Chapter 8 - THE SUMMER HOUSE
Domenic gave me six hours.
Cruz used four.
The Moretti summer house sat near Lake Geneva.
My father bought it thirty years ago.
I had not visited since Enzo’s funeral.
Domenic knew that too.
He chose memory as terrain.
Old Gabriel would have appreciated the theater.
Current Gabriel found it exhausting.
Police surveillance confirmed one vehicle.
Thermal showed two people inside.
Domenic and unknown second.
No Rachel.
No Sophie.
Good.
He wanted me.
We gave him something close.
I went.
Not alone.
Cruz’s team positioned outside perimeter.
Wisconsin state police coordinated.
Thomas stayed Chicago.
Mara stayed Moretti Tower.
Rachel stayed with Sophie.
Everyone where they chose or were legally required.
Good.
I wore a wire.
No gun.
That part I hated.
At the front door, Domenic called through speaker.
“Leave the phone.”
I did.
“Jacket.”
I took it off.
“Wire too.”
Interesting.
He knew.
Maybe visual.
Maybe detector.
I looked toward hidden team I could not see.
Then removed wire.
Cruz would hate.
I entered.
Domenic sat by fireplace.
No fire.
Beside him:
Stephen Ward.
I stopped.
Ward was supposed to be in custody.
No.
He had been released on bond after cooperation pending charges.
Apparently that was a mistake.
Ward looked terrified.
Domenic looked amused.
“You brought police.”
“Yes.”
“Honest now.”
“Trying.”
He gestured.
“Sit.”
I remained standing.
“Why Ward?”
“Because lawyers always think cooperation buys freedom.”
Ward said:
“He took me from my apartment.”
Domenic ignored.
On table:
a laptop.
Northstar files.
One pistol.
“White list,” I said.
“Copies.”
“Why threaten victims?”
“Because you stopped caring about yourself.”
He sounded offended.
Interesting.
Domenic continued.
“I taught you better.”
“You taught me fear works.”
“It does.”
“Yes.”
That answer surprised him.
I continued.
“It just doesn’t make you right.”
He smiled.
“Rachel?”
“Alive.”
“The girl?”
“Safe.”
“Your girl?”
Maybe.
I said nothing.
Domenic leaned back.
“Enzo would have tested blood before breakfast.”
“My father did many things badly.”
There.
His face hardened.
Domenic loved Enzo.
Maybe more than sons love fathers.
“Your father built order.”
“My father built dependence.”
“Same thing.”
“No.”
Domenic tapped laptop.
“This company pays widows, criminals, cops, workers, judges, families. You think you can separate them because a prosecutor uses colored tabs?”
Naomi’s categories.
Someone feeding him current information.
Still insider.
“Who on board is yours?”
He smiled.
“More than you think.”
“Then why sell assets?”
“Because you opened the books.”
There.
He wanted extraction before collapse.
“Why forge my signature?”
“Because yours ends questions.”
Rachel was right.
He continued.
“You built that. Not me.”
Good.
Let it land.
“Yes.”
Domenic blinked.
“I did.”
That robbed him of argument.
I looked at Ward.
“Did he forge Enzo’s signature too?”
Ward shook head.
Domenic answered.
“Bell did.”
“On your order?”
“No.”
“Whose?”
Domenic smiled.
“Lucia.”
Silence.
No.
He saw.
“Your mother created the first authorization.”
“But Mara said Bell forged it to hide a fund Enzo later used.”
“Both.”
Of course.
Mess.
“Lucia needed money your father could not trace.”
“For restitution?”
“At first.”
Domenic stood.
“She also paid politicians to protect you.”
Cold.
“What?”
“When Enzo wanted you removed from succession at twenty-six, Lucia bought three aldermen and a judge to block licenses he needed.”
I did not know.
“Northstar was hers before it was his.”
Maybe.
Maybe lie.
Domenic continued.
“Your family has spent seventeen years pretending women used the system morally and men corrupted it. Convenient.”
That line mattered.
Mara and Rachel may have simplified.
I filed mentally.
Not now.
“What do you want?”
“At last.”
Domenic slid papers.
Transfer voting control of Moretti family trust to interim board for five years.
He would control through allies.
“And White names stay private?”
“Yes.”
“You stop asset sales?”
“Yes.”
“Ward walks?”
“Not your concern.”
Ward looked sick.
It was concern now.
I picked up papers.
Did not sign.
“What happens to Sophie?”
Domenic smiled.
“Nothing.”
“Rachel?”
“Nothing.”
“Mara?”
His smile changed.
There.
“What?”
“Mara Bell should never have come back.”
I felt cold.
“You plan to kill her.”
“No.”
Lie.
Good.
Old rule:
ask once.
I did not need second.
“Why?”
“She knows Lucia’s original account.”
“Which?”
“The one Northstar was built to hide.”
I stared.
“What account?”
Domenic realized he had said too much.
Good.
A sound outside.
Not police.
Car.
Domenic looked toward window.
He had backup arriving.
Time.
I said:
“You still haven’t told me what happens if I sign.”
“You go home.”
“And you?”
