Chapter 3 - THE SENATOR’S SECRET GUEST LIST
I called Ethan before anyone could stop me.
He answered on the second ring.
“Hey.”
“Where are you?”
“School.”
“Stay there.”
Silence.
“Sophie?”
“Stay inside. Don’t leave with anyone.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing yet.”
“That’s never comforting.”
I closed my eyes.
“Ethan.”
“Okay.”
“Do not go home.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll pick you up.”
“Okay.”
He sounded scared now.
I hated myself for putting it there.
Lorenzo said something quietly to Marco.
Two vehicles left within a minute.
I turned.
“What are you doing?”
“Having people near his school.”
“No.”
“Sophie.”
“You promised.”
“I promised not to act about your life without telling you.”
“You didn’t tell me.”
“I am telling you now.”
I stared.
He almost looked apologetic.
Almost.
“We are going together.”
He picked up his coat.
“I can get Ethan myself.”
“You can.”
“Then—”
“And if whoever delivered that package follows you?”
I stopped.
“You think they would?”
“I think someone went far enough to investigate a sixteen-year-old’s prescription history.”
He held my gaze.
“I am done assuming normal boundaries apply.”
So we went together.
Ethan nearly stopped walking when he saw Lorenzo Moretti leaning against a dark sedan outside his school.
My brother looked at me.
Then Lorenzo.
Then me.
“You brought Batman.”
Lorenzo raised one eyebrow.
I covered my face.
“Get in the car.”
Ethan whispered as he passed me:
“Tall.”
“I will abandon you.”
“Worth it.”
Inside, he became quiet.
Lorenzo explained only what Ethan needed.
Someone had found his medication information.
A package arrived.
Police had been notified through a lawyer I later learned Lorenzo trusted.
“No mafia justice?” Ethan asked.
I almost died.
Lorenzo looked at him.
“No.”
“Good.”
A pause.
“Mostly.”
“Lorenzo.”
He looked at me.
“That was a joke.”
“Your face didn’t change.”
“It rarely does.”
Ethan whispered:
“I like him.”
“I heard you,” Lorenzo said.
“I know.”
God help me.
We did not return to our apartment.
Lorenzo offered a hotel.
I refused.
Then Marco said the lock had scratches suggesting someone attempted entry earlier that afternoon.
I stopped arguing.
We stayed in a furnished apartment owned by one of Lorenzo’s companies.
Two bedrooms.
Kitchen.
Security downstairs.
Nothing extravagant.
Ethan walked around inspecting everything.
“Do rich criminals have better rental furniture than normal rich people?”
I pointed toward his room.
“Go.”
He disappeared.
Lorenzo remained near the door.
“I’ll have the inhaler tested.”
“We’re not using it.”
“Obviously.”
“What if someone calls?”
“Record everything.”
“What if I want to go to work?”
His jaw tightened.
“You shouldn’t.”
“I need money.”
“You are not going to a banquet while someone threatens Ethan.”
“Rent still exists.”
“I can—”
“No.”
He stopped.
That surprised me.
Most wealthy people assume every financial problem is permission to hand over money.
Lorenzo looked toward the kitchen.
“What do you earn per week?”
“That is none of your business.”
“Fair.”
He thought.
“Your employer put you in danger by disclosing enough information for people to identify you publicly.”
“They didn’t leak the photo.”
“We don’t know.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“Paid administrative leave while this is investigated.”
“Paid by who?”
“Your employer.”
I almost smiled.
“Can you make that happen legally?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“I own thirty-one percent of the catering company’s parent group.”
I stared.
“You’re joking.”
“No.”
“Of course you do.”
“Chicago is smaller than it looks.”
He turned toward the door.
“Rest.”
“I don’t take commands well.”
“I noticed.”
Then he left.
The next morning, Detective Anna Mercer visited.
Homicide background.
Organized-crime task force background.
Currently special investigations.
That combination did nothing to calm me.
She placed a file on the kitchen table.
“The inhaler was clean.”
“Then it was just intimidation.”
“Yes.”
“From Beatrice?”
“We don’t know.”
