Chapter 3 - Lessons for a Reckless Moretti
Camille did not touch the book.
She called Lucian.
He answered on the first ring.
“What happened?”
Not hello.
Not why are you calling.
He already knew she would not call at two in the morning without a reason.
“The book is in my closet.”
Silence.
“Leave the room.”
“There’s something else.”
“Camille.”
“A photograph of you.”
“Leave. The. Room.”
She opened the door.
The guard turned instantly.
“Mr. Moretti’s office. Now.”
Two minutes later Lucian came down the corridor in shirtsleeves, his tie gone, anger carved into every line of his face.
Dante followed.
They entered only after security cleared the suite.
The book was removed in a sealed evidence bag.
The photograph too.
Lucian stood in Camille’s doorway.
“You are moving rooms.”
“That won’t solve the problem.”
“It solves one.”
“No. It moves me twelve doors away.”
His eyes flashed.
“You’re arguing with me at two in the morning?”
“I’m consistent.”
That almost made him smile.
Almost.
Dante returned.
“No sign of forced entry.”
Camille looked at him.
“Then someone had a key.”
“Or copied one.”
Lucian’s expression went flat.
“Who can override guest-suite locks?”
“House manager. Security. Adrian.”
Camille folded her arms.
“Convenient.”
Dante nodded.
“We’re changing all access codes.”
Lucian turned to her.
“You sleep in the west guest wing.”
“No.”
His brows lowered.
“Excuse me?”
“If someone wants me frightened, moving me deeper into your house tells them it worked.”
“You found a threat in your closet.”
“And I am still standing.”
“Camille.”
She held up a hand.
“Fine. I move.”
Lucian blinked.
That was not what he expected.
“But I pick the room.”
“Why?”
“Because whoever is planning this expects you to put me somewhere predictable.”
Lucian looked at Dante.
Dante slowly nodded.
“She’s right.”
Lucian gave him a look that suggested agreement was betrayal.
Camille selected a small sitting room beside the old music salon.
No official guest room.
No predictable route.
One entrance.
No exterior balcony.
Lucian inspected it himself.
That fact bothered Camille more than she wanted to admit.
At three fifteen, Matteo appeared carrying coffee.
He handed one to her.
“No sugar.”
Camille took it.
“You remembered.”
“You’ve criticized me enough times.”
“Education works.”
Matteo dropped into an armchair.
“You know, when you arrived, I thought you’d last three days.”
“What made you think that?”
“You looked too nice.”
“I’m not nice.”
“You’re terrifying.”
“Better.”
He smiled.
Then it faded.
“I caused this.”
Camille sat across from him.
“You contributed.”
“That is your polite version?”
“No. My polite version would have taken longer.”
He looked into his coffee.
“If I hadn’t talked to Valenti—”
“Then Adrian might have found another way.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Neither do you.”
Matteo’s jaw tightened.
Camille studied him.
“Why do you act reckless?”
He looked up.
“What kind of question is that?”
“The one you’ve been avoiding since I arrived.”
“I don’t act reckless.”
“You drove a motorcycle into a museum courtyard.”
“The gate was open.”
“You challenged a donor’s son to arm wrestling during dinner.”
“He insulted the food.”
“You told a reporter your brother was emotionally constipated.”
“That one was accurate.”
Camille sighed.
Matteo grinned.
Then the grin vanished again.
“I’m not Lucian.”
“I know.”
“Everyone else wishes I were.”
There.
Camille leaned back.
“Does Lucian?”
Matteo did not answer.
“That is not the same question,” she said.
“My father did.”
Camille waited.
Matteo’s voice lowered.
“Lucian was perfect. I was entertainment.”
“And after your father died?”
“Lucian inherited everything.”
“Responsibility too.”
Matteo looked at her.
Camille continued.
“You got to remain the funny one.”
“You make that sound easy.”
“I make it sound expensive.”
He laughed once.
Then nodded.
“Fair.”
Camille set down her cup.
“If you want your brother to stop treating you like a liability, stop behaving like one.”
“That simple?”
“No.”
She leaned forward.
“But it starts there.”
At nine the next morning, Camille resumed Matteo’s etiquette lesson.
Lucian found them in the breakfast room.
Matteo was practicing introductions.
Camille stood beside him.
“Again.”
Matteo sighed.
“Senator Hale, it is a pleasure to see you.”
“Eye contact.”
He tried again.
