Chapter 2 - THE MAN BEHIND THE MONSTER
I barely slept.
Rain whispered against our apartment windows until dawn.
The radiator clanked.
Somewhere upstairs, a baby cried.
I sat at our kitchen table with five hundred dollars spread before me and an old photograph of my parents lying beside it.
My mother was twenty-two in the picture.
Beautiful.
Laughing.
Her brown hair blowing across her face.
My father stood behind her with one arm around her waist.
He had the same crooked smile I saw in Noah.
I traced his face with one finger.
“Where did you go?”
I whispered.
“Who are you talking to?”
I looked up.
Noah stood in the doorway, leaning on his crutch.
His dark curls were flattened on one side from sleep.
“Nobody.”
He glanced at the photograph.
Then at the money.
“Did you rob a bank?”
I laughed weakly.
“Something almost as stupid.”
He lowered himself into a chair.
“Tell me.”
I hesitated.
Then told him about the dare.
The kiss.
The men.
The name.
When I finished, Noah stared at me.
“You kissed Adrian Moretti?”
“Please don’t say it like that.”
“The actual Adrian Moretti?”
“Apparently.”
Noah blinked.
Then burst out laughing.
I threw a dish towel at him.
“This isn’t funny.”
“It’s a little funny.”
“His people called me.”
The laughter stopped.
“Why?”
I looked down at the photograph.
“They asked about Dad.”
Noah went still.
For a long moment, neither of us spoke.
Then he asked, “Do you think Dad owes him money?”
“I don’t know.”
“Or maybe Dad worked for him.”
“I don’t know, Noah.”
He studied me.
“You’re going to meet him?”
“Yes.”
His jaw tightened.
“Mara—”
“I need answers.”
He looked toward the window.
Then back at me.
“Just promise you’ll come home.”
The words struck somewhere deep inside my chest.
Because he’d said almost the same thing the morning of his accident.
I reached across the table.
“I promise.”
At nine forty-five, a black sedan pulled up outside our building.
I had expected a threatening man in sunglasses.
Instead, a silver-haired driver stepped out holding an umbrella.
“Miss Bellamy?”
I nodded.
“I’m Thomas.
Mr.
Moretti sent me.”
He opened the rear door.
I climbed inside.
The leather smelled new.
The seats were warmer than my entire apartment.
As we drove downtown, I watched Chicago pass through rain-streaked windows.
Glass towers.
Wet sidewalks.
People rushing toward offices with coffee cups pressed against their coats.
A world continuing as normal while mine seemed to be coming apart.
The Moretti Foundation occupied a restored limestone building overlooking the river.
Inside, everything was polished marble, warm wood, and quiet efficiency.
A receptionist greeted me by name.
A security guard escorted me upstairs.
Nobody searched my bag.
Nobody threatened me.
Somehow, that made me more nervous.
Adrian stood beside a floor-to-ceiling window when I entered his office.
He wore charcoal trousers and a black shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms.
Without the suit jacket, he looked younger.
More tired.
A thin scar crossed his right wrist.
He turned.
“Mara.”
Hearing my name in his voice made my stomach flutter.
I hated that.
“Mr.
Moretti.”
“Adrian.”
“I think I’ll stick with Mr.
Moretti.”
A faint smile appeared.
“Fair enough.”
He gestured toward a chair.
“Coffee?”
“No.”
“Tea?”
“No.”
“Water?”
“Answers.”
His smile disappeared.
He nodded.
“That’s reasonable.”
I sat opposite him.
He remained standing for a moment, looking at me with an expression I couldn’t interpret.
Then he opened a drawer.
And placed an old photograph on the desk.
Three men stood beside a blue delivery truck.
One was my father.
I recognized him immediately.
He looked younger than in our family photograph.
Beside him stood a tall man with dark hair and a crooked nose.
And between them was a teenage boy.
Maybe sixteen.
Thin.
Serious.
With dark gray eyes.
I looked up.
“That’s you.”
Adrian nodded.
“Your father worked for my family.”
My mouth went dry.
“Doing what?”
“Driving shipments.
Maintaining vehicles.
Whatever needed doing.”
“Illegal shipments?”
“Sometimes.”
I stared at the photograph.
“My mother said he was a mechanic.”
“He was.”
“She never mentioned you.”
“She had reasons.”
I looked at him sharply.
“What reasons?”
Adrian folded his hands.
“Your father saved my life.”
The words hung between us.
I frowned.
“What?”
“Nineteen years ago, my father was involved in a dispute with another organization.
Someone planted explosives beneath a vehicle I was supposed to ride in.”
A chill moved through me.
“Daniel discovered them.”
“He warned me before I got inside.”
“What happened to him?”
Adrian’s expression changed.
Something hard and painful settled behind his eyes.
“He disappeared three days later.”
I gripped the edge of my chair.
“Disappeared?”
“Yes.”
“Was he killed?”
“I don’t know.”
I stared at him.
“You don’t know?”
“No.”
“You’re Adrian Moretti.
You have people everywhere.
