Chapter 4 - The Shadow in the Archives
The library inside the Moretti estate looked like something out of a gothic novel. Towering mahogany bookshelves stretched up toward a vaulted ceiling lit by a massive iron chandelier, while a roaring fire crackled in a hearth large enough to roast a sheep.
I sat on the edge of a deep leather armchair, holding a steaming mug of black coffee that a housekeeper had silently placed in front of me ten minutes ago. Dante stood by the window, staring out into the dark gardens, a crystal glass of amber liquid resting in his hand.
“Who broke into my apartment?” I asked, breaking the heavy quiet.
“We don’t know yet,” Dante replied without turning around. “My men are cleaning up the mess and tracing the plates of the vehicles parked outside. But whoever it was, they were looking for your brother’s belongings.”
“Danny didn’t have belongings! He had a couple of battered toy trains and a worn-out blanket!”
“Then they were looking for something connected to his medical records,” Dante said, turning to face me. He took a slow sip from his glass. “Which brings us back to the core problem. Your brother’s death certificate is on file with the city of New York. The attending physician signed it, the hospital discharged him to the morgue, and the burial was registered at St. Jude’s Cemetery in Queens.”
“You checked?”
“I own half the municipal databases in this city, Miss Vance. Of course I checked.” Dante walked closer, stopping a few feet away from my chair. “Everything matches on paper. But paper can be forged, graves can remain empty, and bodies can be swapped by people with enough money and power.”
I stood up abruptly, spilling a few drops of coffee onto the polished wooden floor. “Are you telling me my brother might still be alive? Are you dangling that in front of me like some kind of twisted leverage?”
“I’m telling you that nothing in my world is ever as simple as it appears,” Dante said sharply, his voice dropping an octave. “Someone went to an incredible amount of trouble to ensure that photograph reached my phone tonight. They wanted me to see your brother standing next to my son. They wanted me to bring you here.”
“Why?”
“Because you are the only person outside of my immediate household who can calm Luca during a panic attack without sedatives.” Dante’s dark eyes narrowed slightly. “And because someone is trying to use my son to get to me—or use you to get to someone else.”
Before I could demand an explanation, the heavy oak doors of the library swung open. A tall, impeccably dressed man in his late forties—evidently Dante’s chief of security or legal counsel—strode into the room, holding a heavily encrypted tablet.
“Boss,” the man said, casting a suspicious glance in my direction. “We’ve got a situation. The extraction team at Miss Vance’s apartment found something left behind by the intruders.”
Dante set his glass down on a side table. “Show me.”
The man handed the tablet over. Dante swiped across the screen, his expression hardening into a terrifying mask of absolute ice. After a moment, he turned the tablet toward me.
On the screen was a photograph of my bedroom wall. Specifically, the wallpaper near my bed where I used to sit when I couldn’t sleep.
Scratched lightly into the plaster, beneath layers of old floral wallpaper that had peeled away, were four faint marks.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
“That was hidden,” I breathed, stepping closer to the screen. “I made those marks when I was twelve years old... Danny and I used to tap against the wall when our father was yelling downstairs.”
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“The intruders didn’t just search your apartment,” Dante said quietly. “They carved that section of the plaster out of the wall and took it with them.”
***
