Chapter 2 - THE WRONG ADDRESS
The silence in the dining room felt like all the air had been vacuumed out.
Paul’s hand remained frozen above his laptop keyboard. He was staring at Celeste, his face stripped of its usual corporate arrogance. Celeste’s porcelain skin flushed a deep, ugly red, clashing violently with her orange designer gown.
“It’s a mistake,” Celeste said. Her voice was sharp, too loud for the quiet room. “A mislabeled file. Paul, close that document.”
Matteo didn’t move. He didn’t yell. That was the most terrifying part. He simply shifted his dark, heavy gaze from the laptop screen to his finance director.
“Don’t touch the laptop, Paul.”
Paul swallowed hard. He looked like a man standing on a trapdoor.
“Matteo,” Celeste started, her tone shifting into a sudden, honeyed purr. She reached across the table, trying to place her hand over his tattooed one. “Darling, this is simply a clerical error. You know how these firms are. They mix up client files all the time. This waitress doesn’t understand—”
“I understand that residential real estate deposits don’t typically go to commercial restaurant equipment suppliers,” I said quietly.
I hadn’t meant to speak. A smart woman would have backed out of the room, grabbed her coat, and driven her 2008 Honda Civic straight out of state. But I had spent seventeen years untangling lies on spreadsheets. When I saw a thread, my brain physically ached until I pulled it.
Thomas Mercer let out a low, dry chuckle. “Well. It seems my ninety thousand didn’t go missing. It went to the suburbs.”
Matteo ignored him. He slowly pulled his hand away from Celeste’s reach. “Ellen, is it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Look at the screen again, Ellen,” Matteo said, his voice terrifyingly calm. “What else does it say?”
I stepped closer to the table, ignoring the pure venom radiating from Celeste. I leaned over Paul’s shoulder.
“The address,” I said, reading the fine print beneath the Westbridge Legal letterhead. “It’s a property in Elm Creek. 442 Willow Lane. The transfer was a ten percent earnest money deposit. Which means the total purchase price is nine hundred thousand.”
“I’ve never heard of that address,” Matteo said. “Have you, Celeste?”
“No!” she cried, standing up so fast her chair scraped against the hardwood. “Matteo, you cannot take the word of a diner waitress over your own fiancée! Paul, tell him. Tell him right now that this is a mistake.”
Paul looked up at her, and in that split second, I saw something unexpected. Not fear. Resentment.
“I processed the transfer as instructed, Ms. Vance,” Paul said smoothly.
Celeste gasped, taking a step back. “You lying snake. You’re the one who—”
“Who what?” Matteo asked softly.
He finally stood. The sheer physical presence of the man commanded the room. He was tall, broad-shouldered, carrying a quiet violence that didn't need to be announced. He walked over to Paul, reached down, and turned the laptop toward himself. He stared at the screen for a long, agonizing minute.
Then, he reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a small, silver key. He tossed it onto the table. It clattered sharply against the fine china.
“That’s the key to the Elm Creek house,” Matteo said.
My breath caught.
Celeste froze. “You… you knew about the house?”
“I knew there was a house,” Matteo said. “I didn't know you were using Mercer's project funds to pay for it, leaving my business partner holding the bag. I didn't know you had Paul doctoring the ledgers to hide it.”
“I was building a future for us!” Celeste pleaded, tears springing to her eyes. It was a good performance, but the panic underneath was real. “A safe place. Away from the docks, away from… this life.”
“You bought it in your maiden name, Celeste,” Matteo said, pointing a heavy finger at the screen. “And you set it up under an LLC that doesn't trace back to me.”
Thomas Mercer stood, buttoning his suit jacket. “This is a touching domestic dispute, Matteo, but I have a business to run. You owe me an apology, a revised contract, and my ninety thousand dollars back.”
“You'll have it by tomorrow morning, Thomas,” Matteo said without looking at him.
Mercer nodded at me on his way out. “Good eye, Ellen. You’re wasting your time serving coffee.”
The front door clicked shut. The silence returned.
“Get out, Paul,” Matteo ordered. “And leave the laptop.”
Paul didn’t argue. He practically sprinted from the room.
“Matteo, please,” Celeste begged, her voice trembling. “It’s not what it looks like.”
“Go upstairs, Celeste. Pack a single bag. The driver will take you wherever you want to go, as long as it isn't here.”
“You can’t do this!” she screamed, the polished veneer finally cracking. “You need me!”
“Fifteen minutes,” was all he said.
She turned and fled up the grand staircase, sobbing.
I stood awkwardly holding the empty cream pitcher. “I should… I should go to the kitchen and clean up.”
“No,” Matteo said. “Sit down, Ellen.”
I hesitated, then took the chair Mercer had vacated.
Matteo sat heavily at the head of the table. He rubbed his face, suddenly looking much older than his forty-odd years. He pulled a heavy, leather-bound notebook from his jacket and placed it on the table.
“Seventeen years in commercial accounting, you said?”
“Yes. Before the buyout.”
He opened the notebook. Inside, tucked between the pages, was a small, faded photograph. It slipped out and landed face-up on the linen tablecloth.
It was a picture of a little boy, maybe six years old, holding a blue toy train. The boy had Matteo’s dark eyes.
Matteo quickly snatched the photo up and shoved it back into the notebook, but not before I saw the date printed in the corner. August 2024. Just two years ago.
“My businesses have grown too fast,” Matteo said, his voice thick. “I have legitimate companies, I have… other interests. I trusted people I shouldn't have. Paul. Celeste.” He tapped the leather notebook. “There’s a hole in my private accounts. A massive one. Millions.”
“You want me to find it,” I said.
“I need someone who isn't intimidated by the zeros, and who isn't on my payroll yet. You saw through a heavily disguised ledger in five minutes.”
“Mr. Rinaldi, I balance invoices for meat deliveries. Millions of dollars in hidden funds… that’s dangerous.”
“Yes, it is,” he said honestly. “But I will pay you triple your old salary. And I will guarantee your safety.”
I looked at the silver key still sitting on the table. “Why did she buy the house, Mr. Rinaldi? If it wasn't for you.”
Matteo’s jaw tightened. He opened the laptop, navigated past the banking screen, and opened a sub-folder Paul had left minimized.
“Because of this,” Matteo said, turning the screen toward me.
It was a birth certificate. The mother’s name was listed as Celeste Vance.
But the father’s name wasn't Matteo. It was Thomas Mercer.
And the child's name was Leo.
May you like
The boy with the blue train.
“She’s hiding him,” Matteo said quietly. “And I need you to find out how much of my money they’ve used to do it.”
