Chapter 3 - The House of Broken Glass
Z
The Moretti estate in Lincoln Park did not look like a home; it looked like a fortress built by a man who expected a siege. High wrought-iron gates topped with discrete security cameras opened into a cobblestone courtyard flanked by ancient, weeping birches. The house itself was a sprawling, three-story limestone mansion, towering over the neighborhood with high, arched windows that reflected the grey Chicago sky like slate mirrors.
I stepped out of the black SUV, feeling entirely absurd in my clean pair of jeans and a borrowed cardigan. Fifty thousand dollars was currently sitting in a newly opened checking account under my name. I hadn’t wanted to take it, but when Adrian Moretti looked at you with those dark, tormented eyes and asked you to save his son from his own mind, refusal felt like murder.
Marco held the massive front door open. “Inside, Ms. Vance. Mr. Moretti is in the study.”
The foyer was breathtaking and suffocating all at once. Marble floors white as bone, a floating staircase, and oil paintings of stern-faced men with the same sharp Moretti jawline staring down from the walls. But there were no family photos. No framed snapshots of a smiling woman holding a baby. No messy children’s toys scattered on the rug. The silence was heavy, artificial, preserved like a museum after hours.
I followed the sound of hushed, furious voices down a wood-paneled corridor.
“—don’t care about the board’s opinion, Julian!” Adrian’s voice sliced through the heavy mahogany doors of the study. “The footage was wiped from a secure server inside the hotel! That requires internal access!”
“And I am telling you, Adrian, you are chasing ghosts!” another male voice shouted back. This one was smooth, lighter, but dripping with an irritation that sounded dangerously sharp. “Elena has been in a vault in Rosehill Cemetery for thirty-six months! If Leo saw a shadow, it’s because you let the boy run wild while you were sucking up to the city council!”
I pushed the heavy door open without knocking.
The room fell dead silent.
Adrian was standing behind a massive glass desk, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing thick, corded forearms. Across from him stood a man who looked roughly his age, but sleeker, with blond hair swept back, wearing a pale grey suit and holding a crystal glass of scotch.
“Who the hell is this?” the blond man demanded, sweeping his cold grey eyes over my thrift-store wardrobe with instant, naked contempt. “Adrian, don’t tell me you’re bringing the staff in through the front door now.”
“This is Willa Vance,” Adrian said smoothly, though the tension in his shoulders could have snapped steel cables. He didn't introduce the other man to me, but the blond man smiled—a tight, razor-thin expression devoid of warmth.
“Julian Moretti,” the man said, stepping toward me and offering a hand that looked like it had never lifted anything heavier than a pen. “Adrian’s cousin. And the vice president of Moretti Development. I suppose you’re the waitress who found our little runaway?”
“I am,” I said, refusing to take his hand. I kept my chin up. “And I’m here for Leo.”
Julian’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second before expanding into a patronizing smirk. “How noble. Just be careful, Ms. Vance. People who wander into this family’s affairs usually end up broke, ruined, or underground.”
“Julian,” Adrian warned. The sound was a low rumble, like distant thunder.
Julian raised his glass in a mock toast, took a slow sip, and walked past me toward the door. As he reached the threshold, he stopped, leaning in slightly toward my ear. “Ask him about the sister,” Julian whispered, loud enough only for me to hear. “Ask him why Camille vanished three days before Elena’s funeral.”
Then he walked out, the heavy door clicking shut behind him.
I stood there, my breath hitching. I turned slowly to face Adrian. He hadn't moved, but his knuckles were white where he gripped the edge of his glass desk.
“Where is Leo?” I asked quietly.
“Third floor. Sunroom,” Adrian said, his voice clipped. “Miss Clara is with him.”
“Adrian.”
He looked up, his dark eyes shadowed, guarded. “Yes?”
“Was it your cousin who cleared the security footage?”
Adrian let out a slow, heavy breath, leaning back against his desk and rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Julian wants my position as CEO. He has wanted it since my father died. If he can prove I’m unstable—if he can prove my son is suffering from severe psychological delusion—the board can trigger a vote of incompetence.”
“Is that what this is?” I asked, stepping further into the room. “A corporate takeover?”
“I don’t know,” Adrian said honestly. He looked up at me, and for the first time, I saw genuine exhaustion written into the lines around his mouth. “All I know is that at midnight, a private detective I hired confirmed that Camille’s apartment in Seattle was cleared out four days ago. She didn't leave a forwarding address.”
My skin prickled with cold sweat. “She came back to Chicago.”
“Or someone wants me to think she did,” Adrian replied softly. He walked out from behind his desk, stopping just inches from me. The warmth radiating off his body was overwhelming in the chilly room. He looked down at me, his gaze dropping to my lips for a terrifying, breathless second before returning to my eyes. “Go see my son, Willa. Please.”
I nodded, unable to speak, and turned toward the stairs.
I found Leo in the sunroom at the end of the third-floor hall. It was a bright, glass-domed room filled with sprawling ferns and white rattan furniture. Leo was sitting on a plush rug in the corner, staring blankly out the window at the grey Chicago skyline. A middle-aged woman in a grey nanny’s uniform sat on a nearby sofa, looking utterly defeated.
“Miss Clara?” I asked gently.
The woman stood up quickly, wiping her hands on her apron. “You must be Ms. Vance. Mr. Moretti said you were coming.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “He hasn't touched his juice. He won't pick up a crayon. He just sits there.”
“I’ll take over,” I said softly.
Clara gave me a grateful nod and quickly vacated the room, closing the French doors behind her.
I walked over to the corner and sat down directly on the wooden floor, three feet away from Leo. I didn't say anything. I just pulled a small, worn wooden wooden horse out of my pocket—a silly little trinket I had found under table seven at Sal’s three weeks ago and never thrown away. I placed it on the floor between us.
For five minutes, neither of us moved. The clock on the wall ticked rhythmically.
Then, a tiny, trembling hand reached out.
Leo pulled the wooden horse toward him. He didn't play with it. He just held it tight in his fist.
“She had red shoes,” Leo whispered. His voice was so raspy, so thin, it almost broke my heart.
I leaned in slightly, keeping my tone gentle, unhurried. “Who had red shoes, Leo?”
“Mommy,” he said, staring at the floor. “In the hotel. When she went through the blue door. She turned around and looked at me. She had red shoes.”
I felt a cold drop of blood hit my stomach.
I remembered the photograph Adrian had shown me briefly at the hospital—a picture of Elena on his desk. She had dark hair, dark eyes, and a classic, conservative wardrobe. But when Adrian talked about Camille... he had called her the wildcard.
“Did she say anything to you, Leo?”
Leo nodded slowly. Tears filled his huge, dark eyes—eyes that were identical to his father’s.
“She said... ‘Tell your daddy I’m coming home.’”
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Before I could process the words, a sudden, sharp shatter of glass echoed from the floor below us, followed immediately by the booming, frantic shout of Marco’s voice:
“MR. MORETTI! GET DOWN!”