“I fix what you broke.”
There.
The entire philosophy.
He believed truth was damage.
I looked at papers.
Then tore them in half.
Domenic’s face went empty.
Ward ducked.
Domenic reached for gun.
I moved behind table.
Shot.
Window shattered.
Then police breached.
Noise.
Commands.
Glass.
Ward dropped flat.
Domenic fired toward hall.
Another shot from outside.
He went down.
Shoulder.
Alive.
Good.
I stayed behind table until Cruz came in.
She looked furious.
“You removed the wire.”
“He found it.”
“You tore papers before entry.”
“Yes.”
“You are terrible at cooperation.”
“Improving.”
She almost laughed.
Then officers cuffed Domenic.
He looked at me.
“Your mother will bury you from the grave.”
I crouched just enough to hear.
“What account?”
He smiled through pain.
“The one with Sophie’s name on it.”
My body went still.
Sophie was six.
Lucia died twelve years ago.
Impossible.
Domenic laughed.
Good.
He wanted that reaction.
Cruz pulled me back.
“Do not.”
I stood.
Then looked at Ward.
He was alive.
Terrified.
“Did you hear?”
“Yes.”
“What account?”
Ward shook his head.
“I don’t know.”
Could be true.
Domenic was taken.
Laptop preserved.
White names protected under seal.
Good.
No victory.
Back in Chicago, Mara called before I reached city.
“Gabriel.”
“What?”
“Someone accessed Lucia’s original trust.”
“When?”
“Thirty minutes ago.”
“From where?”
“Moretti Tower.”
Cold.
“Who?”
Mara hesitated.
Then:
“Thomas.”
Silence.
No.
Again.
She continued.
“His credentials.”
Copied before?
Maybe.
I asked:
“Is Thomas with you?”
“No.”
“Where?”
“He left an hour ago.”
“Did he say why?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
Mara’s voice tightened.
“He said he was going to get Sophie.”
I called Rachel.
No answer.
Again.
Nothing.
Then Anne.
Nothing.
Cruz looked at me from passenger seat.
“What?”
I said:
“Turn around.”
“Where?”
“Rachel’s safe apartment.”
My phone buzzed before we moved.
Thomas.
One message.
GABRIEL, DO NOT CALL POLICE. SOPHIE IS WITH ME. SHE IS SAFE. I FOUND WHAT LUCIA HID.
Then a photograph.
Sophie asleep on a couch.
Mr. Buttons in her arms.
And beside her, on the table, a trust document dated twelve years before she was born.
Beneficiary line:
FIRST LIVING DAUGHTER OF GABRIEL MORETTI.
My mother had created a trust for a granddaughter who did not exist yet.
Whatever Northstar really was, Lucia had planned further ahead than any of us understood.
And Thomas had just taken Sophie to find out why.
On the drive back toward Chicago, Cruz asked why I had not signed Domenic’s transfer.
“Because it was a trap.”
“That has never stopped men like you from taking bad deals to save face.”
I looked out the window.
“Maybe I ran out of face.”
She laughed once.
Then became serious.
“If Sophie is yours, this gets worse.”
“I know.”
“No, you know emotionally.”
“What else?”
“Legally. Publicly. Succession. Security. The trust.”
I hated that she was right.
A child should not become governance.
Yet my family had built documents that did exactly that.
“What do you recommend?”
“Family lawyer. Child advocate. Separate counsel for the trust.”
“Not my lawyers?”
“Especially not your lawyers.”
Good.
I added it to the list.
Then:
“And Rachel decides what information about Sophie becomes public unless a court says otherwise.”
That one hurt.
Not because wrong.
Because old Gabriel believed blood created authority.
Now blood, maybe, created responsibility before authority.
Different order.
Better.
Before calling Thomas back, I did one thing that surprised Cruz.
I called Rachel’s lawyer.
Not Rachel.
Not Thomas.
Her lawyer.
I explained the message and asked whether Rachel had authorized any temporary move with Sophie.
The lawyer called back seven minutes later.
“Yes.”
My chest loosened.
“Rachel is with them?”
“Yes.”
“Why isn’t she answering me?”
“Because she asked for one hour without Moretti tracking while they verified the trust documents.”
I closed my eyes.
Fair.
Still infuriating.
“Is Sophie safe?”
“Yes.”
“Can I speak to Rachel?”
“When she chooses.”
Cruz watched me.
I handed the phone back.
“She chose.”
Cruz nodded.
“And?”
“And I hate it.”
“Good.”
There it was again.
But for once, hating a boundary did not mean crossing it.
Before we left Wisconsin, Cruz handed me a paper evidence receipt for the torn trust-transfer documents.
“Keep it.”
“Why?”
“Because one day you will tell yourself you handled this cleanly.”
I looked at the paper.
“I did not.”
“Exactly.”
Good.
Memory likes to edit the part where people almost become who they used to be.
Paper is less polite.
I put the receipt in my wallet.
Not as a trophy.
May you like
As proof that restraint had required intervention, not virtue.
I kept the receipt anyway. Some evidence belongs to the person who almost failed the test.
