Chapter 3 - The Secret Hidden Behind Our Mother's Debt
For a moment, I forgot how to speak.
Sasha sat beneath the yellow kitchen light, wearing an oversized university sweatshirt and the expression she usually reserved for professors who assigned group projects.
Between us lay 3 electricity notices, 2 envelopes from the bank, and a letter from our landlord.
My eyes settled on the letter.
“Why is Mr. Harris calling you?”
“He called me twice while you were out.”
“And?”
“And he wanted to know whether we had relatives who might be helping us financially.”
I put Adrian's card on the table.
“I don't know anyone who would do that.”
Sasha glanced at the card.
Her eyebrows rose.
“Adrian Moretti?”
I froze.
“You know him?”
“Not personally. But I know the name.”
She picked up her telephone and typed something into the search bar. A few seconds later, she turned the screen toward me.
The first photograph showed Adrian leaving a courthouse beside 2 lawyers. The second showed him standing outside a luxury hotel. The third showed him shaking hands with a politician whose face appeared regularly on the evening news.
The headlines were less reassuring.
MORETTI GROUP EXPANDS CHICAGO HOLDINGS.
FEDERAL INVESTIGATION INTO LOGISTICS NETWORK CONTINUES.
CHICAGO BUSINESSMAN QUESTIONS RIVAL FAMILY'S INVOLVEMENT IN PORT DISPUTE.
I read the last headline twice.
“What does that mean?”
“It means,” Sasha said carefully, “that the man you had dinner with is either a very successful businessman or the sort of businessman who inspires television documentaries.”
“He told me he was dangerous.”
“And you still had dinner with him?”
“He ordered chicken.”
She stared at me.
I stared back.
Then, despite everything, she laughed.
It was a short, disbelieving laugh that ended when she noticed my expression.
“I'm sorry,” she said. “I'm not laughing at you. I'm trying to understand how you went to deliver pastries and came home with a possible criminal mastermind's business card.”
“Perhaps I should write a report for the bakery.”
“Please do. I would like to read it.”
I sat opposite her and explained the evening as accurately as I could. The ballroom. The announcement. The private dinner. The questions I had asked and the answers he had given.
I left out the way my heart had behaved whenever he looked at me.
Some feelings were too private to share, even with the person who knew me best.
When I finished, Sasha rested her elbows on the table.
“Did he threaten you?”
“No.”
“Did he touch you?”
“Only my arm when we walked through the ballroom. He never tried anything else.”
“Did he offer you money?”
“No.”
“Did he ask you to be his girlfriend?”
“No.”
“Did he promise to rescue us from poverty?”
“No.”
She considered that.
“That's surprisingly encouraging.”
“It is?”
“It means he has at least managed to behave like a person instead of a terrible romance novel.”
I threw a napkin at her.
She caught it and smiled.
Then the smile faded.
“Nerissa, I need you to be careful. Men like him don't become powerful by accident.”
“I know.”
“Do you? Because you have this terrible habit of assuming the best of people whenever they do something kind.”
I looked at the bills.
“I don't assume the best of people.”
“You do. You just call it giving them a chance.”
Perhaps she was right.
Our mother had possessed the same weakness. She had believed that people were capable of changing, that promises mattered, and that even a bad decision could be corrected if someone cared enough.
She had also died with a debt large enough to threaten everything she had worked to give us.
I pushed the card away.
“I won't see him again.”
Sasha said nothing.
That should have reassured me.
Instead, her silence made the decision feel less certain.
***
The following morning, I returned to the bakery at 5:30.
The kitchen smelled of yeast, cinnamon, and burnt coffee. My manager, Mr. Bell, was arguing with a supplier over the telephone while 2 apprentices prepared dough at the steel counter.
Everything was familiar.
That was what I needed.
I tied my apron, washed my hands, and began preparing the day's pastry fillings.
For 3 hours, I managed not to think about Adrian.
Then a black sedan stopped outside the bakery.
I saw it through the front window while carrying a tray of croissants.
A man in a dark overcoat stepped out and entered the shop.
He was perhaps in his late thirties, with neatly trimmed hair and a face that looked ordinary until he stopped smiling. He approached the counter and asked to speak with me.
My hands went cold.
“I'm working,” I said.
“I understand. My name is Elena Rossi. I work for Mr. Moretti.”
I glanced toward the kitchen.
Mr. Bell had already noticed the visitor. He was pretending to clean the same patch of counter while listening to every word.
“Is something wrong?”
“No. Mr. Moretti would like to ensure that your journey home last night was uneventful.”
“I got home safely.”
“I'm glad.”
Elena placed a small envelope on the counter.
I did not touch it.
“What is that?”
“Information about a car service available to you if you ever need it.”
“I don't need a car service.”
“Then you can leave it here.”
She sounded neither offended nor impatient.
I disliked how difficult she made it to be angry with her.
“Does Adrian send you to check on everyone he has dinner with?”
“No.”
“Why me?”
Elena studied me for a moment.
“Because the people in that ballroom noticed you.”
“That isn't my fault.”
“No. It isn't.”
She lowered her voice.
“Mr. Moretti has enemies, Miss Vale. Some of them are businessmen who believe every relationship can be used as leverage. Others are less predictable. You should not accept gifts, sign documents, or agree to meet anyone who claims to represent him without verifying their identity.”
I felt the room tilt slightly.
“Are you telling me I'm in danger?”
