“He’s So Handsome, and I’m Just a Broke Virgin,” She Said—Unaware the Mafia Boss Was Watching

I woke to the smell of coffee and the unfamiliar sound of birds outside my window.

For several seconds, I did not remember where I was.

Then I saw the heavy curtains, the polished furniture, and the clothes I had folded over the back of a chair.

Adrian Moretti's house.

My mother's notebook.

Victor Bellandi.

The memories returned with such force that I sat upright.

My telephone showed 8:12 a.m.

There were 3 missed calls from Mr. Bell and 1 message from Sasha.

I'm downstairs. Elena says breakfast is ready. Also, there are at least 6 security cameras outside this house. I'm beginning to suspect our host doesn't believe in casual visitors.

Despite everything, I smiled.

I dressed and followed the hallway downstairs.

The house was already busy. Men in dark suits moved between rooms carrying telephones and folders. A woman spoke rapidly in Italian near the staircase. Somewhere behind a closed door, a printer produced page after page.

Whatever Adrian's business involved, it did not appear to observe ordinary working hours.

I found Sasha in the breakfast room, wearing borrowed jeans and eating scrambled eggs with the concentration of a woman who had decided that free food was the only acceptable outcome of a terrible evening.

“Good morning,” she said.

“You seem comfortable.”

“I am sitting in a chair that probably costs more than our refrigerator. I intend to enjoy the experience.”

I sat beside her.

“Did you sleep?”

“Surprisingly well. The mattress is excellent, and nobody shouted through the walls at 2 a.m.”

That was more than I could say about our apartment building.

She lowered her fork.

“Have you decided what we're doing?”

“Going home.”

“And then?”

“I don't know.”

Sasha studied me.

“You want to stay.”

“I want answers.”

“Those aren't necessarily the same thing.”

I looked through the doorway.

Adrian stood at the far end of the corridor, speaking with Elena. He wore a charcoal suit and a white shirt without a tie. His hair was still slightly damp, as though he had showered recently, and he looked more tired than he had the night before.

When he noticed me, he ended the conversation.

“Good morning.”

“Is it?”

“Technically.”

Sasha coughed into her coffee.

Adrian glanced at her.

“Sasha, I hope you're comfortable here.”

“Very. Your staff has been wonderful, although I'm still trying to understand why the security guard outside the kitchen has an earpiece.”

“Habit.”

“Yours or his?”

“Both.”

She nodded as though that settled the matter.

Then she stood.

“I'll leave you two to discuss whatever dangerous secrets brought us here. If anyone asks, I would prefer to return to university before my professors decide I have abandoned my education.”

Adrian inclined his head.

“I'll arrange a car.”

“And I would like to make one thing clear,” she added. “My sister is not a bargaining chip, a charity project, or a temporary distraction. If you hurt her, I will make your life unpleasant.”

I stared at her.

Adrian, to his credit, did not laugh.

“I would expect nothing less from her sister.”

Sasha looked satisfied.

She kissed my cheek and left.

When the door closed, Adrian pulled out a chair.

“Your sister is formidable.”

“She has been practicing since childhood.”

“I noticed.”

He poured coffee into a cup and pushed it toward me.

I accepted it.

“Why did you keep the notebook?”

“Because I need to understand what happened.”

“You could have made copies and sent us home.”

“I could have.”

“But you didn't.”

“No.”

I set down the cup.

“Then let's stop pretending this is only about protecting me. You want something from those records.”

He studied me for a moment.

“You're right.”

The direct admission surprised me.

“My family lost money during the years your mother worked for my father. More importantly, we lost people. My brother died. An employee disappeared. My father spent years searching for answers and died before he found them.”

“Did he ever suspect my mother?”

“He suspected everyone at some point.”

“That must have been a pleasant household.”

“It wasn't.”

For the first time, I saw how quickly he could turn an uncomfortable truth into a simple sentence.

He continued.

“I want to know whether your mother's records can explain what happened. You want to know why she kept them and why Victor Bellandi is suddenly interested in you. Those goals overlap.”

“And if they stop overlapping?”

