Chapter 6 - By noon, the penthouse had become a command center.
Tommy occupied one end of the dining table with two laptops and three phones. Men arrived and departed through the private elevator. Conversations stopped whenever Norah entered the room, which irritated her enough that by the third time it happened, she dropped her coffee cup onto the table and announced that anyone incapable of speaking in front of her could conduct business in the parking garage.
Roman looked amused.
Tommy looked exhausted.
The others quickly learned.
The old Hollis Gallery records had been surprisingly difficult to locate.
Graham Pierce had purchased the building and its remaining assets after Eleanor Hollis died. Most artwork had gone to private collections. Administrative records were sent to a climate-controlled storage facility west of downtown.
Roman wanted to send men.
Norah insisted on going.
They compromised after an argument that lasted eleven minutes and included Roman saying the phrase absolutely not four times.
Norah went.
Roman went with her.
So did Tommy.
And two vehicles of security.
“Very subtle,” Norah said as the convoy entered the industrial district.
Roman sat beside her.
“Subtlety stopped being useful when someone wrote on your mirror.”
“I used to take the bus here.”
“You also used to eat toast for dinner.”
“You are going to use that against me for the rest of my life, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
The storage facility occupied a converted warehouse surrounded by chain-link fencing and security cameras.
Pierce’s representative was already waiting.
Roman had apparently made one telephone call.
Money and fear remained remarkably efficient.
Inside, dusty banker boxes filled rows of metal shelves.
Norah remembered Eleanor’s handwriting immediately.
She found her old employment records first.
Then invoices.
Event schedules.
Donation agreements.
The night of Salvatore Moretti’s visit had been November 14.
Three years earlier.
Tommy located the corresponding box.
Norah opened it.
Inside were seating charts, insurance documents, and photographs from the event.
Her younger face appeared repeatedly.
Blonde hair.
Black dress.
A smile she barely recognized.
She had been softer then.
Roman stood behind her.
His attention lingered on one photograph.
Norah looked.
It showed her speaking with Salvatore Moretti.
The old man was not looking at a painting.
He was looking directly at the camera.
No confusion.
No frailty.
His hand rested on the leather book.
Another man stood several feet behind him.
Norah pointed.
“Who is that?”
Roman’s expression darkened.
“Luca.”
Her heartbeat changed.
“You said Luca lived in Europe.”
“He did.”
“He was there.”
Roman took the photograph.
Luca Moretti had been younger, clean-shaven, wearing a dark blue suit.
He was watching Norah.
Not his uncle.
Her.
“Did you know?” she asked.
“No.”
“You had people around me then.”
“Not inside the gallery during working hours.”
Norah continued searching.
At the bottom of the box, she found inventory logs.
One handwritten notation caught her attention.
Item 317.
No description.
No artist.
No insurance value.
Only a sequence of numbers and the initials S.M.
She showed Roman.
“317,” she said.
The number on the key.
Tommy leaned closer.
“What are the other numbers?”
Roman read them.
“Looks like an account structure.”
“Bank?”
“Maybe.”
Norah flipped the page.
The next sheet contained a handwritten address.
Lake Federal Trust.
The bank had closed eighteen months earlier.
Tommy immediately started searching.
“Its safe-deposit operations were transferred during acquisition,” he said.
“To where?” Roman asked.
Tommy looked up.
“First Continental.”
Roman swore.
Norah understood from his expression.
“What?”
“I own six percent of First Continental.”
She stared.
“Is there anything in Chicago you don’t own?”
“A hockey team.”
“Give it time.”
Tommy nearly laughed.
Roman ignored both of them.
Fifteen minutes later they were traveling toward First Continental’s private banking branch.
The key remained inside Norah’s coat pocket.
Roman wanted it.
She refused.
For once he did not argue.
The private banking manager greeted Roman by name.
Of course he did.
The man’s face became considerably less enthusiastic when Roman requested access to box 317.
“That box is registered under an old trust,” he explained.
“Whose trust?” Norah asked.
The manager looked at Roman rather than her.
Norah snapped her fingers.
“I’m over here.”
The man flushed.
“Apologies.”
Roman’s mouth twitched.
The manager examined the records again.
“The trust holder is listed as Bellweather Cultural Foundation.”
Roman looked at Tommy.
“Moretti used Bellweather.”
Tommy nodded.
The manager continued.
“Access requires the physical key and secondary authorization.”
“What authorization?” Norah asked.
“A personal identification phrase.”
Her stomach dropped.
Roman looked at her.
“Did Salvatore say anything else?”
Norah tried to remember.
The wolves.
The book.
The music.
An old man pretending confusion while his nephew watched from across the gallery.
Then another memory surfaced.
Salvatore had asked about the central painting.
A large winter landscape.
White trees.
A frozen lake.
He had said something strange.
She thought it was poetry.
“Spring remembers what winter buries.”
The manager’s fingers stopped above the keyboard.
Norah noticed.
“Try it.”
He entered the phrase.
A green light appeared.
Roman looked at her.
Norah felt suddenly cold.
The vault was below street level.
Only Norah and Roman entered.
Tommy remained outside.
The manager placed box 317 on a polished private-room table, then left.
For several seconds neither touched it.
Roman stood across from Norah.
“You can walk away from this.”
She laughed quietly.
“Now you offer me the option?”
“I am serious.”
“So am I.”