You know things nobody else knows.”
His jaw tightened.
“Not everything.”
“Then why am I here?”
He opened another drawer.
And placed a sealed envelope before me.
My name was written across it.
Not typed.
Written.
In handwriting I recognized from birthday cards and grocery lists.
My father’s handwriting.
MARA.
My fingers went numb.
“Where did you get this?”
“Your father gave it to my father before he vanished.”
I stared at Adrian.
“And you’ve had it all these years?”
“I found it recently.”
“Where?”
“In a locked archive after my father’s death.”
I looked at the envelope.
It had yellowed around the edges.
A faint coffee stain marked one corner.
I couldn’t bring myself to touch it.
“What does it say?”
“I haven’t opened it.”
“Why?”
“Because it belongs to you.”
My eyes filled.
For nineteen years, I’d imagined my father walking away without looking back.
Now his handwriting sat inches from my hands.
I picked up the envelope.
The paper trembled.
Inside was a single folded letter.
My beautiful Mara,
If you’re reading this, something has gone terribly wrong.
I stopped.
Tears blurred the words.
Adrian said nothing.
I wiped my eyes and continued.
I need you to know that leaving you was never something I wanted.
Your mother knows more than she can safely tell you.
There are people who would hurt you if they knew what I found.
Be brave, little bird.
But don’t confuse bravery with having to face everything alone.
I love you more than every star you can count.
Dad.
I pressed the paper against my chest.
Little bird.
He used to call me that.
Before bedtime, he’d stand beside my window and ask how many stars I could see.
I’d always say a hundred.
He’d tell me he loved me one more than that.
I hadn’t remembered the words in years.
Now they broke me.
I bent forward.
And cried.
Not prettily.
Not quietly.
I cried with my face in my hands, my shoulders shaking, nineteen years of anger and loneliness collapsing into a single unbearable question.
“Why didn’t he come home?”
Adrian moved around the desk.
He crouched beside my chair.
But he didn’t touch me.
“I don’t know, Mara.”
I shook my head.
“He promised.”
My voice cracked.
“He promised he’d always come home.”
Adrian looked down.
When he spoke, his voice was rough.
“I know what it’s like to wait for someone who never returns.”
I looked at him.
For a moment, the feared mafia boss disappeared.
There was only a man kneeling beside a crying woman, looking as though he carried his own private graveyard.
Then I noticed something.
A small silver ring on a chain around his neck.
The ring was plain.
Worn.
Scratched.
My father had owned one just like it.
I reached toward it.
“Where did you get that?”
Adrian’s hand closed around the chain.
“My mother.”
Something in his answer felt incomplete.
But before I could ask another question, someone knocked.
Gabriel entered.
His expression was grim.
“Boss.
We have a problem.”
Adrian stood.
“What?”
Gabriel glanced at me.
Then back at Adrian.
“Someone accessed Miss Bellamy’s medical records last night.”
My heart stopped.
“What?”
Gabriel continued.
“And her brother’s.”
Adrian’s expression went frighteningly still.
“Who?”
“We’re tracing it.”
I stood abruptly.
“Noah.”
Adrian reached for his phone.
“Gabriel, send someone to her apartment.”
I backed away.
“No.
Don’t send strangers to my brother.”
Adrian looked at me.
“Then we’ll go ourselves.”
Twenty minutes later, we arrived at my building.
Noah was sitting on the couch, watching television.
He looked startled when Adrian Moretti walked through our door.
“You’re taller than I expected,” Noah said.
I nearly laughed from relief.
Adrian glanced at him.
“And you’re less frightened than I expected.”
Noah shrugged.
“I’ve had worse visitors.
Our landlord came yesterday.”
For the first time, Adrian laughed.
It was brief.
Unexpected.
And so genuinely warm that I almost didn’t recognize him.
But the laughter vanished when Noah mentioned something else.
“Oh, Mara.
A woman came by this morning.”
I turned.
“What woman?”
“Older.
Gray coat.
She asked whether you still had Mom’s jewelry box.”
The room went silent.
Adrian’s face changed.
“What did she look like?”
Noah frowned.
“Dark hair.
Maybe fifty.
Scar near her eyebrow.”
Gabriel swore under his breath.
I looked between them.
“Who is she?”
Adrian didn’t answer immediately.
Then he said, “Someone who used to work for my father.”
My stomach tightened.
“What does she want?”
Adrian looked toward our hallway.
“Possibly something Daniel left behind.”
I thought of the little wooden jewelry box in my bedroom.
My mother had kept it on her dresser until she died.
Afterward, I’d stored it beneath my bed.
Inside were cheap earrings, a broken watch, and a small brass key I’d never identified.
I hurried into the bedroom.
Pulled out the box.
And carried it back.
Adrian watched as I opened it.
The key lay beneath a faded blue ribbon.
He reached for it.
Then stopped.
“May I?”
I nodded.
He picked it up.
Turned it over.
And went pale.
“What?”
I whispered.
He looked at Gabriel.
“Get the archive case.”
Gabriel left immediately.
