Chapter 4 - The Red Ledger
The Evanston estate was a fortress disguised as a French country mansion. Stone walls, black iron gates, and six armed guards patrolling the perimeter with trained German Shepherds.
Inside, the house was warm and quiet. Amelia Moretti was sitting in a sunlit conservatory overlooking Lake Michigan, wrapped in a cashmere blanket, sipping tea. The moment she saw me enter with Lorenzo, her pale face lit up.
"Claire," she called out, holding her arms open.
I walked over, sinking onto the cushion beside her, and took her cold hands into mine. "Come state, Signora?" (How are you, ma'am?)
"Megghiu," she whispered, her eyes shining. (Better.) "Iddu e cca?" (Is he here?)
"Lorenzo is here," I said softly in her dialect. "He wants to know about the fire. About Michael."
Amelia looked past me to Lorenzo, who stood at the edge of the rug, motionless.
For the next two hours, I sat beside the matriarch of the Moretti family, listening to the broken fragments of a fourteen-year-old murder mystery. She spoke in bursts—sometimes rhythmic like poetry, sometimes frantic like a storm. I translated every word in real-time, my voice steady despite the horror of the narrative.
"Michael was Lorenzo's father's original name in Italy," I translated, looking up at Lorenzo. "Matteo was his business name in America. She says Vittorio was jealous of Matteo’s control over the shipping lines at Bell’Acqua Marina."
"What about the fire?" Lorenzo asked, leaning forward, his hands clenched into tight fists.
"She says Vittorio didn't just set the warehouse fire," I continued, listening to Amelia’s frantic whispers. "He stole something first. A red leather book. The internal ledger of the Moretti shipping business. It recorded every bribe, every illegal cargo drop, and every payment made to local politicians for thirty years."
Amelia took a ragged breath, pointing a shaking finger toward the east. "A chiesa. Sutta u mari."
"Under the church?" I translated, frowning. "No... near the church by the water. Saint Michael's Cathedral on the riverbank."
Lorenzo’s eyes flared with sudden understanding. "Saint Michael's has a private crypt beneath the floorboards. My father was the primary benefactor of that parish. He had a private safe installed in the foundation wall."
"She says Vittorio tried to find it the night of the fire," I added, reading the terror in Amelia's face. "Matteo hid the red ledger there before he went to the warehouse. Vittorio trapped him inside the office and lit the fuel because Matteo refused to give him the key."
Amelia buried her face in my shoulder, sobbing quietly as the painful memories overflowed. I wrapped my arms around her, holding the fragile old woman close, glaring up at Lorenzo.
"She carried that secret for fourteen years because Vittorio threatened to kill you if she spoke," I told him, my voice trembling with emotion. "She acted confused to keep you alive, Lorenzo."
Lorenzo stood frozen, his eyes burning with a terrifying mix of grief and rage. He walked over to the armchair, knelt beside his grandmother, and pressed a reverent kiss against her frail forehead.
"No more fear, Nonna," Lorenzo whispered in low, fierce Italian. "I will tear his empire down to the dust."
He stood up, looking down at me with an intensity that made my chest tighten. "The crypt key is around my grandmother's neck. We're going to Saint Michael's tonight."
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"We?" I asked, my heart skipping a beat.
"You're the only one who can read the old dialect notations my father kept in that ledger, Claire," Lorenzo said, extending his hand to help me up. "I need you with me."