Mercer looked at me carefully.
“Senator Vane’s campaign denies ordering the background search.”
“Do you believe them?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“The investigator was paid through a consulting firm.”
“What firm?”
“Lakefront Strategies.”
Ethan, doing homework nearby, stopped typing.
“I know that name.”
We all looked.
“From where?” I asked.
He pulled up a school website.
A scholarship announcement.
LAKEFRONT STRATEGIES COMMUNITY HEALTH FUND.
“They sponsored our asthma awareness program.”
My stomach dropped.
Lorenzo, who had entered silently behind Mercer, became still.
“What?”
Ethan turned the screen.
Lakefront Strategies had donated inhalers to several Chicago public schools.
Including his.
Mercer frowned.
“So their database might include participating students.”
“They could have gotten his health information through a program?” I asked.
“Possibly illegally. Possibly through forms people didn’t understand.”
Lorenzo’s expression had changed.
“Who owns Lakefront?”
Mercer answered.
“Officially, a consultant named Gregory Shaw.”
Lorenzo went very quiet.
“You know him,” I said.
“Yes.”
“How?”
“He worked for my father.”
Ethan whispered:
“Oh, this is getting good.”
I glared.
“It is not a television show.”
“It kind of is.”
Mercer ignored us.
“Your father?”
Lorenzo sat.
“Twenty years ago. Political liaison.”
“For the Moretti organization?”
“For Moretti Development.”
The distinction mattered to him.
Maybe legally.
Maybe personally.
“He left after my father died.”
Mercer asked:
“Friendly terms?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Money disappeared.”
“How much?”
“Three million.”
“And nobody prosecuted?”
“My uncle handled it privately.”
Mercer looked at him.
“What does privately mean?”
Lorenzo’s expression became cold.
“It means Shaw repaid most of it and left Chicago for six years.”
“That all?”
“Yes.”
Mercer did not believe him.
Neither did I.
But she moved on.
Lakefront Strategies had another connection.
It organized donor access for Senator Vane’s gala.
The same gala where Isabella got separated from Lorenzo.
“Separated how?” I asked.
Lorenzo’s gaze sharpened.
“That is the question.”
He explained.
Isabella attended because one of her late husband’s foundations was being honored.
She had a companion.
A nurse named Elena Rossi.
At 10:14, Elena received a phone call supposedly from Isabella’s neurologist.
She stepped into the hallway.
When she returned, Isabella was gone.
“Who called?” Mercer asked.
“Blocked number.”
“And security?”
“Someone told them Mrs. Moretti had gone to the ladies’ room.”
“Who?”
Lorenzo’s jaw tightened.
“A gala volunteer.”
“Name?”
“Diane Keller.”
Mercer opened her file.
“Lakefront employee.”
Silence.
My skin prickled.
Isabella’s humiliation might not have been accidental.
Someone had separated a confused elderly woman from her companion.
Then she wandered into the ballroom.
Toward Beatrice.
“Why?” I asked.
Lorenzo looked at Mercer.
She nodded.
He answered.
“Because Senator Vane has been trying to force me into supporting a redevelopment project.”
“What project?”
“South Harbor.”
I knew the neighborhood.
Old industrial waterfront.
Working-class apartments nearby.
Plans for luxury towers had been controversial.
Lorenzo continued.
“Vane wants public support, private financing, and several parcels my companies own.”
“You refused?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“The financing is bad.”
“That’s it?”
“No.”
His face hardened.
“The project would displace almost four thousand residents.”
That surprised me.
“You care?”
He looked at me.
“Why is that surprising?”
“You have a reputation.”
“So do politicians.”
Fair.
Mercer continued.
“Lakefront Strategies has been building pressure.”
“Pressure like sending an old woman into a ballroom?” I asked.
“Maybe.”
“But Beatrice didn’t know Isabella.”
“Probably not.”
Lorenzo looked at me.
“She may have been expected to react badly.”
“That seems risky.”
“Beatrice has spent twenty years reacting badly.”
Also fair.
Then Mercer opened another document.
“Here’s the part I don’t like.”
Donor seating plan.
