Chapter 3 - A Seat at His Table
Camille stared at the screen.
“That isn’t me.”
Lucian did not respond.
Matteo stepped beside him.
The video was grainy.
Security footage.
A hotel lobby.
The woman beside their mother resembled Camille.
Same build.
Similar hair.
Similar face.
But older.
Maybe ten or fifteen years older than Camille had been at the time.
Matteo looked at her.
“Do you have a sister?”
“No.”
“Mother?”
Camille’s stomach tightened.
“My mother died when I was nineteen.”
Lucian looked at her.
“What was her name?”
“Marianne Brooks.”
Matteo went still.
Lucian’s eyes sharpened.
Camille noticed.
“You recognize it.”
Neither brother answered.
Camille’s patience snapped.
“No.”
Lucian frowned.
“No what?”
“No more mysterious looks. No more secret conversations while I stand in the room. Someone sends you a video containing a woman who looks like me, you ask about my dead mother, and suddenly both of you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Lucian closed the laptop.
“Camille.”
“Tell me.”
“It may be coincidence.”
“You don’t believe in coincidence.”
His silence confirmed it.
Camille stepped closer.
“What do you know about Marianne Brooks?”
Lucian looked toward his guards.
“Leave.”
They did.
Matteo stayed.
Lucian walked into his office.
Camille followed.
The room was dark wood and bookshelves.
No photographs.
No personal objects except a silver-framed picture turned face down on a shelf.
Lucian opened a drawer.
He removed an old envelope.
Inside was a photograph.
He placed it on the desk.
Camille stopped breathing.
Her mother stood beside a beautiful dark-haired woman.
Both were younger.
Laughing.
Happy.
Camille touched the edge of the photograph.
“That’s her.”
Lucian nodded.
“The other woman was our mother.”
Camille looked up.
“You knew my mother?”
“No.”
“But your mother did.”
“Yes.”
“How?”
Lucian hesitated.
Matteo answered.
“They worked together.”
Camille looked between them.
“Doing what?”
“Our mother ran the Belladonna Foundation before she married our father.”
“The charity?”
Matteo nodded.
“Your mother helped her.”
Camille sat slowly.
This did not make sense.
“My mother was a secretary.”
Lucian said, “That’s what she told you.”
Camille turned.
“What are you saying?”
Lucian leaned against his desk.
“That she helped women disappear.”
Camille stared.
“Disappear?”
“New identities. New apartments. Legal assistance. Safe houses.”
Camille’s mind raced.
Her mother had worked late.
Often.
She had received strange phone calls.
Once, when Camille was eleven, they had moved apartments overnight.
Her mother said the landlord had sold the building.
Camille had never questioned it.
“Why didn’t I know?”
“Because the fewer people who knew, the safer everyone was.”
Camille looked at the photograph.
“My mother died in a car accident.”
Lucian’s expression tightened.
Matteo looked away.
Camille felt cold.
“What?”
Nobody answered.
She stood.
“What?”
Lucian said quietly, “There were questions.”
Camille stared at him.
“What questions?”
“The accident happened three months after our mother died.”
The room seemed to tilt.
“No.”
“Camille—”
“No.”
She stepped backward.
“You don’t get to walk into my life and change how my mother died.”
“I’m not trying to.”
“You just did.”
“I’m telling you what I know.”
“Eight years later?”
“We didn’t know who you were.”
“You had my name.”
“Not then.”
Camille laughed once.
It sounded wrong.
“What does that mean?”
Lucian opened another drawer.
He removed a thin file.
Camille saw her mother’s name typed across the tab.
MARIANNE BROOKS.
Her anger arrived before grief.
“You had a file on her.”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“Eight years.”
Camille slapped him.
The sound cracked through the office.
Matteo froze.
Lucian did not move.
Camille’s hand trembled.
“You knew something about my mother for eight years.”
“Yes.”
“And you never came to me.”
“We believed you were safer outside this.”
“You don’t get to decide what truth I can handle.”
“I know.”
“No. You don’t.”
She grabbed the file.
Lucian caught her wrist.
Camille looked at his hand.
He released her instantly.
“Sorry.”
That stopped her.
Not the apology.
The speed of it.
Lucian Moretti had caught himself.
She opened the file.
Reports.
Names.
Dates.
A newspaper clipping about Marianne’s accident.
A handwritten letter.
Camille recognized the handwriting immediately.
Her mother’s.
She unfolded it.
Lucian watched her.
