Chapter 5 - The Family That Watched
Sofia Moretti arrived at the hotel the following morning wearing cream trousers, oversized sunglasses, and the expression of a woman who had already decided everyone else was being unreasonable.
She was thirty-seven.
Beautiful.
Elegant.
And one of the few people in Chicago who had never been intimidated by her brother.
She removed her sunglasses when she entered my office.
“Bella.”
“Sofia.”
Dante sat in the chair beside the window.
Bianca was gone.
She had left after giving us the photographs.
She had also left Dante's belongings in boxes with the concierge.
An ending, apparently.
At least one woman had managed it.
Sofia looked at her brother.
“You look terrible.”
“Sit down.”
“Good morning to you too.”
“Sofia.”
Something in his voice made her stop smiling.
She sat.
I placed the photographs on the desk.
Her face changed.
Barely.
But enough.
Dante noticed too.
“You recognize them.”
Sofia looked at me.
“Bella, I can explain.”
“I'm developing an allergy to that sentence.”
She sighed.
“Yes. I hired VMC.”
Dante stood.
I held up one hand.
“Sit.”
Both Morettis looked at me.
Dante slowly sat.
Interesting.
“Why?” I asked.
Sofia removed her gloves.
“I thought you were having an affair.”
For one second, I honestly believed I had misheard her.
“You had me followed because you thought I was cheating on Dante?”
“Yes.”
“Based on what?”
“You were distant.”
I laughed.
“My husband was cheating on me.”
“I didn't know that.”
“But distance automatically made me suspicious?”
“No. There was more.”
“What?”
Sofia hesitated.
“You were meeting a man.”
Dante looked at me.
I stared back.
“Don't you dare.”
“I didn't say anything.”
“You thought something.”
“I am currently trying not to.”
“Improve faster.”
Sofia interrupted.
“His name was Julian Hart.”
Recognition came slowly.
“Julian?”
Dante frowned.
“Who is Julian?”
“Our fertility counselor.”
Silence.
Sofia's face went pale.
I nearly laughed from disbelief.
“Not a romantic affair, Sofia.”
“I know that now.”
“When did you figure it out?”
“Two days after I hired them.”
“Then why are there photographs for an entire year?”
Her gaze lowered.
“I changed the assignment.”
Dante's patience snapped.
“To what?”
“To make sure Bella was safe.”
“From whom?”
Sofia looked at him.
“You.”
The room went silent.
Dante stared at his sister.
“What did you think I was going to do?”
“I didn't know.”
His face hardened.
“You thought I would hurt my wife?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
Sofia looked at me.
“I thought your marriage was collapsing.”
That much was accurate.
“And?”
“Dante becomes impossible when he thinks he's losing something.”
I turned toward him.
His expression had closed completely.
Sofia continued.
“I've watched him control everything his entire life. Business. Family. Schedules. Problems.”
“Sofia.”
“No.”
She looked at her brother.
“You don't get to frighten everyone into silence and then act offended when someone plans around it.”
Dante's eyes flashed.
I intervened.
“You believed he might prevent me from leaving.”
Sofia nodded.
“Not physically.”
“Then how?”
“Money. Family pressure. Guilt. Convenience.”
Dante looked genuinely shaken.
“I would never—”
“Wouldn't you?”
His sister's question landed harder than accusation.
“You manage Bella's investments. Your attorneys handle the house. Most of your social circle belongs to the family. Half the charities she works with have Moretti donors.”
Dante said nothing.
Sofia looked at me.
“I wanted to know whether you were preparing to leave so I could help you quietly if you needed it.”
My anger complicated itself.
“You could have asked me.”
“I know.”
“You violated my privacy.”
“I know.”
“For a year.”
“Yes.”
“And those photographs ended up at Bianca's apartment.”
That stopped her.
“What?”
Dante slid the envelope across.
Sofia examined it.
“I never received physical copies.”
“Who did?”
“The investigator emailed reports.”
“To what account?”
“My private address.”
“Anyone else have access?”
She hesitated.
“My assistant.”
Dante's expression sharpened.
“Name.”
“Gabriel Sloan.”
I knew Gabriel.
Quiet.
Precise.
Had worked for Sofia nearly six years.
“Why would your assistant send photographs of me to Bianca?” I asked.
Sofia looked genuinely confused.
“I don't know.”
Dante's phone buzzed.
He ignored it.
Mine buzzed a moment later.
Then Sofia's.
All three of us looked down.
An email.
Same sender.
No recognizable address.
Subject:
ASK DANTE WHAT HE BOUGHT SIX MONTHS AGO.
Attached was one document.
A property deed.
Dante went still before I even opened it.
I looked at him.
“What?”
He rubbed a hand across his jaw.
“Bella.”
“What did you buy?”
Silence.
I opened the attachment.
A condominium.
Lake Shore Drive.
Three bedrooms.
Floor-to-ceiling windows.
Purchased through a holding company owned solely by Dante.
My chest tightened.
“Was this for Bianca?”
“No.”
“Don't lie.”
“It wasn't.”
“Then who?”
Dante looked at me.
“You.”
I stared.
“What?”
“I bought it for you.”
“Why?”
He looked toward Sofia, then back at me.
“Because six months ago I realized you had nowhere that was completely yours.”
My anger faltered.
Dante continued.
“You hated the house.”
“I never said that.”
“You did.”
“When?”
“Three years ago.”
Of course.
The staff apartment.
The conversation he'd forgotten yesterday.
Apparently he'd remembered other things.
“You said the house never felt like yours because my family owned it before we married.”
I remembered.
A late argument.
Me saying every room contained someone else's history.
Dante had dismissed it.
Or I thought he had.
“So you bought me an apartment?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn't you give it to me?”
His expression became complicated.
“Because the week I planned to show you, you told me you never wanted another Moretti gift.”
I remembered that too.
After our final fertility treatment, Dante had tried to comfort me with jewelry.
I had cried.
Then accused him of purchasing solutions to feelings.
“So you kept it.”
“Yes.”
“For six months?”
“Yes.”
“Empty?”
He looked away.
“No.”
My body tensed again.
“Who lives there?”
“No one.”
“You just said—”
“I furnished it.”
Something about his tone made me pause.
“For me?”
“Yes.”
Every room?
“Everything.”
“What did you put there?”
Dante's voice softened.
“A desk by the window.”
My breath caught.
I had once told him I dreamed of writing there.
“A reading chair.”
Another forgotten conversation.
“A kitchen with the blue tile you liked in Florence.”
We had never been to Florence.
I had shown him a photograph years ago.
“How do you remember all that?”
The question escaped before I could stop it.
Dante looked at me.
“Because forgetting to ask about your day doesn't mean I forgot everything about you.”
The sentence hurt.
Because love had existed alongside neglect.
That was perhaps harder than believing he'd stopped caring entirely.
Sofia leaned back.
“So who sent the deed?”
None of us knew.
Then Dante's phone rang.
His executive assistant.
He answered.
“What?”
He listened.
His expression changed.
“When?”
Another pause.
“Don't touch anything.”
He hung up.
I stood.
“What happened?”
Dante looked at Sofia.
“Gabriel Sloan didn't come to work.”
Her face changed.
“Where is he?”
“Nobody knows.”
Then Dante looked at me.
“And someone broke into the Lake Shore apartment last night.”
My stomach tightened.
“Was anything taken?”
“No.”
“What did they do?”
He hesitated.
Then answered.
“They left a photograph on the bed.”
“Of what?”
Dante's eyes met mine.
“Our wedding.”
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Across the bottom, someone had written:
YOU BOTH MISSED WHAT WAS HAPPENING RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOU.
