Chapter 1 - The Question That Silenced the Room
My date lifted his wineglass when Ethan Moretti appeared beside our booth and whispered, “Are you on a date?”
Ethan placed a black leather key case beside my plate.
One corner had been cut away, revealing three stamped letters beneath the lining: E.M.R.
That was when I realized Ethan had not come to the restaurant because he was jealous.
At least, not only because he was jealous.
For three full seconds, nobody moved.
My dinner companion, Daniel Reeves, still held his glass halfway between the table and his mouth. The candle between us trembled in its glass holder as someone passed behind him, but Daniel didn’t seem to notice.
Neither did I.
I was staring at Ethan Moretti.
Six months of working for him had taught me that Ethan did not lose control in public.
He could dismiss a senior executive with the same expression he used to order coffee. He could watch two men scream at each other across a conference table and simply wait until silence embarrassed them into stopping. I had seen lawyers twice his age stumble over their own sentences when Ethan tilted his head.
But now his jaw was tight.
His dark eyes were fixed on me.
And he had asked a question that was none of his business.
“Ethan,” I said quietly. “What are you doing here?”
His gaze flicked toward Daniel.
Only once.
It was enough.
Daniel slowly lowered his glass.
“You know this guy?” he asked.
I almost laughed.
Everybody in certain parts of New York knew Ethan Moretti.
Some people knew him as the owner of Moretti Holdings, a private investment company with interests in construction, restaurants, real estate, logistics, and half a dozen businesses nobody could quite explain.
Others knew something else.
They lowered their voices when they said his last name.
I had spent six months pretending I didn’t notice.
“He’s my employer,” I told Daniel.
Ethan’s expression hardened.
“That isn’t what I asked.”
I looked up at him.
“You walked into my dinner and demanded to know whether I’m on a date. You don’t get to act offended because I didn’t answer quickly enough.”
Across the restaurant, a waiter stopped beside the espresso machine.
At another table, an elderly man deliberately stared down at his plate while his wife watched us openly.
Daniel gave a nervous smile.
“Maybe I should give you two a minute.”
“No,” I said.
“Yes,” Ethan said at exactly the same time.
Daniel looked between us.
I felt heat climb my neck.
“Sit down,” I told him.
Ethan placed one hand on the back of the empty chair beside me.
It was not a threat.
It did not need to be.
“Claire.”
The way he said my name irritated me more than shouting would have.
Controlled.
Measured.
As though I were the unreasonable one.
“Why does it matter to you?” I asked.
Something changed in his face.
It disappeared so quickly that I almost missed it.
Not anger.
Fear.
Then it was gone.
“More than you understand.”
Daniel cleared his throat. “Okay. I definitely missed part of this story.”
“So did I,” I said.
Ethan looked toward the restaurant entrance.
Two men in dark suits stood there now.
I recognized one of them as Nico Bellini, Ethan’s security chief.
The other I had seen only once, outside Ethan’s private office after midnight.
Neither man looked at us.
They were watching the doors.
My irritation cooled.
“Ethan.”
He returned his attention to me.
“What happened?”
“Come with me.”
“No.”
“Claire.”
“No.” I lowered my voice. “You don’t get to interrupt my evening, act like some jealous boyfriend, surround a restaurant with security, and then tell me to follow you without explaining anything.”
His eyes sharpened at the word boyfriend.
Daniel noticed.
Unfortunately.
“Oh,” Daniel murmured.
I shot him a look.
“Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
Ethan pulled out the chair beside me and sat.
That frightened me more than anything.
Ethan Moretti did not negotiate when he believed time mattered.
Yet he sat down.
Daniel leaned back.
Ethan looked at him.
“Mr. Reeves.”
Daniel blinked. “You know my name?”
“I know where you work. I know you left your office on West Forty-Sixth at six twelve. I know you stopped at a pharmacy on Lexington before coming here.”
Daniel’s face lost color.
I stared at Ethan.
“What the hell?”
Ethan continued watching Daniel.
“And I know you received a phone call at seven forty-one from a number registered to a company that does not exist.”
Daniel set his hands flat on the table.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You do.”
“I met Claire through a friend.”
“No,” Ethan said. “You didn’t.”
The restaurant suddenly felt colder.
I turned toward Daniel.
He would not look at me.
“Daniel?”
He swallowed.
“I can explain.”
My stomach dropped.
Ethan’s gaze moved to me.
“This is why I came.”
I looked at the black leather case beside my plate.
“What is that?”
“Something that was taken from my office three years ago.”
I reached toward it.
Ethan caught my wrist.
Not hard.
Just fast.
“Don’t open it here.”
I stared down at his hand.
He released me immediately.
Daniel stood.
“I should go.”
Nico was already walking toward us.
Daniel froze.
Ethan remained seated.
“No,” he said. “You should answer one question.”
Daniel’s breathing changed.
“What question?”
“Who told you to bring her here tonight?”
My heart slammed once against my ribs.
Daniel looked at me.
That was the worst part.
He looked sorry.
Not confused.
Not offended.
Sorry.
