Chapter 2 - THE PHANTOM IN THE KITCHEN
Pitch black.
The emergency generators of Bellavista hummed to life three seconds later, casting a sickly amber glow across the private dining room. But in those three seconds of absolute darkness, everything had changed.
Frank DeLuca was gone.
The heavy oak door leading to the service hallway stood wide open, its brass handle still vibrating.
“Guard!” Anthony Moretti’s voice cracked like a whip, cutting through the panicked murmurs of the remaining staff. “Shut the perimeter doors! Nobody leaves this building!”
My chest heaved. I was shaking so violently I dropped my serving tray; it hit the marble floor with a deafening crash.
“Your mother survived the first time,” Frank’s parting whisper echoed in my ears. “We weren’t going to make that mistake again.”
What did he mean? My mother was lying in a hospital bed at St. Jude’s, recovering from chronic renal failure. She had been there for three weeks. How could Frank, a man I had only laid eyes on twenty minutes ago, know anything about her survival?
“Evelyn.”
Anthony’s hand clamped down on my shoulder. His grip was firm, grounded, but his gray eyes were wide with a turbulent mix of fury and sudden, terrifying realization.
“Who is your mother?” Anthony demanded, his voice dropping to a harsh, gravelly register.
“H-Helen Parker,” I stammered, pulling away slightly. “She’s a nurse. A retired surgical nurse.”
Michael Moretti pushed past his father, his face ghostly pale, clutching the back of a velvet chair to keep from falling. “Dad, stop it. Let the girl go. This is a setup. Frank was playing us.”
“Shut up, Michael!” Anthony snapped, spinning around to face his thirty-four-year-old son. “Frank whispered something to her about her mother. A woman Frank supposedly never met. And you—how did you know she entered through the kitchen when nobody announced it?”
Michael flinched as if he’d been struck. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. He looked down at his polished leather shoes, his jaw clenching so hard muscles ticked in his cheek.
Anthony released my shoulder and stepped toward his son, his voice dropping into a chilling, soft cadence. “Did you bring her here tonight, Michael? Did my own son hire a waitress to poison me while Victoria watched?”
“No!” Victoria sobbed from the corner where two security guards held her arms. “Anthony, I swear to God, Michael had nothing to do with it! It was Frank! Frank orchestrated the whole thing! He wanted the accounts!”
“Frank is an accountant and an enforcer,” Anthony said without turning around. “He doesn’t move millions without a bank routing number. And he doesn't care about a dying nurse at St. Jude’s unless she holds a key to something he’s been hunting for thirty years.”
Anthony turned back to me, his gaze boring straight through me. “You said your mother’s hospital bill was paid in full this morning.”
“Yes,” I whispered, my throat tight. “Five thousand dollars. Cleared the balance and paid for her dialysis upgrade.”
“And who do you think paid it, Evelyn?” Anthony asked quietly.
“I… I don't know. The hospital billing department said it was an anonymous corporate wire from a Swiss holding trust.”
“The Moretti Family Trust,” Anthony finished for me. He reached into his tailored breast pocket and pulled out a small, leather-bound black notebook. He flipped the pages rapidly until he stopped at a yellowed, handwritten entry near the back.
He held it out so I could see the ink.
Dated twenty-five years ago.
“St. Jude’s Hospital. Helen Parker. Protection detail established. Monthly stipend active.”
May you like
My breath caught in my throat. My knees felt like water. I grabbed the edge of the mahogany table to keep from collapsing.
“My father… your grandfather… didn't just pay for your mother’s hospital bills today,” Anthony said, his voice heavy with a terrible realization. “He has been paying them every single month for a quarter of a century. Since the day you were born.”