“Senator Hale, it is a pleasure to see you.”
“Stop smiling like you stole something.”
“I usually have.”
Lucian entered.
Camille pointed toward the door.
“Start over.”
Matteo stared at her.
“My brother is here.”
“Then impress him.”
Matteo straightened.
Lucian paused.
The younger brother crossed the room.
“Lucian. Good morning.”
Lucian looked suspicious.
“What did she do to you?”
Matteo glanced at Camille.
“Apparently, civilization is possible.”
Camille nodded.
“Barely.”
Lucian’s gaze met hers.
For one second, the previous night disappeared.
They were simply a man and woman in a bright breakfast room.
Then Dante entered.
“We found Peter’s son.”
Peter’s son, eighteen-year-old Noah, had been located at a warehouse outside the city.
Alive.
Unhurt.
Abandoned shortly before dawn.
Peter broke down when he heard.
But the relief lasted less than a minute.
Noah carried a message.
A sealed envelope.
Addressed to Camille Brooks.
Lucian opened it before she could object.
“You opened my mail?”
“Yes.”
“Etiquette violation.”
“Security exception.”
Matteo whispered, “I love this job.”
Lucian handed her the note.
Three lines.
You notice details.
Notice this.
Tomorrow, Lucian loses more than his reputation.
Camille read it twice.
“Tomorrow?”
Lucian nodded.
“The gala.”
Matteo stood.
“We cancel.”
Lucian looked at him.
Matteo raised both hands.
“See? Growth.”
Camille almost smiled.
Lucian did not.
But this time he agreed.
“The public gala is canceled.”
Dante said, “What do we tell the press?”
“Electrical failure.”
Camille shook her head.
“No.”
Everyone looked at her.
“If Valenti expects cancellation, that confirms we’re reacting.”
“What do you suggest?” Lucian asked.
“A smaller event.”
Matteo leaned forward.
“Invite-only?”
“Yes. Same public announcement. Different location.”
Lucian studied her.
“Where?”
Camille looked around the mansion.
“Here.”
Matteo laughed.
“That is insane.”
Camille pointed at him.
“You’re improving.”
Lucian walked slowly toward her.
“Explain.”
“Valenti’s plan depends on predicting you. So stop being predictable. Announce that the gala continues but relocate the real donor meeting here. Fewer guests. Controlled access. No press.”
“And if the leak tells him?”
“Then we know the leak is among the five people with the new plan.”
Lucian’s eyes narrowed.
“Which includes you.”
Camille held his gaze.
“Yes.”
Silence.
Matteo looked between them.
Lucian said, “You’re comfortable being a suspect?”
“No.”
“Then why suggest it?”
“Because being uncomfortable is not the same as being useless.”
Lucian stared at her for a long moment.
Then said, “Do it.”
That afternoon, invitations changed.
The mansion transformed.
Thirty guests instead of four hundred.
No journalists.
No public terrace.
No published schedule.
Camille coached Matteo through greetings.
He improved.
Rapidly.
At one point she watched him speak to an elderly donor without interrupting once.
She nearly applauded.
Lucian stood beside her.
“He listens to you.”
“He listens when he doesn’t feel judged.”
Lucian looked at her.
“You think I judge him.”
“I think you expect him to fail.”
“He usually does.”
“People become what powerful people keep expecting.”
That struck something.
Lucian looked away.
“You correct everyone?”
“Only people who can survive it.”
His eyes returned to hers.
“And if I couldn’t?”
Camille smiled faintly.
“You’d have fired me eight days ago.”
Dinner began at seven.
By eight, nothing had happened.
At 8:39, Matteo raised a glass.
Camille’s pulse quickened.
The newspaper quote had predicted 8:40.
Matteo looked at Lucian.
Then at Camille.
He smiled.
“If manners could be bought…”
Lucian’s face hardened.
Camille stared at him.
Matteo finished.
“…Camille Brooks would have charged me double.”
The room laughed.
8:40.
Nothing happened.
Camille exhaled.
Then every light in the mansion went out.
The room plunged into darkness.
Someone shouted.
Glass shattered.
Camille felt a hand seize hers.
Lucian.
“Stay with me.”
Emergency lights flickered on.
A man lay unconscious near the eastern doorway.
The front doors were open.
Dante ran toward them.
Then Camille saw the empty chair.
Matteo’s chair.
He was gone.
May you like
And on his napkin, someone had written one word in black ink.
TRADE.