Matteo did too.
Camille read.
Lucian,
If anything happens to me, do not contact Camille.
She knows nothing.
Keep her that way.
Your mother believed there was good in your family even after everything. I hope she was right.
M.
Camille read the letter twice.
Then a third time.
Her knees weakened.
Lucian pulled out the chair.
This time he did not touch her.
Camille sat.
“My mother wrote to you.”
“Yes.”
“How old were you?”
“Twenty-six.”
“Why you?”
Lucian’s face changed.
“Because my mother trusted me.”
Matteo looked toward him.
Camille caught the tension.
“And then she died.”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
Lucian walked toward the window.
“For years, the foundation helped women connected to powerful men. Judges. Executives. Police officers. Criminals.”
“And someone discovered it.”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“We never proved it.”
Camille looked at the file.
“But you suspected someone.”
Lucian turned.
“My father.”
Matteo closed his eyes.
Camille stared.
“Your father killed your mother?”
“We don’t know.”
“But you think he did.”
Lucian’s jaw tightened.
“Our father hated the foundation. He believed our mother embarrassed him by helping women escape men he considered allies.”
Camille’s stomach turned.
“Where is he now?”
“Dead.”
“When?”
“Two years after Marianne.”
Camille looked at the handwritten letter.
“So the person sending these messages…”
“May be connected to what happened then.”
“Or wants you to think they are.”
Lucian nodded.
Camille realized she had slipped into analysis automatically.
It was what she did with clients.
Observe.
Separate emotion from behavior.
Find patterns.
Lucian noticed too.
“You should leave Chicago for a while.”
Camille laughed.
“No.”
“This is not negotiable.”
She looked at him.
“Try again.”
Lucian took a breath.
“Would you consider leaving Chicago temporarily?”
“No.”
Matteo smiled despite himself.
Lucian glared at him.
Camille closed the file.
“I want everything.”
“Camille—”
“Everything you have about my mother.”
Lucian looked at her for a long time.
Then nodded.
“Fine.”
“And I stay involved.”
“No.”
“You just ruined the progress.”
“This is dangerous.”
“So is ignorance.”
“I can protect you.”
Camille stood.
“That sentence is exactly why you’re my real student.”
Lucian frowned.
“You think protection means control.”
“Sometimes it does.”
“No. Sometimes it means trusting the other person enough to let them decide what risks belong to them.”
Lucian was silent.
Matteo stared between them.
Finally Lucian said, “You are infuriating.”
“Yet educational.”
That almost made him smile.
The rest of the afternoon changed everything.
The etiquette lesson was forgotten.
Instead, Lucian spread old documents across the dining table.
Foundation records.
Safe-house addresses.
Donation lists.
Names of board members.
Camille recognized none of them.
Until she reached one sheet.
A donor roster.
Her mother’s handwriting ran down the margin.
Beside one name was a red line.
VINCENT CARLUCCI.
Camille pointed.
“Who is he?”
Lucian’s expression hardened.
Matteo went pale.
“Our uncle.”
“Your mother’s brother?”
“Our father’s.”
“Still alive?”
“Yes.”
Camille looked at the note beside his name.
M.B. DOESN’T TRUST HIM.
Marianne Brooks.
Her mother had written it.
Lucian read over her shoulder.
Matteo pushed away from the table.
“This is impossible.”
“What?”
“Uncle Vince funded the foundation after Mom died.”
Lucian stared at the page.
“He donated publicly.”
Matteo shook his head.
“He gave millions.”
Camille looked at both brothers.
“Maybe that wasn’t generosity.”
Lucian’s eyes met hers.
“You think he was buying access.”
“To names. Records. Survivors.”
Lucian stood.
His phone rang.
He answered.
“Yes.”
Silence.
His face changed.
“When?”
Another silence.
“Keep him there.”
Lucian ended the call.
Matteo stood.
“What happened?”
Lucian looked toward Camille.
“Someone broke into the old Belladonna Foundation office.”
Camille’s pulse quickened.
“Did they take anything?”
“No.”
“Then why break in?”
Lucian picked up his coat.
“They left something.”
Camille followed him.
“What?”
Lucian hesitated.
“A chair.”
Matteo frowned.
“A chair?”
Lucian looked at Camille.
“There was a woman tied to it.”
Camille stopped.
“Who?”
Lucian opened the front door.
The guard outside stepped aside.
May you like
Lucian’s voice dropped.
“She says her name is Marianne Brooks.”
