Chapter 3 - THE RED TRENCH COAT
“I didn't put this here,” I whispered, staring in horror at the heavy brass key in my palm.
Dante’s eyes were like black ice. He didn’t raise his voice, but the absolute stillness of his posture was far more terrifying than a shout.
“You’re holding the key to a warehouse registered in your name, Emily,” Dante said slowly. “A warehouse containing the vehicle my wife died in. A vehicle you just claimed you knew nothing about.”
“I don't!” I cried, my voice echoing off the high, frescoed ceiling. “Mr. Moretti, please, you have to think about this logically! If I was hiding something this massive, why would I carry the key in my apron pocket during a dinner party? Why would I bring Margaret Ellis’s locket into the dining room at all? I would have thrown it away!”
Marco stepped closer, his hand subtly resting on the holster at his hip. “Boss, we need to take her down to the security office. We can get the truth out of her quietly.”
Noah let out a sharp, terrified wail. He stepped in front of me, throwing his small arms around my legs, shielding me from his own father.
“No!” the seven-year-old screamed, tears streaming down his flushed face. “Leave Emily alone! She didn’t do it! The lady at the window said Celeste is the bad one!”
Celeste Harrington let out an offended gasp, clutching her diamond necklace.
“Dante, are you going to let your son speak to me that way?” Celeste demanded, her voice shrill. “This maid has clearly brainwashed him! She probably planted those nightmares in his head to turn him against me! She’s obsessed with you, Dante. It’s pathetic. She wants to take Anna’s place!”
The sheer audacity of her lie made my blood boil.
I didn’t care that I was a maid. I didn’t care that thirty-six millionaires were watching. I wrapped my arms protectively around Noah and glared directly at Celeste.
“I am not obsessed with anyone,” I said, my voice suddenly steady, fueled by pure adrenaline. “But I do know how this key got into my pocket.”
Dante’s eyes narrowed. “Explain.”
I took a deep breath, trying to steady my racing heart.
“Before dinner, Mrs. Harrington called me into the master suite,” I said, looking right at Dante. “She said she had spilled perfume on her red trench coat and demanded I take it to the dry-cleaning bin immediately. When I picked up the coat, this key fell out of the pocket onto the carpet.”
Celeste’s face twitched. Just a millimeter, but I saw it.
“I didn't know what it was,” I continued rapidly. “I thought it was the spare key to the wine cellar or the pantry. I shoved it in my apron pocket, intending to give it to Marco after the dinner service, and then the caterers arrived, and I completely forgot about it until just now.”
“Liar!” Celeste spat, taking a step toward me. Her red silk gown swirled around her ankles. “I haven’t worn my red trench coat in months! You’re grasping at straws, trying to frame me to save your own skin!”
Dante looked at his fiancée.
For a long, agonizing moment, he simply studied her face. He looked at the way her chest was heaving, the way her manicured nails were digging into her own palms.
Then, Dante turned to his security chief.
“Marco,” Dante said quietly. “Go up to the master suite. Check the dry-cleaning bin.”
Celeste’s eyes widened in genuine panic. “Dante, you cannot be serious! You’re going to search my belongings based on the frantic lies of the help? In front of our friends?”
“If she’s lying,” Dante said, his voice flat and devoid of emotion, “Marco will find an empty bin, and Emily will spend the rest of her life in a federal cell for extortion and evidence tampering. But if Marco finds a red trench coat smelling of perfume…”
Dante didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to.
Marco turned on his heel and sprinted out of the dining room.
The silence that followed was agonizing. The guests sat rigidly in their chairs, watching a high-stakes execution play out in real-time. I held Noah tightly against me, stroking his dark hair, praying that Celeste hadn’t somehow sneaked upstairs to remove the coat while I was serving the appetizers.
Two minutes later, heavy footsteps echoed on the grand staircase.
Marco re-entered the dining room.
Draped over his massive forearm was a bright red, designer trench coat.
Celeste swayed on her feet.
“It was in the bin, Boss,” Marco reported, his voice grim. “And the right pocket smells strongly of Chanel No. 5.”
Dante stared at the coat. Then he slowly turned his gaze back to the woman he was supposed to marry.