“Then we stop working together.”

I searched his face.

“You would let me walk away?”

“Yes.”

“Even if I had information you needed?”

“Especially then.”

I wanted to believe him.

But belief was not enough anymore.

I reached into my pocket and took out the brass key Margaret had given me.

“This was in the bag with the notebook. She didn't know what it opened.”

Adrian examined it.

The key was small, old, and worn smooth around the edges. A number had been stamped into its handle.

214.

He turned it over.

Then he looked at Elena, who had appeared silently in the doorway.

“Find out whether my father maintained a safe-deposit box under that number.”

Elena took the key.

“Which bank?”

“Start with the old accounts. His private records were transferred after his death.”

She nodded and left.

I watched the key disappear from sight.

“You think my mother kept something in a bank?”

“I think she was careful enough to keep a backup.”

“Of what?”

“That is what we need to discover.”

I took a breath.

“Then I have a condition.”

He leaned back.

“Go on.”

“You will tell me everything you learn about my mother. No secret meetings, no decisions made behind my back, and no using my name to threaten anyone.”

He listened without interruption.

“And I will not accept money from you. If you need me to travel, investigate records, or take time away from work, you will pay me for my time. A fair rate, agreed upon in advance.”

Something like approval crossed his face.

“You negotiate like a lawyer.”

“I negotiate like a woman who has learned that free things can become very expensive.”

He was quiet for a moment.

“Agreed.”

I blinked.

“That was easy.”

“You made reasonable demands.”

“You could have argued.”

“I could have.”

“Why didn't you?”

“Because I would rather have an honest partner than a frightened employee.”

The word partner lingered between us.

I looked down at my coffee.

“One more thing.”

“Of course.”

“I want to know the truth about your family, too. Not just the parts that make you look good.”

His gaze sharpened.

“That may change how you see me.”

“It already has.”

He absorbed the answer without looking away.

Then he held out his hand.

“Do we have a deal, Nerissa?”

I looked at his hand.

A deal with Adrian Moretti was not something I could enter lightly. I understood that now. He possessed resources I could barely imagine, influence that extended far beyond his legitimate businesses, and enemies who appeared willing to involve my family in disputes that began long before I was born.

Yet he had listened when I demanded boundaries.

He had answered difficult questions without pretending to be innocent.

And when I had been afraid, he had offered me a choice rather than an order.

I placed my hand in his.

“We have a deal.”

His fingers closed around mine.

His hand was warm, his grip firm but gentle.

Neither of us moved immediately.

Then he released me.

“Good. We should begin with your mother.”

***

The records room occupied the basement of the house.

I had expected a dark, secret chamber filled with locked cabinets and documents that smelled of dust. Instead, I found a climate-controlled archive containing metal shelving, labeled boxes, and a large table covered with computer monitors.

It looked less like the headquarters of a criminal empire than the administrative department of an unusually paranoid corporation.

Elena stood beside a filing cabinet.

“Mr. Moretti has asked me to assist you. Anything you discover will be copied and documented.”

“Does he trust you?”

She looked at me.

“Enough to let me organize his records.”

“That isn't quite what I asked.”

“No,” she said. “It isn't.”

She opened a folder.

“Your mother began working for Moretti Holdings in March 2007. She was responsible for payroll reconciliation and vendor payments. Her performance reviews were excellent.”

I scanned the documents.

My mother had earned less than I did at the bakery, adjusted for the cost of living. She had worked overtime, received occasional bonuses, and complained about management in handwritten notes she had kept in a drawer at home.

Nothing in the records suggested a secret life.

Then Elena showed me the payments.

The first questionable transaction appeared in November 2009.

A company had received a transfer of $480,000 for logistics services that had never been documented. Over the following 18 months, similar payments appeared under different company names.

My mother had marked several transactions with red circles.

“What happened in November 2009?” I asked.

Elena looked at the screen.

“That was the month Matteo Moretti died.”

I felt the same coldness I had experienced the night before.

“Were the payments connected to his death?”

“We don't know.”

“Does Adrian?”

“He suspects there is a connection.”

