Chapter 7 - Someone Had Been Using My Trust
Victor Salvi disappeared the next morning.
Not dramatically.
No abandoned car.
No blood.
No mysterious note.
He simply failed to arrive at work.
His wife said he had left early.
His phone turned off at 6:43 a.m.
His attorney contacted Anton by noon.
“Is he running?” I asked.
Anton stood in my kitchen, drinking coffee from the cheap mug that said LIBRARIES: BECAUSE GOOGLE DOESN’T KNOW EVERYTHING.
“He’s lawyering.”
“That sounds less exciting.”
“It usually is.”
“Does that mean he’s guilty?”
“No.”
“But?”
“But innocent people rarely have criminal-defense attorneys contact employers before lunch.”
The investigation widened.
Anton opened his companies’ records voluntarily.
That surprised Julia.
It surprised me more.
“Won’t that expose things you don’t want exposed?” I asked.
Anton looked at me over his coffee.
“Probably.”
“And you’re okay with that?”
“No.”
“But you’re doing it.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He set down the mug.
“Because I can’t demand truth from Derek while protecting myself from it.”
That was when I began falling in love with him.
Not because he was powerful.
Not because he frightened rooms into silence.
Because when truth threatened him, he chose it anyway.
I did not tell him.
I barely admitted it to myself.
There were practical reasons.
The investigation.
Derek.
My work.
Anton’s complicated history.
The fact that he was thirteen years older.
The fact that three separate coworkers had privately asked whether dating him required witness protection.
But feelings are famously disrespectful of practical reasons.
We spent evenings reviewing records.
We ate takeout in his office.
We argued.
He thought I took unnecessary risks.
I thought he confused protection with control.
He apologized more frequently.
I learned that Anton hated olives, loved old jazz records, called his daughter every Sunday, and kept handwritten birthday reminders because he distrusted digital calendars.
One night he brought me dinner from an Italian restaurant his cousin owned.
“You own restaurants,” I said.
“Some.”
“How many?”
“Several.”
“That sounds suspiciously vague.”
“Eleven.”
I stared.
“You own eleven restaurants and brought me food from your cousin’s?”
“He gets offended if I don’t.”
“Families are terrifying.”
“Now you understand the organization.”
I laughed.
Then my phone rang.
Ruth.
I answered.
Her voice shook.
“Grace, someone called me.”
My smile vanished.
“Who?”
“He said he was from my bank.”
Anton was already watching me.
“What did he want?”
“He knew about the investigation.”
“How?”
“I don’t know.”
“What did he say?”
“He told me I could lose the rest of my money if I kept talking.”
Anton stood.
“Ruth, are you home?”
“Yes.”
“Lock the door.”
Anton took out his phone.
I shook my head.
“No private security unless she agrees.”
His eyes narrowed.
Even in crisis, he remembered.
I asked Ruth.
She agreed.
Police were notified too.
The call had been spoofed.
The number led nowhere.
But whoever made it knew Ruth had cooperated.
That meant somebody inside the process was leaking information.
Julia.
Investigators.
Anton’s companies.
The victims themselves.
Any number of possibilities.
That night, Anton drove me home.
He walked me upstairs.
At my door, I turned.
“You’re going to ask to put someone outside again.”
“Yes.”
“Ask.”
“May I put someone outside?”
I smiled despite the tension.
“Yes.”
He nodded.
Neither of us moved.
The hallway was quiet.
My key was still in my hand.
Anton stood close enough for me to see the silver at his temples.
“You’re scared,” he said.
“So are you.”
“No.”
“Liar.”
His mouth moved slightly.
“You’re becoming inconvenient.”
“I’ve been told.”
I looked at him.
The moment shifted.
No investigation.
No Derek.
No files.
Just a man and a woman standing beneath a flickering hallway light.
Anton lifted his hand.
Slowly.
Giving me time to move away.
His fingers brushed a strand of hair from my cheek.
I didn’t move.
His eyes searched mine.
“Grace.”
“Yes?”
“I’m trying very hard to behave responsibly.”
I almost laughed.
“That sounds painful.”
“Extremely.”
I stepped closer.
His breath caught.
The great Anton Marquetti, who could silence restaurants simply by entering them, looked suddenly uncertain.
I kissed him.
It was not dramatic.
No thunder.
No music.
Just warmth.
Restraint.
Then his hand settled lightly at my waist.
When we separated, his forehead rested against mine.
“You are terrible for my reputation,” he murmured.
“Your reputation needed hobbies.”
He laughed.
Then his phone vibrated.
Of course it did.
Anton checked the message.
The warmth disappeared from his face.
“What?”
He turned the screen toward me.
A photograph.
Taken less than an hour earlier.
Anton and me leaving his office together.
Below it was a message from an unknown number.
Ask Grace what Derek kept in the library basement.
I stared.
“Our basement?”
Anton looked at me.
“What’s down there?”
“Storage.”
“What kind?”
“Old archives. Donation records. Decommissioned computers.”
He became very still.
“Computers?”
My stomach dropped.
Years earlier, Derek had helped the library replace old computers.
And suddenly I remembered something I had forgotten completely.
May you like
Derek had volunteered to wipe the hard drives before donation.
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