“I'm telling you that attention can create risks, even when nobody intends harm.”
I pushed the envelope back.
“Then please tell him I don't want attention.”
“I will.”
She turned to leave.
At the door, she paused.
“One more thing. If anyone asks about your mother, you should contact me before answering.”
My breath caught.
“What does my mother have to do with this?”
For the first time, Elena looked genuinely uncomfortable.
“I don't know enough to explain that.”
“You just brought her up.”
“Because I recognized her name when I reviewed the information about you.”
I stepped around the counter.
“What information?”
Elena's expression closed.
“I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said anything before I had the facts.”
“Then get the facts.”
She nodded once.
“I'll try.”
When she left, I remained beside the counter, staring at the door.
Mr. Bell appeared at my shoulder.
“Who was that?”
“A woman with a car service I don't want.”
He looked at me with new interest.
“Nerissa, whatever trouble you've gotten yourself into, keep it away from this bakery.”
“I didn't get into any trouble.”
“Good. Because I can't afford trouble.”
Neither could I.
That afternoon, I finished my shift, collected my wages, and stopped at the pharmacy to buy Sasha's inhaler.
The price had increased again.
I stood at the counter, counting the money in my purse.
The pharmacist waited patiently.
I had enough for the medicine or the groceries we needed for the next 2 days.
Not both.
I chose the medicine.
Outside, I sat on a bench and looked at the card in my pocket.
I had carried it all day despite telling Sasha I would never see Adrian again.
I hated that small contradiction.
I hated even more that I knew exactly what I wanted to do.
I wanted to call him.
Not for money.
Not for protection.
I wanted to ask why someone who had never met my mother had instructed his assistant to warn me about her.
I wanted to know why a woman who worked for one of Chicago's most powerful men had recognized my mother's name.
And I wanted to know why, when I thought of Adrian, my first instinct was still to imagine the quiet dining room, the river beyond the windows, and the way he had listened when I spoke.
I took out my telephone.
Then I put it away.
I could investigate my own family without involving a dangerous stranger.
At least, that was what I told myself.
***
The opportunity arrived at 8:17 that evening.
Sasha was in the shower when someone knocked on our apartment door.
I looked through the peephole.
A woman in a beige coat stood in the corridor, holding a brown paper bag.
She appeared to be in her fifties. Her hair was tied neatly at the nape of her neck, and she wore no jewelry except a gold wedding band.
“Can I help you?” I asked through the closed door.
“I'm looking for Nerissa Vale.”
“Who are you?”
“My name is Margaret. I knew your mother.”
Every muscle in my body tightened.
I opened the door but kept the chain fastened.
“My mother died 3 years ago.”
“I know.”
“How did you find me?”
She glanced down the corridor.
“May I come inside? This isn't something I should discuss in a hallway.”
I should have refused.
Instead, I unfastened the chain.
Margaret stepped into our small apartment and looked around with an expression that made me feel as though she were seeing my mother in every corner.
She placed the paper bag on the table.
“I brought something that belongs to you.”
Inside lay an old photograph, a small brass key, and a notebook bound in faded blue cloth.
I recognized the handwriting immediately.
My mother's.
My knees weakened.
“Where did you get these?”
“Your mother asked me to keep them safe.”
“Why didn't you give them to us when she died?”
Margaret's face tightened.
“Because I was afraid.”
“Of what?”
She glanced toward the front door.
“Of the people who wanted what your mother knew.”
The apartment suddenly seemed too small.
“What did she know?”
Margaret sat down slowly.
“Your mother worked for a company that managed financial records for several private businesses. One of those businesses belonged to Adrian Moretti's father.”
I stared at her.
“That's impossible. My mother worked in payroll.”
“She did. But she was also very good with numbers. Better than the people who employed her.”
Margaret opened the notebook.
Several pages contained columns of figures, dates, and initials. Some entries were marked with red circles.
“This is a record of payments that were never supposed to exist,” she said. “Your mother discovered that money was being moved through legitimate companies to finance illegal operations. She copied the records because she believed someone was stealing from the business owners and using their names to conceal it.”
“Who?”
“I don't know.”
“You expect me to believe my mother was involved in some kind of mafia conspiracy?”
“No. I expect you to understand that she discovered something dangerous while doing an ordinary job.”
I looked at the photograph.
It showed my mother standing beside a man I did not recognize. He wore a dark suit and had one hand resting on the back of a chair. Behind them stood a younger Adrian Moretti, perhaps 19 or 20, with a bruised cheek and an expression far less controlled than the one I had seen in the hotel.
On the back, my mother's handwriting read:
Some debts are paid with money. Others are inherited.
My throat closed.
“What does this mean?”
Margaret shook her head.
“Your mother never explained it to me.”
“Then why bring this to me now?”
“Because someone has started asking questions about you.”
A noise sounded in the corridor.
Footsteps.
Margaret stopped speaking.
I turned toward the door.
A shadow passed beneath it.
Then someone knocked 3 times.
Not loudly.
Not impatiently.
Precisely.
Margaret went pale.
“Do not open that door,” she whispered.
My telephone vibrated on the table.
An unknown number.
I answered without taking my eyes off the entrance.
A man's voice spoke.
“Miss Vale, my name is Victor Bellandi. I believe you have something that belongs to my family.”
I could not breathe.
Behind the door, the footsteps stopped.
May you like
And from the other end of the telephone, the man continued.
“Your mother should have returned it years ago.”