“You lied to me,” Dante whispered.
“Dante, wait, I can explain—” Celeste started, her voice cracking in desperation.
“Save it,” Dante cut her off, his voice like the crack of a whip. He looked at the guests at the table. “Get out. All of you. The engagement is off.”
This time, nobody hesitated. The guests practically climbed over each other to escape the dining room, fleeing out the front doors into the rainy night.
Within ninety seconds, the massive room was empty, save for Dante, Marco, Celeste, Noah, and me.
Dante reached out and took the brass key from my trembling hand.
“Marco,” Dante ordered. “Pull the SUV around. We’re going to the Bayside Storage facility right now.”
“I’ll get the men,” Marco said.
“No,” Dante corrected sharply. “No backup. We don’t know who on our payroll Celeste has compromised. It’s just you, me, and Emily.”
“Me?” I asked, my voice squeaking.
“You’re the only one my son trusts right now,” Dante said, his eyes softening just a fraction as he looked at Noah. “And if my wife left a message for him in that car, I want you there to read it to him.”
Celeste made a sudden, frantic break for the mahogany doors.
Marco caught her by the arm before she made it three steps, pinning her effortlessly in place.
“You’re coming too, Celeste,” Dante promised, his voice dripping with venom. “You’re going to look at the wreckage of my wife’s car, and you’re going to tell me exactly what you did to her.”
Twenty minutes later, we were standing in the freezing, damp corridor of a massive industrial warehouse. The smell of oil, dust, and rust hung heavy in the air. Noah held my hand in a vice grip, hiding behind my legs as Marco slid the heavy corrugated metal door of Unit 402 upward.
The overhead fluorescent lights flickered to life with a loud, electric hum.
In the center of the concrete floor, covered by a heavy gray tarp, was a large, jagged shape.
Dante walked forward slowly. He looked like a man walking to the gallows. He grabbed the edge of the tarp and yanked it backward.
I gasped, covering Noah’s eyes.
The silver SUV was unrecognizable. The entire front end was crushed inward like a tin can. The driver’s side door was missing completely. The windshield was a web of shattered safety glass, stained with old, dried blood.
Seeing it in person, the visceral reality of Anna’s brutal death hit me like a physical blow.
Dante braced his hands against his knees, his head dropping as he took a ragged, agonizing breath. For a moment, the untouchable mafia boss looked completely broken.
Then, he stood up, his face hardening into stone.
“Where would she hide the message?” Dante asked, turning to me.
“Noah said the other half of the locket was in the car,” I said, my voice shaking. “Maybe the glove compartment? Or under the seats?”
Dante pulled a flashlight from Marco and leaned into the mangled wreckage. He searched the glovebox, the center console, and beneath the floor mats.
“Nothing,” Dante muttered in frustration.
I let go of Noah’s hand, telling him to stay by the door, and stepped closer to the passenger side.
I looked at the dashboard. The airbags had deployed, leaving jagged tears in the leather. But beneath the passenger side airbag compartment, something caught the light.
It was a small, silver chain hanging slightly from the air conditioning vent.
“Mr. Moretti,” I whispered, pointing.
Dante rushed over. He reached his large hand into the shattered plastic of the vent, his knuckles scraping against the sharp edges. He pulled.
Out came the other half of the silver locket.
But it wasn’t just a piece of jewelry.
Attached to the back of the locket with a piece of electrical tape was a small, black micro-cassette recorder. The kind journalists used to use.
Celeste, still restrained by Marco by the door, let out a whimpering, terrified sob.
Dante didn’t look at her. He peeled the tape away, his hands shaking slightly, and pressed the play button on the recorder.
For a second, there was only the sound of static.
And then, a woman’s voice filled the echoing warehouse.
It was Anna Moretti.
May you like
But she wasn’t leaving a message for Dante, or for Noah. She was speaking in real-time, her voice tight with panic and anger over the sound of a rushing engine.
“I know you’re in the backseat, Celeste,” Anna’s recorded voice rang out, clear as a bell. “I can see you in the rearview mirror. Put the knife down. You aren’t getting a single dollar of Dante’s money.”
