Chapter 3 - What Mr. Russo Was Afraid to Say
For several seconds Lorenzo did not react.
Emma wondered if he had misunderstood.
Then she realized he had understood perfectly.
“They used my name?”
Mr. Russo’s gaze dropped.
“Yes.”
“How long?”
The baker looked at Emma rather than Lorenzo.
“Please.”
Lorenzo softened his voice.
“Mr. Russo, I am not angry with you.”
“That is easy to say.”
“You’ve known my mother thirty years.”
“That does not mean I know her son.”
The words landed harder than an insult.
Lorenzo accepted them without argument.
Russo rubbed his hands together against the cold.
“Can we go somewhere else?”
Lorenzo looked toward his mansion.
Five members of his own security staff were visible through the windows.
For perhaps the first time in his life, his home was not the safest place available to him.
“Yes.”
Twenty minutes later, Lorenzo Moretti sat in the back booth of a small diner near Cambridge Street wearing an unbuttoned black overcoat and no visible security.
Emma sat beside Mr. Russo.
Lorenzo had left Victor Hale at the mansion with strict instructions that no one was to follow them.
He had then driven himself.
Emma had never seen him drive.
That detail should not have mattered.
For some reason, it did.
Russo wrapped both hands around a cup of tea.
“They started seventeen months ago.”
Lorenzo’s jaw tightened.
“Who?”
“Krell came first.”
“Alone?”
“At first.”
Russo looked toward the diner window as though expecting to see black suits outside.
“He said there had been robberies. Said Mr. Moretti was concerned about local businesses.”
Lorenzo’s mouth hardened.
“He offered private protection.”
“How much?”
“Five hundred a month.”
Emma winced.
Russo shrugged sadly.
“At first, it did not sound impossible.”
“And then?”
“The butcher refused.”
“What happened?”
“His refrigeration failed two nights later.”
“Coincidence?”
Russo’s eyes lifted.
“You tell me.”
Lorenzo said nothing.
“The florist refused,” Russo continued. “Her delivery van was vandalized.”
Emma knew the florist.
Mrs. Alvarez.
A widow with two adult daughters.
“The bookstore?”
Russo looked at Emma in surprise.
“You know?”
“I remember they closed for three weeks.”
“Broken pipe upstairs.”
Lorenzo asked, “Sabotage?”
“Nobody proved anything.”
The old baker’s voice became bitter.
“Proof is a luxury when insurance barely covers your rent.”
Lorenzo looked at the grease-stained payment ledger.
“How many businesses?”
“At first? Maybe six.”
“And now?”
Russo hesitated.
“Twenty-three that I know.”
Emma closed her eyes.
Twenty-three.
Lorenzo’s face did not change, but his fingers tightened around the edge of the table.
“What were they told?”
“That the money went to your neighborhood fund.”
“I have no neighborhood fund.”
“We did not know that.”
“Why didn’t anyone contact my office?”
Russo almost smiled.
“With what number?”
Lorenzo frowned.
“Krell gave us a number.”
“Show me.”
Russo retrieved his old phone and opened a contact.
MORETTI COMMUNITY OFFICE.
The number looked legitimate.
A Boston area code.
A professional voicemail greeting.
Lorenzo copied it.
“He built an entire front,” Emma whispered.
Russo nodded.
“Receipts sometimes came by email.”
Lorenzo’s eyes sharpened.
“Receipts?”
“Not official ones. Simple invoices.”
“Do you still have them?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Russo suddenly became frightened.
“No.”
Lorenzo looked at him.
“No police.”
“Mr. Russo—”
“I have grandchildren.”
“No one said anything about police.”
“Not yet.”
Lorenzo leaned forward.
“I need enough information to stop this.”
Russo’s face hardened.
“And then what?”
Lorenzo did not answer immediately.
The old man continued.
“I know what people say about you.”
“So do I.”
“They say men disappear.”
Emma watched Lorenzo closely.
His expression remained calm.
Russo tapped the table.
“I do not want Krell disappearing.”
Lorenzo glanced toward Emma.
She had said almost the same thing.
Perhaps he finally understood how little reassurance his reputation offered ordinary people.
“I’m not going to kill Daniel Krell.”
Russo stared.
Lorenzo continued.
“I am going to determine who helped him, remove them from every position where they can hurt anyone, recover what they stole if possible, and provide evidence to someone outside my organization.”
“Police?”
“Eventually.”
“Eventually?”
“If there are police on Krell’s payroll, handing everything over today would warn him.”
Russo looked uneasy but did not disagree.
Lorenzo asked, “Why come this morning?”
The baker’s hands tightened.
“Krell called at six forty.”
Emma felt cold.
“What did he say?”
“He asked whether you had come into the bakery last night.”
Lorenzo and Emma exchanged a look.
“He was checking what you told us,” Emma said.
Russo nodded.
“I said nobody came.”
“What else?”
“He asked if Miss Carter had returned.”
Emma’s stomach dropped.
Lorenzo’s voice hardened.
