Chapter 3 - The Man Inside the Walls
Vincent pushed Emma and Sofia behind him.
Marco took position near the bedroom door.
The footsteps continued.
One stair.
Then another.
Emma could feel Sofia trembling.
She signed against the child’s back.
I’m here.
Sofia nodded.
The footsteps stopped outside.
Vincent raised his weapon.
The door moved.
Marco grabbed the handle.
Then Teresa’s voice came from the hall.
“Vincent?”
Everyone exhaled.
Vincent lowered the gun.
“Teresa.”
She appeared holding a laundry basket.
Then saw their faces.
“What happened?”
Vincent showed her the photograph.
Teresa sat down hard on the edge of the bed.
“Oh, dear God.”
“Who came upstairs tonight?”
“No one except me.”
“Think.”
“I am thinking.”
Sofia watched their mouths.
Emma interpreted.
Vincent noticed.
Again, that look appeared.
Gratitude mixed with pain.
There was something deeply lonely about a father who loved his daughter but could not always reach her quickly enough.
Emma understood that ache.
Her own father had refused to learn ASL when Caleb was young.
“He can read lips,” he used to say.
Emma had hated him for it.
Years later, when their father finally began learning, Caleb had already stopped expecting it.
That memory had stayed with her.
Vincent at least tried.
Imperfectly.
Slowly.
But he tried.
Security locked the estate down.
Every employee was questioned.
No one admitted anything.
The camera failures had been triggered internally from the security system.
Marco reviewed access logs.
One name appeared repeatedly.
Dante Moretti.
Vincent’s cousin.
Emma noticed the silence when Marco said it.
“Who is Dante?”
Vincent looked at her.
“Family.”
“That answer keeps causing problems.”
Marco explained.
Dante was Vincent’s cousin and operations manager for several legitimate Moretti businesses.
He had keys.
Codes.
Schedules.
Trust.
Vincent refused to believe it.
“Dante changed Sofia’s diapers.”
Emma folded her arms.
“That doesn’t make him innocent.”
“You don’t know him.”
“No.”
She pointed toward Sofia.
“But I know someone photographed your daughter sleeping.”
Vincent’s jaw tightened.
He walked out.
Emma followed.
“Where are you going?”
“To find Dante.”
“At three in the morning?”
“Yes.”
“That seems healthy.”
He stopped.
“Emma.”
“What?”
“This is not a bakery argument.”
“No. It’s worse.”
His face hardened.
“You need to stay with Sofia.”
“Gladly.”
“Do not leave this house.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
He stared at her.
“If anything happens—”
“I scream?”
“You call Marco.”
“You just sent Marco with you.”
Vincent looked toward the hallway.
Then at one of the guards.
“Nico stays.”
Emma raised an eyebrow.
“Congratulations, Nico.”
Nico looked uncertain whether he was allowed to respond.
Vincent left.
For the next hour, Emma sat on Sofia’s bed.
The girl was wide awake.
Finally she signed:
Dad is angry.
“Yes.”
“He gets scary when he’s angry.”
Emma smiled faintly.
“He’s a little scary when he’s buying bread.”
Sofia giggled.
Then her expression changed.
“My mom was scared of him.”
Emma stopped.
She had never heard anyone mention Sofia’s mother.
“Where is she?”
Sofia looked toward the door.
Then signed:
Dead.
“I’m sorry.”
“She died when I was four.”
Emma waited.
Sofia continued.
“Dad says accident.”
A strange feeling moved through Emma.
“But?”
Sofia looked down.
“I remember yelling.”
“Who?”
“Mom.”
Emma’s pulse changed.
“What did she say?”
The little girl frowned, trying to remember.
Then signed:
Not him.
Emma stared.
“Not who?”
“I don’t know.”
Sofia touched her temple.
“Mom said, ‘Not Vincent.’”
Emma sat very still.
“Did you tell your dad?”
Sofia shook her head.
“Why not?”
“Everyone said I remembered wrong.”
Emma’s chest tightened.
Children were often ignored.
Deaf children even more.
People mistook communication barriers for confusion.
Emma knew better.
“Your memories matter.”
Sofia looked at her.
Then signed something that shattered Emma.
“No one said that before.”
Emma pulled her into a hug.
Across town, Vincent found Dante at a private club.
Dante Moretti was forty-one, handsome, polished, and furious at being dragged from a card game.
“You think I threatened Sofia?”
“I think your access code shut down my cameras.”
Dante laughed.
“Then someone stole my code.”
“Who?”
“How should I know?”
Vincent slammed the security printout onto the table.
Dante’s expression shifted.
For less than a second.
Vincent saw it.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You recognized something.”
“No.”
Vincent leaned closer.
“You were always a bad liar.”
Dante exhaled.
“That code format.”
“What about it?”
“It was used years ago.”
“For what?”