“Nora, whatever is inside that box has kept Moretti interested for three years.”
“And whatever is inside may explain why.”
Roman’s expression hardened.
“It may also make things worse.”
“They are already inside my apartment.”
Norah inserted the key.
It turned.
The lid opened.
Inside were three objects.
A flash drive.
A sealed envelope.
And the missing leather book.
Norah stared.
“That’s impossible.”
“You said you left it at the gallery.”
“I did.”
Roman put on gloves before touching it.
The book was not actually a book.
Its pages had been hollowed.
Inside was a second flash drive.
Norah opened the envelope.
Her name was written across the front.
Not Sadie.
Not Nora.
NORAH ELLIS.
Her legal name before Roman.
“How did he know my surname?” she whispered.
Roman’s expression offered no answer.
She unfolded the letter.
The handwriting was shaky but deliberate.
Miss Ellis,
If you are reading this, then Vincent discovered enough to become dangerous, or I am dead, or both.
You were selected because you are outside our family and because Cavalari will protect you even from himself.
Roman stopped breathing.
Norah continued.
I have watched powerful men mistake possession for loyalty all my life. Vincent is making the same mistake. He believes fear can hold an empire together. It cannot.
The records enclosed document payments, names, accounts, and agreements accumulated over twenty-seven years. Some belong to Moretti interests. Some belong to Cavalari interests. Some belong to men who wear judges’ robes, uniforms, and elected titles.
Do not give them to Vincent.
Do not give them to Roman.
Norah stopped.
Roman’s jaw had become rigid.
She read the final lines.
If you must trust one of them, trust the one willing to let you walk away.
Spring remembers what winter buries.
S. Moretti.
Silence filled the private room.
Norah slowly lowered the paper.
Roman looked at the flash drives.
“You knew nothing about this?”
“No.”
She believed him.
His anger was too immediate and too specific.
“What does it mean by Cavalari interests?” she asked.
“It means Salvatore had records on my family.”
“Your father?”
“Probably.”
“On you?”
“Possibly.”
Norah looked at the letter again.
Do not give them to Roman.
She expected him to demand the drives.
He did not.
Instead Roman stepped away from the table.
“They belong to you.”
Norah blinked.
“What?”
“Salvatore entrusted them to you.”
“You want them.”
“Yes.”
“But you’re not taking them.”
“No.”
“Why?”
His eyes moved to the letter.
“Because apparently a dead man is judging me.”
Despite everything, Norah almost smiled.
Roman did not.
“You asked me for proof I understand the difference between protection and control.”
He gestured toward the box.
“There.”
Norah studied him.
“You could simply take them.”
“Yes.”
“You could order the manager to claim the box never existed.”
“Yes.”
“You could lock me upstairs and read everything.”
“Yes.”
Roman’s voice lowered.
“But then Salvatore would be right.”
Something inside Norah shifted.
Not forgiveness.
Not trust.
But movement.
She removed the two drives and placed them in her purse.
Roman did not stop her.
“What about the book?”
“Take it.”
They left the vault.
Tommy saw Norah’s expression.
“What did we find?”
“A dead man with a sense of humor,” Roman said.
Then the lights went out.
The bank plunged into darkness.
Emergency lighting activated seconds later.
A red glow filled the corridor.
Tommy immediately moved in front of Norah.
Roman pulled her behind him.
A muffled crash came from the lobby.
Then shouting.
Norah’s pulse exploded.
Roman’s voice became cold.
“Back into the vault.”
“No.”
“Nora.”
The private manager appeared at the end of the corridor, terrified.
“There’s been an incident upstairs.”
“What kind?” Tommy asked.
“I don’t know.”
Roman grabbed Norah’s shoulders.
“Listen to me. Stay here.”
She looked into his eyes.
He was afraid.
Not of whatever was upstairs.
For her.
Before she could answer, a telephone on the manager’s desk began ringing.
Everyone froze.
The manager stared at it.
Roman picked up the receiver.
He said nothing.
A man’s voice came through clearly enough for Norah to hear.
“Roman.”
Roman’s expression transformed.
“Luca.”
Norah’s blood went cold.
The voice laughed.
“So she found the box.”
Roman looked at Norah.
“How did you know we were here?”
“You still think this city belongs to you.”
Luca sounded almost amused.
“It belonged to men before you were born.”
Roman’s grip tightened around the receiver.
“What do you want?”
“The drives.”
“No.”
Norah looked at him.
Luca continued.
“They don’t belong to you.”
“I know.”
“Interesting. Three years ago you would already have taken them from her.”
Roman’s face gave away nothing.
“What do you want, Luca?”
“To speak to Norah.”
“No.”
Norah stepped forward.
Roman blocked her.
Luca laughed again.
“She’s standing beside you, isn’t she?”
Roman said nothing.
“Nora,” Luca called through the receiver. “Ask him what his father did to your mother.”
Norah stopped breathing.
Roman’s face lost all color.
The corridor seemed to tilt.
Her mother had died when Norah was fifteen.
A car accident.
Rain.
A highway.
A story so ordinary she had never questioned it.
She looked at Roman.
“What does he mean?”
Roman did not answer.
Luca’s voice came quietly through the receiver.
“He never told you.”
Norah stared at the man she had returned to less than twenty-four hours earlier.
May you like
HE LIED, NORA.
Suddenly the words on the mirror meant something entirely different.