I leaned over the table.

“Why would my mother keep these records for nearly 10 years?”

“Perhaps she was waiting for the right moment to reveal them.”

“Or perhaps she was afraid.”

Elena nodded.

“Both are possible.”

We spent the next 2 hours comparing transaction dates, company names, and handwritten notes.

The pattern was difficult to follow. Money passed through several businesses before disappearing into accounts associated with shipping, property, and private security.

Some companies had legitimate operations.

Others existed only on paper.

The initials V.B. appeared repeatedly.

So did another set of initials: M.V.

I stopped turning pages.

“What does M.V. mean?”

Elena examined the document.

“I don't know.”

The letters appeared beside a transaction dated 17 November 2009.

Beside them, my mother's handwriting contained 4 words.

Ask Margaret about the river.

I read the sentence twice.

“What river?”

Elena shook her head.

I thought of the Chicago River beyond the windows of the Langham.

It was an obvious possibility, but the note was nearly 17 years old. My mother could have been referring to another river, another city, or a place I had never visited.

I wrote it down.

Then I found another entry.

This one was dated 3 days after Matteo's death.

The transaction had been canceled.

Beside it, my mother had written:

He knows what happened.

There was no name.

No explanation.

Only those 5 words.

My telephone vibrated.

An unknown number.

I stared at the screen.

A message appeared.

Your mother died protecting someone who did not deserve it.

A second message followed.

If you want the truth, ask Adrian what he did on the night his brother died.

I showed Elena.

She read the messages, then immediately contacted security.

“Do not reply,” she said.

“Who sent them?”

“We'll find out.”

“Can they trace the number?”

“Possibly.”

I looked at the screen again.

I knew I should ignore the message until we had verified it.

Instead, I felt a terrible, immediate need to know what Adrian was hiding.

Because the sender might have been lying.

Because the sender might have been telling the truth.

And because, for the first time since I had met Adrian Moretti, I wondered whether the man I was beginning to trust had been involved in the tragedy that had destroyed my mother's peace.

***

I found Adrian in the garage shortly after noon.

He stood beside a black car, speaking with a driver. When he saw me approaching, he dismissed the man.

“What happened?”

I handed him my telephone.

He read the messages.

His face became unreadable.

“Who sent these?”

“I don't know.”

“Did you reply?”

“No.”

“Good.”

I waited.

He handed back my telephone.

“It's a manipulation tactic.”

“Is it true?”

He looked at me.

“Which part?”

“What did you do on the night your brother died?”

The silence stretched between us.

Then Adrian walked to the far end of the garage and stopped beside a workbench.

“I was with Matteo that night.”

I followed him.

“Where?”

“At a warehouse near the river.”

My heart began to pound.

“Why?”

“We were meeting someone who claimed to have evidence of financial fraud within our company.”

I remembered the note in my mother's handwriting.

Ask Margaret about the river.

“Who were you meeting?”

“An intermediary. He never arrived.”

“What happened to Matteo?”

“He left the warehouse before me. His car was found off the road less than an hour later.”

“Did you see the accident?”

“No.”

“Did you call him?”

“Yes.”

“How many times?”

Adrian looked away.

“Six.”

The answer was so quiet that I almost missed it.

“What did he say?”

“He didn't answer.”

I studied his face.

For the first time, his composure seemed less like power and more like armor.

“Did you tell the police about the meeting?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because the meeting involved people my father believed were dangerous, and I was 25 years old and foolish enough to think I could solve everything myself.”

“Were you afraid?”

“Yes.”

“Of what?”

“That if I told the truth, my father would retaliate before we knew who was responsible. That someone else would die. That I would lose control of a situation I barely understood.”

He looked at me.

“I have spent years wondering whether keeping quiet cost my brother his life.”

I had expected denial.

Perhaps anger.

I had not expected the admission to sound like a wound that had never healed.

“Did you know my mother was involved?”

“No.”

“Did you suspect her?”

“I suspected everyone.”

I thought about the photograph of Adrian and Matteo, standing together before the world had turned against them.

“I'm sorry,” I said.

He looked surprised.