Dante looked away.
Vincent’s voice dropped.
“For what?”
“The old warehouse network.”
Vincent froze.
Those warehouses had belonged to his father.
Carlo Moretti.
A man who had been dead eight years.
“Who still has access?”
Dante swallowed.
“One person might.”
“Who?”
Dante did not answer.
Vincent grabbed his jacket.
“Who?”
“Your uncle.”
Vincent released him.
Salvatore Moretti.
His father’s younger brother.
The man who had disappeared after Sofia’s mother died.
Vincent returned home before dawn.
Emma was in the kitchen making grilled cheese.
He stopped in the doorway.
She looked at him.
“You own a bakery but your kitchen bread is terrible.”
“You’re cooking?”
“Sofia was hungry.”
“Where is she?”
“Drawing with Teresa.”
Vincent sat.
For the first time, Emma saw how exhausted he was.
Not dangerous.
Not powerful.
Just tired.
“What happened?”
He told her about Salvatore.
Emma listened.
Then she asked about Sofia’s mother.
Vincent’s face closed.
“Why?”
“Sofia mentioned her.”
His eyes snapped to hers.
“What did she say?”
Emma hesitated.
It was Sofia’s memory.
Not hers to weaponize.
“She remembers the night her mother died.”
Vincent stood.
“What?”
“She remembers yelling.”
His face changed.
“What words?”
Emma remained silent.
“Emma.”
“Ask your daughter.”
“She was four.”
“She still deserves to tell you herself.”
Vincent stared at her.
No one probably told him no.
Emma seemed to do it hourly.
Finally, he nodded.
They found Sofia in the sunroom.
She had drawn three people.
A tall man.
A woman.
A little girl.
Then another man standing far away.
Vincent crouched.
His hands moved carefully.
“Can I ask you about Mom?”
Sofia stopped drawing.
Emma stayed beside her.
The girl nodded.
“Do you remember the night she died?”
Sofia looked at Emma first.
Emma signed:
Tell him what you remember.
Sofia’s hands began to shake.
“Mom was crying.”
Vincent’s face tightened.
“She said something?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
Sofia swallowed.
Then signed:
“Not Vincent.”
Vincent’s hands dropped.
Emma watched the blood drain from his face.
“What else?”
“Someone answered.”
Vincent leaned forward.
“Who?”
“I couldn’t see.”
“What did they say?”
Sofia stared at the paper.
Then wrote with a marker.
A single sentence.
HE’LL THINK IT WAS HIS FAULT.
Vincent stood so suddenly the chair fell backward.
Emma stared at him.
“You thought her death was your fault?”
He walked away.
“Vincent.”
He stopped at the doorway.
For several seconds, he said nothing.
Then:
“She died in a car explosion meant for me.”
Emma understood.
He had carried that guilt for years.
But Sofia remembered something else.
Someone had wanted him to believe the attack targeted him.
Which meant Sofia’s mother might have been the real target.
Marco entered.
“Boss.”
Vincent turned.
“We found Salvatore.”
“Where?”
“Not far.”
“How close?”
Marco hesitated.
“Across the river.”
Vincent’s expression hardened.
“Address?”
Marco handed him a paper.
Emma looked over Vincent’s shoulder.
The address was familiar.
Painfully familiar.
She grabbed the paper.
“No.”
Vincent frowned.
“What?”
Emma read it again.
“That building.”
“What about it?”
“My brother lived there.”
Vincent stared.
“Caleb?”
Emma nodded slowly.
“He died six years ago.”
Marco looked between them.
“How?”
“Car accident.”
Silence.
Emma felt cold.
Vincent asked, “What was his last name?”
“Brooks.”
Marco went still.
Vincent noticed.
“What?”
Marco pulled out his phone.
Typed.
Then turned the screen.
An old security file appeared.
CALEB BROOKS.
Below the name were three photographs.
One showed Emma’s younger brother leaving the same building.
Another showed him meeting a woman.
Vincent took the phone.
His entire body froze.
Emma looked at the screen.
The woman standing beside Caleb was beautiful.
Dark-haired.
Elegant.
And unmistakably the woman from the framed photographs in Vincent’s house.
Sofia’s mother.
Emma whispered, “Why was my brother meeting your wife?”
Vincent did not answer.
Marco scrolled.
There was one final photograph.
Caleb handing her a sealed envelope.
The timestamp was four days before her death.
A knock came from the front door.
Nico appeared.
“Boss. Someone left this outside.”
He held a small package.
Emma’s name was written across it.
She opened it.
Inside was Caleb’s old silver bracelet.
She had buried him wearing it.
Underneath lay a folded note.
Emma recognized the handwriting immediately.
Her brother’s.
She unfolded it.
May you like
Only one sentence had been written.
EMMA, IF YOU EVER MEET SOFIA MORETTI, RUN.
