Chapter 3 - A House Full of Enemies
The fire lasted eleven minutes.
The damage would last much longer.
By the time the estate’s suppression system extinguished the flames, the security archive was destroyed, two servers were ruined, and the original high-resolution footage showing the intruder outside Anna’s office was gone.
Marco had copied a compressed version to his laptop.
It was enough to preserve the image of the ring.
Not enough to identify the face.
Dante watched firefighters leave his property just after midnight.
Anna stood beside him beneath the covered entrance.
“You should sleep,” she said.
“So should you.”
“I’m not the patient.”
“Tonight, neither am I.”
She almost argued.
Then stopped.
Dante looked exhausted.
Not physically.
Something deeper.
His home had always been the one place where he controlled the doors, cameras, guards and rules.
Now someone had turned it into a battlefield.
“You recognized the ring,” Anna said.
Dante remained silent.
She waited.
Eventually he said, “My grandfather had twelve made.”
“For the family?”
“For the men he considered his heirs.”
“How many still exist?”
“Eight.”
“Vincent?”
“Yes.”
“Vittorio?”
“Yes.”
“You?”
Dante raised his right hand.
No ring.
“I stopped wearing mine after the accident.”
“Why?”
He looked toward the dark driveway.
“Because everyone kept reminding me what it represented.”
Anna sensed there was more.
But Dante had already closed the door.
She knew enough not to force it.
That had been the lesson of the jacket.
Help only when invited.
Ask before touching.
And sometimes love—though she was not ready to call it that—meant allowing silence.
The next morning, the Moretti Foundation board convened downtown.
Dante refused to attend remotely.
Marco objected.
His physician objected.
Anna objected for entirely different reasons.
Not because she believed he could not manage the trip.
Because somebody had just set fire to his home.
Dante listened to all three objections.
Then put on his jacket himself.
Anna smiled when she noticed.
He caught her watching.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re smiling.”
“Am I forbidden?”
“Usually.”
She approached.
“Collar?”
He considered.
Then nodded.
“Collar.”
She straightened it.
This time the contact was brief.
Professional.
Almost.
Dante’s eyes remained on hers.
“Anna.”
“Yes?”
“Last night—”
Marco entered.
“Cars are ready.”
Dante’s expression hardened with frustration.
Anna stepped away.
“Later.”
His gaze followed her.
“Yes,” he said quietly. “Later.”
The board meeting lasted ninety-three minutes.
For the first forty, Anna waited outside.
Then the doors opened.
Vincent appeared.
“We need you.”
She followed him inside.
Twelve directors sat around an enormous walnut table.
Dante occupied the head.
Vittorio sat opposite.
A giant screen displayed the leaked medical report.
Anna immediately understood.
She was not being invited as a witness.
She was evidence.
A board member named Helen Ward addressed her.
“Ms. Foster, are these reports authentic?”
“Yes.”
“Do they accurately describe Mr. Moretti’s medical history?”
“Some portions appear authentic.”
Dante watched her carefully.
“What portions don’t?” Helen asked.
Anna stepped closer to the screen.
“This sentence.”
She pointed.
“‘Progressive deterioration suggests increasing dependence and diminished capacity for independent daily function.’”
Vittorio frowned.
“That came from his medical file.”
“No.”
The room became still.
Anna continued.
“The formatting is correct. The physician’s signature is copied. But I reviewed Dante’s current assessments yesterday. That sentence isn’t there.”
Vincent leaned forward.
“Are you certain?”
“Completely.”
Helen turned toward Dante.
“Then the leaked documents were altered.”
“Yes,” Anna said.
Dante’s eyes sharpened.
“Why?”
Anna understood immediately.
“Because real medical records weren’t damaging enough.”
Silence.
Someone had not merely exposed Dante’s condition.
They had rewritten it.
The board meeting changed direction instantly.
Marco entered ten minutes later carrying forensic results.
The falsified sections had been added after the files were downloaded.
The purpose was obvious.
Make Dante appear medically incapable.
Create doubt.
Force a leadership vote.
Vittorio looked genuinely disturbed.
Vincent looked furious.
But Anna could not tell whether he was angry about the attack—
or because it had failed.
The board postponed its vote.
Dante remained chairman.
For now.
Outside the building, dozens of reporters waited.
Marco suggested the underground exit.
Dante refused.
He rolled toward the front doors.
Anna caught up.
“What are you doing?”
“Going outside.”
“There are cameras.”
“I know.”
“They’ll ask about the medical records.”
“I know.”
She stepped in front of him.
Dante stopped.
“Are you trying to protect me?” he asked.
“Yes.”
His eyebrow lifted.
Anna realized what she had done.
Then smiled.
“Fine. Do you want me to move?”
“No.”
That answer surprised her.
Dante reached for her hand.
“Walk beside me.”
The doors opened.
Noise exploded.
Questions.
Camera shutters.
Microphones.
Dante moved through the crowd without slowing.
A reporter shouted, “Mr. Moretti, are you physically capable of continuing as chairman?”
Anna felt Dante’s fingers tighten around hers.
He stopped.
Marco muttered something behind them.
Dante turned toward the reporter.
“I’m sitting in a wheelchair,” he said. “You can see that.”
A nervous laugh moved through the crowd.
Dante continued.
“If your question is whether my legs determine my ability to lead a foundation, run a company, make decisions, or live my life, then the answer is no.”
Another reporter shouted, “Are the reports accurate?”
“Some were stolen. Some were altered. Both matters are under investigation.”
“Is Anna Foster responsible?”
Dante looked toward Anna.
“No.”
“How can you be sure?”
His answer came without hesitation.
“Because I trust her.”
The cameras erupted.
Anna stared at him.
Dante did not release her hand.
By evening, photographs of them were everywhere.
Some called Anna his nurse.
Others called her his mystery woman.
One headline described her as the woman Dante Moretti trusted more than his family.
That headline reached exactly the wrong person.
At 11:38 that night, Anna returned to her bedroom.
An envelope lay beneath her door.
No stamp.
No name.
Inside was a photograph.
Dante.
Six years younger.
Standing beside a black sports car.
Walking.
Smiling.
Anna turned the photograph over.
Three words were written on the back.
ASK WHO DROVE.
She stared at them.
Then another object fell from the envelope.
A newspaper clipping.
The headline described the accident that had changed Dante’s life.
But one paragraph had been circled in red.
Police declined to identify the second person believed to have been inside the vehicle.
Anna’s pulse quickened.
Dante had always called it his accident.
Never their accident.
Someone else had been there.
She went directly to his room.
Dante was awake.
He saw the photograph.
Every trace of color left his face.
“Where did you get that?”
“Under my door.”
He took it.
His hand trembled once.
Anna had never seen that before.
“Who drove?” she asked.
Dante stared at the photograph.
For a long time, he said nothing.
Then he looked up.
“My brother.”
Anna froze.
“I didn’t know you had a brother.”
“You don’t.”
The words chilled her.
“Dante—”
“He died that night.”
Anna sat beside him.
“What happened?”
Dante turned the photograph over.
His eyes found the handwritten message.
Something inside him seemed to fracture.
Then he whispered:
“The police report says I was driving.”
Anna waited.
Dante looked at her.
May you like
“But I wasn’t.”
And somewhere inside the Moretti estate, someone already knew he had finally told her.