Handwritten notes.
Near Beatrice’s table:
MRS. M. — EAST ENTRY 10:20.
S. CLARK — SERVICE ZONE B.
I stopped breathing.
“My name?”
“Yes.”
“But I was assigned randomly.”
“No.”
Mercer pushed another sheet.
Staffing amendment.
Requested by:
Lakefront Strategies Event Coordination.
My placement near the dessert table had been changed forty minutes before Isabella was separated from her nurse.
I stared.
“Why me?”
No one answered.
Then Lorenzo asked:
“Who hired Sophie?”
“Foster Hospitality,” Mercer said.
“No. Originally.”
I frowned.
“What?”
“How did you get on last night’s list?”
“An app.”
“What app?”
“ShiftNow.”
Ethan looked up.
“I helped her set it up.”
Mercer searched.
Then her expression changed.
ShiftNow’s Chicago contractor recruitment division had one major investor.
Lakefront Strategies.
My stomach dropped.
“This is insane.”
Lorenzo said nothing.
Mercer continued.
“Your profile was specifically pulled for the Vane gala.”
“Why?”
“Maybe random.”
“No,” Lorenzo said.
Everyone looked.
His eyes were on my file.
“Her surname.”
“What?”
“Clark.”
I stared.
“So?”
Lorenzo looked at me.
“Your father’s name?”
“Michael Clark.”
“And your mother?”
“Rachel.”
His face went cold.
“What?”
“Did your father work construction?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“All over.”
“South Harbor?”
My heart stopped.
“I don’t know.”
Ethan stood.
“Dad had pictures.”
“What pictures?”
“In Mom’s storage box.”
We had moved them after her death.
Old photographs.
Pay stubs.
Union cards.
Ethan searched a digital scan he had made for a school project.
Then held up his tablet.
My father.
Twenty-eight.
Hard hat.
Construction vest.
Behind him:
MORETTI DEVELOPMENT — SOUTH HARBOR TERMINAL.
Lorenzo sat very still.
“When was this?”
“2005.”
His jaw tightened.
“My father controlled that site.”
“What does that mean?”
Lorenzo looked at me.
“Your father may have known Gregory Shaw.”
The next hour changed everything.
My father had died when I was thirteen.
Officially:
Workplace fall.
Warehouse renovation.
Wrong step.
Broken railing.
By then, we had no money to challenge anything.
My mother mourned.
Worked.
Got sick.
Died four years later.
I raised Ethan.
End of story.
Except maybe not.
Mercer found an archived union complaint filed by Michael Clark three weeks before his death.
It accused an unnamed political consultant and project manager of falsifying safety inspections and diverting redevelopment funds.
Consultant initials:
G.S.
Gregory Shaw.
I could barely breathe.
Lorenzo looked sick.
“Your father reported him.”
“And then died.”
Mercer immediately said:
“We do not have evidence connecting the death.”
“Not yet,” I whispered.
Lorenzo’s eyes met mine.
I saw something there.
Guilt.
“What?”
He looked away.
“Lorenzo.”
“My father knew about that complaint.”
The room went silent.
“How?”
“Michael Clark sent a copy to Moretti Development.”
My chest tightened.
“What did your father do?”
“I don’t know.”
“You run the company.”
“I was twenty-three then.”
“So?”
“My father handled South Harbor personally.”
“Did he protect Shaw?”
“I don’t know.”
My anger rose.
“Convenient.”
“I know.”
He did not defend.
That made it worse somehow.
Then Mercer’s phone rang.
She answered.
Listened.
Her expression changed.
“What?”
She looked at me.
“Someone broke into your apartment.”
Ethan stood.
“What did they take?”
Mercer’s voice was quiet.
“Nothing obvious.”
“Then why break in?”
“They opened every storage box.”
My stomach turned.
Photos.
Documents.
My father.
Whoever threatened Ethan did not only want me afraid.
May you like
They were searching for something Michael Clark left behind twenty years ago.
And somehow, my father’s death had become tied to Lorenzo Moretti’s family long before I ever stood between his mother and Beatrice Vane.
