Chapter 2 - The Locked Drawer
Dante took the stairs two at a time.
Naomi followed.
Behind them, Marco barked orders into a radio while the remaining staff stayed in the foyer with Isabella.
The second floor corridor stretched ahead beneath dim wall sconces.
At the far end stood Isabella’s bedroom suite.
The door was closed.
Dante reached it first.
He tried the handle.
Locked.
“Mother never locks this door,” he said.
Naomi’s breathing came fast.
“She does when she sleeps.”
“Not from the outside.”
He stepped back.
One of his men came up behind them.
“Move.”
A shoulder hit the door.
Once.
Twice.
On the third impact, the frame cracked.
The door flew inward.
The room appeared empty.
Bed made.
Curtains closed.
Reading lamp burning.
Nothing moved.
Dante entered slowly.
Naomi stayed near him.
“Who slammed the door?”
No answer.
Dante looked toward the bathroom.
Open.
Empty.
Closet.
Empty.
Then Naomi saw movement near the balcony curtain.
“Dante.”
He turned.
A figure slipped through the balcony door.
Dante ran.
By the time he reached the balcony, a man in dark clothing was climbing down a maintenance ladder toward the garden.
“Marco!”
The grounds erupted below.
Men shouted.
Naomi approached the balcony carefully.
Dante stood at the railing, watching the intruder disappear among hedges.
His expression showed no panic.
Only calculation.
“He knew where the ladder was.”
Naomi understood.
“Someone who knows the house.”
“Yes.”
Dante closed the balcony door.
“Show me the key.”
Naomi handed it over.
Small.
Old-fashioned.
A number—17—was engraved into the brass.
Dante frowned.
“I’ve seen this.”
“Where?”
He went to Isabella’s writing desk.
The antique walnut piece had dozens of compartments.
He opened the center drawer.
Stationery.
Pens.
A rosary.
Nothing else.
Then he crouched.
Naomi saw a tiny keyhole beneath the desktop.
Dante inserted the key.
Click.
A hidden compartment slid open.
Inside lay a black leather notebook.
A flash drive.
And a sealed envelope.
Dante’s name was written across it.
His hand stopped.
Naomi stepped back.
“That’s private.”
He looked at her.
“My mother put the key in your pocket.”
Naomi swallowed.
“So?”
“So she expected you to be here.”
Dante opened the envelope.
The letter inside consisted of only a few shaky lines.
Dante,
If I lose my voice before I can tell you everything, trust Naomi.
Not Vanessa.
Not Mercer.
The foundation accounts are false.
Look at September 14.
Your father was right.
Dante read it twice.
Naomi watched the color leave his face.
“Who is Mercer?” she asked.
“Dr. Alan Mercer. Mother’s neurologist.”
“The man Vanessa mentioned.”
“Yes.”
“What foundation?”
Dante sat down slowly.
“The Isabella Moretti Foundation. My mother started it twenty-three years ago.”
“What does it do?”
“Clinics. Scholarships. Housing for women leaving abusive homes.”
Naomi looked toward the doorway.
“And Vanessa manages it?”
“For the last year.”
There it was.
A possible reason.
Not jealousy.
Not household politics.
Money.
Dante picked up the flash drive.
“The office.”
His mother had a computer in the adjoining study.
Naomi followed him.
Dante inserted the drive.
Password protected.
He tried Isabella’s birthday.
Rejected.
His own birthday.
Rejected.
The foundation’s founding date.
Rejected.
Naomi noticed a photograph beside the monitor.
Young Dante.
Maybe twelve.
Standing beside Isabella at a piano.
His father behind them.
On the back of the frame, someone had written:
Three notes. One promise.
“Try music,” Naomi said.
Dante looked at her.
“What?”
“Your mother communicates through music when she can’t find words.”
He stared at the keyboard.
“Three notes.”
Naomi thought about what Isabella had played downstairs.
E.
G.
A.
She typed EGA.
Rejected.
Then Dante’s expression changed.
“My father.”
He typed ENZO.
Accepted.
Folders appeared.
Hundreds of them.
Bank records.
Foundation transfers.
Property documents.
Audio files.
Dante clicked the folder dated September 14.
A scanned transfer appeared.
Two million dollars moved from the foundation into a consulting company Naomi had never heard of.
Dante leaned forward.
“That signature is fake.”
“Your mother’s?”
“Yes.”
Another transfer.
Three million.
Another.
Eight hundred thousand.
Another.
One point four.
Naomi whispered, “How much?”
“I don’t know.”
Dante scrolled.
Then stopped.
One name appeared repeatedly.
V. Holdings.
Vanessa.
Dante sat back.
Naomi watched the shock pass through him.
“She was stealing.”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“Nothing is simple where money at this level is concerned.”
A sound came from the hallway.
Dante immediately closed the laptop.
Marco entered.
“We lost him.”
Dante’s eyes turned cold.
“How?”
“He had a vehicle waiting beyond the east wall.”
“License plate?”
“Covered.”
“Inside help?”
“Almost certainly.”
Dante glanced at Naomi.
Marco followed his gaze.
“What did you find?”
Dante showed him the letter.
Marco read it.
His expression darkened.
“Mercer?”
“Yes.”
Naomi thought of Isabella downstairs.
“She needs a doctor.”
Dante’s face tightened.
“Not Mercer.”
“I know.”
He stood.
“I’ll bring someone from St. Vincent’s.”
They returned downstairs.
Isabella was resting on a sofa now, blankets around her shoulders.
Vanessa remained under watch near the staircase.
She looked bored.
