from behind.
I drove my elbow backward.
Hit ribs.
A man grunted.
I screamed.
He dragged me toward a service door.
I kicked wildly.
Needle launched himself like a furry demon and attached to the attacker’s calf.
The man cursed.
I tore free.
Gunfire exploded down the hallway.
Emergency lights came on.
Red.
The attacker rushed me.
Then Luca appeared.
No hesitation.
He slammed the man into the wall with enough force to crack plaster.
The attacker swung a knife.
Luca caught his wrist.
Twisted.
Bone snapped.
I winced.
The knife hit the floor.
Luca drove the man down.
Guards flooded the hall.
“Alive!” Camille shouted.
Luca stopped inches before breaking the man’s neck.
Barely.
The intruder laughed through bloody teeth.
“You can’t stop the wedding.”
Luca grabbed his shirt.
“Where is Vivien?”
The man smiled.
“Waiting for her groom.”
Luca’s eyes became terrifying.
“Where?”
The attacker looked past Luca.
At me.
“Ask the seamstress.”
“I don’t know anything.”
He smiled wider.
“You know the song.”
My skin went cold.
“What song?”
His expression changed.
Almost confused.
Then he softly hummed four notes.
I stopped breathing.
My mother used to hum that melody while sewing.
Every night.
Four notes.
Pause.
Four notes again.
I whispered, “No.”
Luca looked at me.
“What?”
The intruder laughed.
“Her mother taught her everything.”
He bit down suddenly.
Camille lunged.
Too late.
Foam appeared at his mouth.
Poison capsule.
Within seconds, he was convulsing.
Then still.
Luca turned toward me.
“What song?”
I couldn’t answer.
Because I was remembering childhood nights in our tiny apartment.
My mother sewing beneath one yellow lamp.
Humming that strange melody.
Tapping her foot.
Four beats.
Pause.
Six beats.
Pause.
Three.
Five.
Numbers.
Not music.
A code.
I ran back toward the library.
“Paper!”
Everyone followed.
“What?”
“Give me paper.”
Gideon shoved a notebook toward me.
I wrote the rhythm.
4-6-3-5.
Then another sequence.
2-1-7.
And another.
My mother used different verses depending on what she was sewing.
I stared at the numbers.
Luca stood beside me.
“What is it?”
I whispered, “Coordinates.”
Camille immediately pulled up a map.
The numbers weren’t geographic.
Gideon saw it first.
“Library classification.”
He entered the sequence into a database.
A result appeared.
New York Public Library.
Special Collections.
A catalog reference.
The item title loaded.
The Practical Art of European Tailoring, 1947 edition.
My eyes filled with tears.
My mother had taught me tailoring.
She had taught me the code.
She’d been preparing me since childhood without telling me why.
Luca read the screen.
“Where’s the book?”
Camille’s face changed.
“Checked out from restricted archive.”
“By whom?”
She enlarged the record.
My blood turned to ice.
Borrower authorization:
VIVIEN CROSS.
Three days ago.
Luca stared at the name.
Then at me.
“The wedding is tomorrow.”
I understood.
Vivien didn’t need Luca’s suit anymore.
She already had the map to the ledger.
But she still needed one final thing.
May you like
Someone who could read what Margaret Ward had hidden inside it.
Me.