Adrian stared at the key.
Then at me.
“Mara, I think your father left you something that could destroy my family.”
For the first time, I understood that the danger wasn’t simply connected to my father’s disappearance.
It was connected to the man standing in my living room.
The man I’d kissed for five hundred dollars.
And whatever my father had hidden, Adrian Moretti was terrified of finding it.
Over the next three days, everything changed.
Adrian arranged private security for our building, but only after asking my permission.
He had someone review Noah’s rehabilitation options.
When I discovered he’d quietly paid the overdue therapy balance, I marched into his office furious.
“You can’t do that.”
He looked up from his desk.
“Do what?”
“Buy your way into my life.”
His expression tightened.
“That’s not what I’m doing.”
“Then what are you doing?”
He was silent.
I placed the receipt on his desk.
“I don’t need your pity.”
Adrian stood.
“Mara, your brother needs treatment.”
“And I’ve been finding ways to pay for it.”
“I know.”
The words came too quickly.
I narrowed my eyes.
“How?”
He looked away.
Something inside me hardened.
“How much do you know about us?”
He didn’t answer.
“Adrian.”
He exhaled.
“More than I should.”
I felt suddenly cold.
“Have you been watching me?”
“No.”
“Then how did you know about Noah?”
“Your father’s records included information about your family.
After the woman appeared at your apartment, I had Gabriel check whether anyone was targeting you.”
I stared at him.
“You should have asked.”
“You’re right.”
The admission surprised me.
He continued quietly.
“I’ve spent most of my life believing that if I could control enough things, nobody else would get hurt.”
He looked toward the window.
“That hasn’t worked particularly well.”
I wanted to remain angry.
Part of me did.
But there was something painfully honest about his exhaustion.
“You don’t get to decide what’s best for me,” I said.
He nodded.
“Understood.”
“And Noah’s treatment?”
“I’ll withdraw the payment if that’s what you want.
Or you can repay it on terms you choose.”
I studied him.
“You’re very bad at accepting that people might say no to you.”
“Historically, yes.”
Despite myself, I smiled.
He noticed.
And for one quiet moment, the room felt lighter.
That evening, he drove me home himself.
Chicago glowed beneath a cold autumn sky.
Traffic moved slowly along the river.
Inside the car, the silence felt strangely comfortable.
“Why were you at the Black Lantern?”
I asked.
He glanced at me.
“What?”
“The night we met.
Why were you sitting alone?”
His hands tightened slightly around the steering wheel.
“I was remembering someone.”
“Someone you lost?”
“Yes.”
I watched the city lights pass across his face.
“Your mother?”
He shook his head.
“A boy.”
I waited.
He continued.
“When I was sixteen, I had a younger brother.
Luca.”
My chest tightened.
“What happened?”
“He died in an accident.”
“I’m sorry.”
Adrian looked straight ahead.
“He was eleven.
He loved strawberry milkshakes and terrible magic tricks.
He thought every injured animal in Chicago belonged in our house.”
A faint smile crossed his face.
“He once brought home a pigeon with a broken wing and demanded that my father hire a veterinarian.”
I smiled sadly.
“He sounds wonderful.”
“He was.”
The smile disappeared.
“The night you kissed me was the anniversary of his death.”
I stared at him.
“I’m sorry.
I didn’t know.”
“Of course you didn’t.”
He pulled up outside my building.
For a moment, neither of us moved.
Then he turned toward me.
“You asked why I was sitting alone.”
I nodded.
“Because for nineteen years, I haven’t known what to do with that day.”
My throat tightened.
“And then some strange woman walked up and kissed you.”
His mouth curved.
“Yes.”
“That must have been terrible.”
“Actually,” he said softly, “it was the first time I’d smiled on that date in nineteen years.”
I looked at him.
The city hummed around us.
His gaze dropped briefly to my lips.
Then returned to my eyes.
“Mara.”
“Yes?”
“May I kiss you?”
My breath caught.
This time there was no money.
No audience.
No dare.
Just a man asking.
And a woman realizing she wanted to be wanted.
“Yes.”
He leaned closer.
Slowly.
Giving me every opportunity to change my mind.
When his lips touched mine, the kiss was gentle.
Unhurried.
Nothing like the frightened second we’d shared at the bar.
His hand rested lightly against my cheek.
And for the first time in years, I didn’t wonder whether my body was too much.
I didn’t worry about the curve of my stomach or the softness of my face.
I simply let myself be there.
When we separated, Adrian rested his forehead against mine.
“That one,” he whispered, “was worth considerably more than five hundred dollars.”
I laughed.
A real laugh.
And he smiled.
But happiness, I would learn, has a terrible way of arriving just before the truth.
The following afternoon, Gabriel called.
They had found the lock that matched my mother’s key.
A steel archive box.
Hidden in an abandoned Moretti warehouse.
Adrian wanted me present when they opened it.
I agreed.
May you like
Because somewhere inside that box might be the answer to why my father had vanished.
I didn’t know it would also reveal why Adrian Moretti had spent nineteen years searching for me.
