Chapter 4 - NUMBERS THAT SHOULDN’T EXIST
My mother always said numbers told the truth because they had no imagination.
People lied.
Receipts didn’t.
Invoices didn’t.
Dates didn’t.
And whoever was stealing from Luca Moretti had forgotten that.
On Monday morning Margaret gave me purchasing records to file.
I didn’t search for anything.
I genuinely didn’t.
But when somebody hands you twelve months of invoices and you once spent two years studying accounting, patterns begin screaming whether you want them to or not.
Halston appeared seventeen times.
Lakefront Renovation appeared eleven.
North Shore Asset Services appeared nine.
Different companies.
Different addresses.
Same invoice formatting.
Same unusual decimal placement.
Same approval initials.
A.V.
Adrian Vale.
I stared at those letters.
Too easy.
If Adrian were stealing millions, would he really sign his own initials?
Probably not.
Which meant somebody wanted it to look like Adrian.
Or Adrian believed no one would dare question him.
I closed the folder.
At noon, Luca entered the kitchen.
“You’re staring at soup.”
“I’m thinking.”
“Dangerous.”
“I learned from management.”
His mouth almost moved.
I lowered my voice.
“Can we talk?”
His expression hardened slightly.
“Office.”
We walked upstairs.
The moment the door closed, I said, “Somebody is framing Adrian.”
Luca stopped.
I explained.
Same formatting.
Same initials.
Same vendors.
“Or Adrian’s stealing from me.”
“Maybe.”
“You sound unconvinced.”
“Because thieves are usually greedy, not theatrical.”
He folded his arms.
“And your professional experience with thieves comes from?”
“Health insurance billing.”
That actually made him laugh.
One short sound.
I forgot what I was saying.
Luca Moretti laughing was unnerving.
“Claire.”
“Right.”
I placed copies on his desk.
“These approvals are too obvious. If Adrian wanted to steal, he wouldn’t put A.V. everywhere.”
“Unless he expected no audit.”
“Maybe.”
Luca studied the invoices.
Then he picked up one.
“You copied these?”
“I needed something to show you.”
“You took financial documents.”
“You told me to bring unusual things directly to you.”
“I didn’t tell you to create a private audit.”
“I alphabetized olives. What did you expect?”
His gaze lifted.
Several seconds passed.
Then he sat.
“Sit down.”
I did.
He spread the pages between us.
For almost an hour we compared dates.
That was how we discovered the first real pattern.
Every fake payment occurred within forty-eight hours of a transfer between legitimate Moretti companies.
Large sums moved.
Then smaller amounts disappeared.
Someone was hiding theft inside normal movement.
“Clever,” I whispered.
Luca’s jaw tightened.
“Very.”
One transfer bothered me.
April 14.
$780,000 sent to North Shore.
On April 15, a genuine Moretti transfer of $78 million had occurred.
The thief had hidden less than one percent inside it.
“Who knew about the large transaction?”
“Adrian.”
Luca’s voice was flat.
“Matteo. Daniel. Me.”
“Again.”
“Yes.”
“So your four-person list is still alive.”
“Three.”
I looked up.
He pointed at himself.
“I know I didn’t steal my own money.”
“Fair.”
A knock came.
Luca swept the papers into a drawer.
“Come in.”
Adrian entered.
His eyes landed on me.
Then Luca.
“Am I interrupting?”
“Yes,” Luca said.
I said, “No.”
Adrian smiled.
“Which is it?”
Luca didn’t.
“Claire was explaining why the household spends too much on imported olives.”
I stared at him.
Without missing a beat, I said, “Spanish olives are destroying us.”
Adrian laughed.
But his eyes didn’t.
He delivered a folder to Luca.
Then turned toward me.
“Claire, I need someone to check the second-floor guest suite this afternoon.”
“Sure.”
“Thank you.”
He left.
The door closed.
I exhaled.
“You used olives?”
“It was the first thing I thought of.”
“I’m honored.”
Luca opened the drawer.
“Don’t joke.”
“Then stop being accidentally funny.”
His gaze held mine.
The atmosphere changed.
Not dramatically.
Just enough that I became aware of how close we were sitting.
I moved my chair backward.
Professional.
Extremely professional.
Luca seemed to notice.
He looked away first.
“Go back to work.”
“Yes, boss.”
“Claire.”
“Mr. Moretti.”
I left.
At four, I went upstairs to inspect the guest suite Adrian mentioned.
Nothing unusual.
Fresh linens.
Bathroom.
Closet.
Desk.
As I turned to leave, I noticed the desk drawer wasn’t completely closed.
Again:
Not My Business.
I pushed it shut.
Something blocked it.
An envelope.
I pulled it out just far enough to remove the obstruction.
My name was written across the front.
CLAIRE BENNETT.
My hands went cold.
I opened it.
Inside was a photograph.
Me leaving my apartment two mornings earlier.
On the back, one sentence:
STOP COUNTING.
I didn’t scream.
I didn’t drop it.
I simply stood there while every instinct in my body began shouting.
Someone had followed me.
Someone knew where I lived.
Someone knew about the invoices.
Then the bedroom door clicked shut behind me.
I turned.
Adrian Vale stood there.
He looked at the photograph in my hand.
Then at me.
May you like
And said softly:
“You really should have listened when I told you curiosity was dangerous.”