Too bored.
When Dante approached, she gave him a sad smile.
“Did you find whatever fantasy Naomi planted upstairs?”
Dante did not react.
“Dr. Mercer is no longer treating my mother.”
Vanessa’s face froze.
“That is medically irresponsible.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
“Interesting.”
“Why?”
“Because my mother wrote his name beside yours.”
Vanessa’s eyes shifted.
Barely.
But enough.
“Your mother is confused.”
“She seems remarkably consistent.”
Vanessa exhaled.
“You are allowing a servant to manipulate you.”
Dante moved closer.
Naomi instinctively tensed.
His voice stayed level.
“Use that word about her again.”
Vanessa stared.
“What word?”
“You know exactly which one.”
Naomi looked at him.
He did not look back.
Isabella stirred.
Naomi went to her.
“Mrs. Moretti?”
Isabella’s hand emerged from beneath the blanket.
She motioned Naomi closer.
Naomi leaned down.
“Mercer,” Isabella whispered.
“I know.”
Isabella shook her head.
“No.”
She struggled.
“Not… money.”
Dante crouched beside them.
“What?”
Isabella’s eyes widened.
“Medicine.”
Naomi felt cold.
“What medicine?”
Isabella tried to speak.
No sound.
Then her body jerked.
Her hand tightened around Naomi’s wrist.
Her breathing changed.
“Mrs. Moretti?”
Dante stood.
“Call the doctor.”
Naomi lowered Isabella onto the cushions.
“Isabella, look at me.”
Her eyes fluttered.
Naomi had been trained in basic stroke aftercare.
She checked her breathing.
Pulse fast.
Skin clammy.
“Has she eaten?”
One of the maids answered.
“Soup. Tea.”
“Who gave her the tea?”
No one spoke.
Naomi looked around.
“Who gave her the tea?”
A young housemaid lifted a shaking hand.
“I carried it in.”
“Who made it?”
The girl looked toward Vanessa.
Vanessa’s composure finally cracked.
“Oh, for God’s sake.”
Dante turned.
“Answer.”
Vanessa’s voice became sharp.
“I asked the kitchen to make chamomile.”
Naomi saw the cup still sitting near the piano.
She grabbed it.
“Don’t touch that,” Dante said.
Naomi stopped.
He called Marco.
“Bag it.”
Vanessa laughed.
“You’ve lost your mind.”
Dante ignored her.
The private physician arrived fifteen minutes later.
Dr. Evelyn Shaw was a compact woman in her fifties with no patience for drama.
She examined Isabella.
Blood pressure.
Pupils.
Heart rate.
Medication list.
Then she asked Naomi to describe the day.
Naomi did.
Dr. Shaw’s expression became increasingly serious.
“What has she been taking?”
Naomi brought the medication organizer.
Shaw opened it.
She picked up one tablet.
Then another.
“This isn’t right.”
Dante stepped closer.
“What?”
“Your mother is prescribed five milligrams.”
“Of what?”
“Clonazepam, temporary use for post-stroke anxiety. This tablet appears to be two milligrams by itself, and according to the organizer she’s receiving several.”
Naomi looked at Vanessa.
Vanessa’s face was blank.
Dr. Shaw continued.
“That amount could leave someone sedated, confused, unstable. Especially at her age.”
Dante’s eyes darkened.
“Could it make her appear mentally impaired?”
“Yes.”
The room fell silent.
Vanessa stepped forward.
“Mercer prescribed everything.”
Dante looked at her.
“Then he can explain it.”
Dr. Shaw arranged transport for Isabella to a private hospital.
Naomi rode beside her.
Dante followed in another car.
At the hospital, blood was drawn.
Tests began.
Hours passed.
Near three in the morning, Isabella finally slept.
Naomi sat outside the room.
Dante stood by the window.
“You should go home,” he said.
Naomi almost laughed.
“You think I can sleep?”
“No.”
“Then why say it?”
“Because you’ve done enough.”
Naomi looked at him.
“Your mother doesn’t need people deciding when they’ve done enough for her.”
That surprised him.
She expected anger.
Instead, one corner of his mouth almost moved.
“You talk to me differently than everyone else.”
“You sign my paycheck indirectly.”
“That usually makes people more careful.”
“My patience ended around the time I found your mother tied to a chair.”
Fair.
He looked through the glass.
“When she had the stroke, I told myself the best doctors were enough.”
Naomi said nothing.
“I should have been there.”
“She never said that.”
“She didn’t need to.”
Naomi looked at him.
“She did wait for you.”
His face tightened.
“But she was proud of you.”
“How do you know?”
“Because every time your name came on television, she made me turn the volume up.”
He looked down.
Then Naomi added, “Even when it was boring.”
He almost smiled.
Almost.
A nurse approached.
“Mr. Moretti?”
“Yes.”
“We received preliminary toxicology.”
Dante stood.
Naomi rose too.
The nurse handed him a folder.
“There are elevated levels of several sedatives.”
“How long?”
“We can’t determine exactly. But this doesn’t look like a single accidental dose.”
Dante’s expression went blank.
Naomi knew that look now.
It was the expression he wore when rage became too large to display.
His phone buzzed.
One message.
Unknown number.
Dante opened it.
A photograph appeared.
Naomi leaned closer.
It showed Isabella’s bedroom.
Taken less than an hour ago.
Someone had returned to the mansion.
Beneath the photograph was one sentence.
YOU FOUND THE WRONG FILE.
Then another message arrived.
May you like
This one contained a photograph of Naomi leaving the hospital.
Taken seconds earlier.
