Chapter 3 - The Letter Beneath the FloorOlivia’s apartment looked as if a storm had passed through it.
Drawers hung open.
Cushions had been cut.
Books lay across the floor.
Her mother’s old cedar box had been smashed.
Olivia stood in the doorway, unable to move.
“I hate them.”
Dante was behind her.
“Do you know what they took?”
“I don’t even know what I owned anymore.”
Rocco and Samuel checked the rooms.
Dante had offered to call the police.
Olivia had surprised him by saying yes.
Two NYPD officers came first.
A detective followed.
Olivia answered questions while Dante waited outside the apartment so his presence would not dominate the interview.
The officers collected fingerprints, photographed the damage and gave Olivia a case number.
It felt insultingly ordinary.
After they left, she walked into her bedroom.
Her mattress had been cut open.
A framed photograph of her parents was broken.
She picked it up.
Daniel stood behind her mother, Claire, with his chin resting on her shoulder.
Olivia was twelve.
All three were laughing.
The photograph had been taken at Coney Island.
She remembered the day.
She did not remember her father as a thief.
Dante appeared in the doorway.
“I’m sorry.”
Olivia kept her back to him.
“Were you going to arrest him?”
“What?”
“Seven years ago.”
“Yes.”
“And then?”
“I wanted the money recovered.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
Dante remained silent.
Olivia turned.
“You’re supposed to be terrifying. Tell me the terrifying truth.”
His gray eyes held hers.
“If Daniel had betrayed my family, there would have been consequences.”
“You mean you would have killed him.”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s convenient.”
“It isn’t.”
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Orion padded into the room.
The dog sniffed beneath the dresser.
He pawed once at the floor.
Olivia frowned.
“What is it?”
Orion pawed again.
One floorboard shifted.
Dante noticed.
“So did whoever searched this place.”
Olivia knelt.
The board was old, but its edge had been cut differently from the others.
She found a screwdriver and worked it upward.
Beneath it lay a narrow metal box.
Her hands began to shake.
“I didn’t know this was here.”
Dante crouched across from her.
“Don’t open it if you don’t want me to see.”
She looked at him.
That small offer of privacy surprised her.
Olivia opened the box.
Inside were three things.
A brass safe-deposit key.
A folded document.
And an envelope with her name written across the front.
OLIVIA.
Her father’s handwriting.
She forgot Dante existed.
She opened it.
Liv,
If you are reading this, something went wrong.
I need you to remember that whatever people say about me, I did not steal from the Morettis.
I moved money because I was ordered to protect it.
There are people inside that family who will destroy anyone who threatens them.
If Dante Moretti comes looking for you someday, do not trust him simply because I once did.
But do not assume he is your enemy either.
He was lied to before.
He can be lied to again.
The key is for a box at Hudson National Bank.
Do not go alone.
And Liv—
I’m sorry I brought danger close to you.
You were the best thing I ever did.
Dad.
Olivia read the letter twice.
Then a third time.
When she finally looked up, Dante had gone pale.
“My father trusted you.”
Dante stared at the paper.
“Once.”
“You must have done something to deserve that.”
“I did.”
“And then?”
“I failed him.”
The admission was quiet.
Olivia folded the letter.
“What does ‘I moved money because I was ordered to protect it’ mean?”
“I don’t know.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“I expect you not to.”
She held up the key.
“Hudson National.”
Dante nodded.
“The bank has several private-vault branches.”
“My father said not to go alone.”
“Then you shouldn’t.”
Olivia laughed bitterly.
“And I’m supposed to choose you?”
“No.”
“Who else?”
“A lawyer. The police. Anyone you trust.”
“I don’t trust anyone who understands this.”
“That’s a different problem.”
Orion moved closer to Olivia.
She scratched his head.
Then she noticed something written on the back of the letter.
A line of numbers.
11-17-19-4.
She frowned.
Dante saw it.
“That isn’t a bank box number.”
“How do you know?”
“Hudson uses six digits.”
Olivia stared at the sequence.
November seventeenth.
Her birthday.
Nineteen.
Four.
Suddenly she remembered.
Her father loved simple codes.
When she was a child, he used dates as passwords.
“Apartment nineteen.”
Dante’s head lifted.
“What?”
“My father’s first apartment in Manhattan was number nineteen.”
“And four?”
Olivia looked at Orion.
The dog’s amber eyes watched her.
She remembered the photograph.
Daniel outside a brownstone.
A brass number beside the door.
Her breath caught.
“That picture.”
Dante understood immediately.
“The brownstone.”
“Where was it?”
His expression darkened.
“East Seventy-Fourth Street.”
“Does your family still own it?”
“No.”
“Who does?”
Dante reached for his phone.
Three minutes later, he had the answer.
He looked at Olivia.
“You’re not going to like this.”
“Try me.”
“The property belongs to my uncle.”
“Which uncle?”
“Carlo Moretti.”
Olivia had heard the name.
Every Moretti profile mentioned him.
Carlo Moretti, sixty-three, chairman of Moretti Consolidated, respected philanthropist, Dante’s late father’s younger brother.
Dante slowly lowered his phone.
“My father believed Daniel betrayed us.”
“Did Carlo?”
May you like
Dante looked at her.
“Carlo was the one who brought me the evidence.”
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