“And?”
“I said no.”
Russo reached across the table and touched Emma’s sleeve lightly.
“I am sorry.”
“You protected me.”
“I brought you into this.”
“No. Krell did.”
Russo looked at her wrist.
“He hurt you?”
Emma did not answer.
That was answer enough.
The old man’s face filled with shame.
“I should have stopped him.”
“You’re seventy-four.”
“I was seventy-three last year.”
Despite everything, Emma smiled.
Russo smiled back weakly.
Lorenzo watched them.
Something shifted in his expression.
For years, he had believed control meant knowing where danger was.
He maintained gates.
Cameras.
Drivers.
Encrypted phones.
Men stationed outside every door.
Yet Krell had used the very machinery designed to protect Lorenzo as a weapon against people living three blocks away.
The irony tasted like poison.
Russo reached into his coat again.
This time he removed a tiny notebook.
“I kept this separately.”
Lorenzo accepted it.
“What is it?”
“Names.”
Twenty-three businesses.
Dates.
Amounts.
Several initials.
D.K.
T.M.
E.C.
And another set that appeared repeatedly.
V.H.
Emma saw Lorenzo’s eyes stop.
“What?” she asked.
He did not answer.
She leaned closer.
V.H.
Victor Hale.
The daytime security coordinator standing inside Lorenzo’s mansion right now.
Emma whispered, “Victor?”
Russo nodded.
“He collected twice.”
“When?”
Russo pointed.
“July and November.”
Lorenzo looked toward the diner entrance as though calculating everything at once.
Victor knew Emma’s schedule.
Victor knew Lorenzo had delayed the meeting.
Victor had been the person standing outside the study when Krell arrived.
Victor was also the one who had informed Lorenzo that Krell seemed “concerned” about Emma.
“You said someone inside my house was helping them,” Lorenzo said.
Russo’s face tightened.
“I heard Krell once say he had eyes in Beacon Hill.”
“That could mean anyone.”
Russo nodded.
“That is why I kept the initials.”
Emma whispered, “You thought it was Victor.”
“I hoped I was wrong.”
Lorenzo closed the notebook.
“We need to return.”
Emma stared at him.
“To the mansion?”
“Yes.”
“Where Victor is?”
“Yes.”
Russo looked alarmed.
“Mr. Moretti—”
Lorenzo stood.
“If Victor is involved, leaving him unsupervised inside my house is more dangerous than returning.”
Emma stood too.
“So what do we do?”
“You’re not coming.”
She almost laughed.
“Absolutely not.”
Lorenzo gave her a look.
“You have three possible traitors in your security team, one of them knows where I live, and now you want to leave me alone in a diner?”
Lorenzo opened his mouth.
Then closed it.
Russo coughed into his hand to hide a smile.
Lorenzo sighed.
“Fine.”
Emma put on her coat.
“But you follow instructions.”
“We’ll negotiate.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
Russo muttered, “Good luck, Mr. Moretti.”
Lorenzo stared at him.
Emma actually laughed.
It was the first real laugh she had managed since the previous night.
For two seconds, the fear loosened its grip.
Then Lorenzo’s phone vibrated.
He looked down.
The message came from Adrian, the man retrieving the paper personnel archive.
NEED TO SPEAK IN PERSON.
Lorenzo typed back.
WHY?
The answer arrived almost immediately.
BECAUSE FEBRUARY FILES WERE ALTERED.
Lorenzo’s expression changed.
Emma leaned closer.
“What does that mean?”
“It means somebody edited internal security schedules.”
“To hide what?”
“That is what we’re going to find out.”
Another message arrived.
Adrian again.
THERE’S MORE.
Lorenzo waited.
Three dots appeared.
Then:
THE ORIGINAL FILES SHOW VICTOR HALE WASN’T WORKING ALONE.
Emma’s pulse quickened.
Lorenzo typed one word.
WHO?
The reply took nearly twenty seconds.
When it came, Lorenzo read it twice.
Then a third time.
“What?” Emma demanded.
He turned the screen toward her.
The name was not Daniel Krell.
Not Mercer.
Not Collins.
Not even Victor Hale.
It was someone Emma had seen at the Moretti estate almost every week for two years.
Someone who had access to the household accounts.
Someone Lorenzo trusted enough to enter his mother’s private apartment without being searched.
Someone who had been with the Moretti family since Lorenzo was nineteen.
MICHAEL DANE.
Lorenzo’s chief financial officer.
Emma whispered, “Why would your accountant be involved with security?”
Lorenzo slipped the phone into his pocket.
“He wouldn’t.”
“Then why is his name there?”
Lorenzo looked at her.
“Because this isn’t a security problem.”
For the first time, Emma saw something close to fear in his face.
“This is an organization inside my organization.”
And before they could leave the diner, Lorenzo received one final message.
It contained only a photograph.
A photograph taken less than five minutes earlier.
Emma’s apartment building.
Her front door.
May you like
And Daniel Krell standing outside it.
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