Chapter 9 - THE TEARING OF THE VEIL
Within eight minutes, the grand Venetian ballroom of the Moretti estate was completely transformed.
The three hundred elite guests—aldermen, captains, socialites, and shipping moguls—had been escorted out through the grand portico by two dozen armed security personnel in dark suits, their vehicles summoned and cleared from the long gravel drive without an explanation. The string quartet had packed their instruments in silent, terrified haste, fleeing the mezzanine as if the mansion were on fire. The candelabras had burned down to pools of wax, casting long, wavering shadows across the empty tables, the untouched desserts, and the abandoned champagne flutes.
The grand ballroom was empty, save for Dante Moretti, Clara Alvarez, and little Sophie.
Dante sat in a high-backed leather wing chair near the marble fireplace, his navy suit jacket unbuttoned, his white shirt cuffs rolled back over his muscular, tattooed forearms. On the low mahogany coffee table before him lay the black lacquered box, its red ribbon discarded on the floor, and beside it, the antique silver key resting on the dark polished wood.
Clara sat on the edge of the velvet sofa opposite him, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her head bowed in total surrender. Her weeping had quieted into soft, rhythmic hiccups, her fair face pale and lined with the exhaustion of carrying a mountain of secrets for four long years.
Beside her sat Sophie, happily swinging her patent-leather shoes, safely focused on a small plate of candied chestnuts Dante had ordered brought to her, completely unaware of the historical detonation occurring around her.
Dante leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his dark eyes fixed on Clara’s face.
“Speak, Clara,” Dante said softly. His baritone was devoid of rage, carried only by a quiet, devastating demand for the truth. “You have five minutes to tell me why my mother’s key was in that box, and who that woman was.”
Clara swallowed hard, lifting her tear-streaked face to meet his gaze.
“She… she was my sister, Dante,” Clara whispered, her voice cracking with four years of buried agony.
Dante’s brow furrowed, his jaw clenching. “Your sister died in a car crash in Milan five years ago. I reviewed your background file myself.”
“Her name was Lucia,” Clara wept, fresh tears tracking down her cheeks. “She didn't die in Milan. She was placed in private witness protection by your father’s legal team thirty years ago. She was your mother’s personal nurse, Dante. She was the woman who was in the north wing on the night the fire started.”
Dante went completely, terrifyingly still.
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“Go on,” Dante commanded, the words barely audible.
“Your mother didn't die in that fire, Dante,” Clara whispered, the secret tearing through her lips like broken glass. “The fire was set to cover an escape. Your father was going to kill her because she found the offshore ledgers—the ones that proved he had orchestrated the murder of his own brother to take control of the Chicago docks. Lucia helped your mother slip through the servant tunnels before the gasoline was lit.”