“I didn’t know what they wanted,” he said.
I stood so fast my knee struck the table.
Wine jumped from Daniel’s glass.
“You knew?”
“Claire—”
“You knew something?”
“They said you worked for Moretti. They offered me money to invite you out.”
My mouth went dry.
“How much?”
Daniel hesitated.
“That’s your concern?” Ethan asked.
I ignored him.
“How much, Daniel?”
“Five thousand.”
I stared.
Five thousand dollars.
For dinner with me.
The humiliation arrived before the fear.
Every smile Daniel had given me.
Every question.
Every compliment.
Bought.
“You can leave,” I said.
Ethan looked at Nico.
Nico stepped aside.
Daniel didn’t move.
“I really am sorry.”
“Go.”
He left.
Nobody stopped him.
I watched until the restaurant door closed.
Then I turned on Ethan.
“You knew before tonight?”
“No.”
“How long?”
“Forty-three minutes.”
“And instead of telling me, you walked over here and asked if I was on a date?”
His face tightened.
“That was not the first thing I intended to say.”
“But it was the first thing you said.”
“Yes.”
For some reason, that answer hit differently.
I hated that a part of me noticed.
I hated even more that another part understood.
During six months as executive communications director for Moretti Holdings, I had learned how Ethan watched me when he thought I was busy. How meetings occasionally lasted ten minutes longer after everyone else left. How his voice changed when he asked whether I had eaten.
Neither of us had acknowledged it.
Until tonight.
I pushed the thought away.
“Who paid Daniel?”
“We don’t know yet.”
“And the key case?”
Ethan glanced toward it.
“Nico found it inside Daniel’s coat pocket when Daniel arrived.”
I stared at him.
“You searched him?”
“Nico bumped into him.”
“That is somehow worse.”
“He removed one item.”
“That is called stealing.”
“Technically.”
Despite everything, I almost smiled.
Ethan did not.
“Claire, listen to me.”
The weight in his voice erased the moment.
“This case belonged to my father.”
I sat again.
I knew almost nothing about Ethan’s father except that Enzo Moretti had died three years earlier.
Heart attack, officially.
Violence, according to whispered rumors.
“What do the letters mean?”
“Ethan Moretti Registry.”
“Registry of what?”
He looked at me for a long moment.
“I don’t know.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“I’ve spent three years trying to find out.”
The candle flickered between us.
“Why would somebody put it in Daniel’s pocket?”
“To get it close to you.”
My pulse quickened.
“Why?”
“That is the question.”
Nico approached.
“Boss.”
He leaned down and whispered something.
Ethan’s face became absolutely still.
“What?” I asked.
Neither man answered.
I stood.
“I’m done being treated like furniture. What happened?”
Nico looked at Ethan.
Ethan nodded.
“The number that called Reeves,” Nico said, “was routed through six servers.”
“So?”
“The final origin was one of our own buildings.”
I frowned.
“Which building?”
Nico looked at me.
“Your office.”
Silence.
My mind jumped immediately to the twenty-third floor of Moretti Tower.
My desk.
My computer.
The locked file room.
My assistant.
Employees I saw every day.
“That’s impossible.”
“No,” Ethan said. “It’s inconvenient.”
I looked at the leather case.
“Open it.”
“Not here.”
“Then where?”
“My house.”
I laughed once.
“No.”
“Claire.”
“I am not going to your house because a stranger paid my fake date and slipped a mysterious object into his pocket.”
“Then choose somewhere else.”
I thought.
“My apartment.”
Ethan’s eyes narrowed.
“No.”
“Why?”
Nico answered.
“Because somebody entered it at 6:04 this evening.”
Every trace of anger left me.
“What?”
“We received the security alert twenty minutes ago,” Ethan said.
“How do you receive alerts from my apartment?”
He hesitated.
Wrong move.
I stared at him.
“Ethan.”
“When you began handling confidential material, we added passive monitoring.”
“You had my apartment monitored?”
“Exterior access only.”
“You are unbelievable.”
“You can be furious tomorrow.”
“I’m furious now.”
“Good. Stay furious. It keeps you alert.”
I grabbed my purse.
“Where are we going?”
“My house.”
“I still hate that answer.”
“I know.”
We walked toward the front.
As we passed the bar, Nico’s phone vibrated.
He stopped.
Ethan noticed.
“What?”
Nico read the message.
His expression changed.
I had never seen that happen.
“What is it?” I asked.
Nico turned the screen toward Ethan.
Ethan read.
Then he looked at me.
Not like an employer.
Not like a jealous man.
Like someone seeing a ghost.
I reached for the phone.
On the screen was a photograph taken inside my apartment less than an hour earlier.
My bedroom.
My dresser.
My childhood photograph of my mother and me.
Someone had placed the black leather key case directly beneath it.
But the case beside my plate was still in Ethan’s hand.
There were two of them.
Under the photograph, a message had been written in black ink.
BRING CLAIRE TO MIDNIGHT.
May you like
And beneath it was one final line.
ASK HER WHO HER FATHER REALLY WAS.
