Chapter 4 - The Child Andrew Hid
Josephine stared at the photograph until the boy’s face blurred.
Andrew had a son.
There were sentences capable of reorganizing an entire marriage.
That was one of them.
“How old?”
Dante examined the photograph.
“Six. Maybe seven.”
Josephine calculated automatically.
She and Andrew had been married seven years.
The nausea came immediately.
“He cheated.”
“Maybe.”
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Give him another mystery to hide behind.”
Dante returned the photograph.
Josephine looked at the boy again.
Dark hair.
Brown eyes.
A small scar near his chin.
Nothing about him resembled Andrew strongly enough for certainty.
But Andrew had preserved the photograph underground.
That mattered.
“Who is the mother?”
Dante searched the wall.
A name had been removed from several documents.
Someone had carefully cut sections away with a blade.
One report remained mostly intact.
Dante read it.
“Rebecca Vale.”
Josephine looked up.
“Vale?”
“Leonard Vale’s daughter.”
“The accountant you asked me about?”
“Yes.”
Josephine’s mind raced.
“Where is she?”
“Missing.”
“Since when?”
Dante checked the date.
“Seven years.”
Josephine laughed bitterly.
“Of course.”
Dante glanced at her.
“Of course what?”
“Everyone around my husband is dead, missing or pretending to be dead.”
Dante almost smiled.
It vanished quickly.
One of his men approached.
“Boss.”
He handed Dante a tablet.
Security footage from outside St. Agnes.
A black SUV had pulled up.
Two armed men exited.
“Company,” Dante said.
Josephine watched the monitor.
“Who?”
“Not mine.”
Gunfire erupted upstairs.
Dante grabbed Josephine’s arm.
“There’s another exit.”
“How do you know?”
“I grew up in churches with secret exits.”
“That’s not comforting.”
“Wasn’t meant to be.”
They moved through a tunnel beneath the church.
Josephine clutched the child’s photograph.
Halfway through, Dante’s phone vibrated.
He read the message.
“What?”
He showed her.
A photograph.
Marcus Bell tied to a chair.
Alive.
Below it:
TRADE THE WOMAN FOR BELL.
Josephine read it twice.
“The woman means me.”
“Yes.”
“Who sent it?”
“Unknown.”
“Will you trade me?”
Dante looked genuinely insulted.
“No.”
“For Marcus?”
“I don’t like Marcus.”
Despite everything, Josephine almost laughed.
Then she saw another message arrive.
WE KNOW WHO SHE IS.
Dante stopped walking.
Josephine felt the tunnel grow colder.
“What happens if people know who I am?”
“That depends which people.”
“Explain.”
Dante hesitated.
Then continued walking.
“In my world, bloodlines still matter to old men who pretend they don’t.”
“You mean organized crime.”
“Yes.”
“My father was involved?”
“Your father was supposed to inherit half the Moretti organization.”
Josephine stopped.
“I don’t want it.”
“That won’t matter to everyone.”
“I sell commercial real estate.”
“Congratulations.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
He turned toward her.
“If Michael had a surviving child, some people would consider you legitimate family.”
Josephine stared.
“That’s insane.”
“Yes.”
“Then why do you care?”
“Because my father spent thirty years making sure Michael’s line disappeared.”
Josephine’s skin prickled.
“My mother.”
Dante nodded.
“She ran before you were born.”
“And Elena?”
“My sister discovered why.”
“What happened to her?”
Dante looked away.
“She died in a car accident.”
Josephine understood immediately.
“You don’t believe it was an accident.”
“No.”
They reached a steel ladder.
Dante climbed first.
They emerged inside an abandoned auto shop two blocks away.
His driver waited.
As Josephine entered the car, she noticed another photograph tucked behind the child’s picture.
She pulled it free.
Andrew stood beside Rebecca Vale.
Rebecca was pregnant.
The date was visible.
Six years and eleven months ago.
Josephine closed her eyes.
There was no mystery there.
Andrew had cheated during the first year of their marriage.
Dante saw the photograph.
He said nothing.
Josephine appreciated that more than comfort.
They drove to Dante’s lakefront penthouse.
It occupied the top two floors of a building Josephine had sold units in years earlier.
She remembered brokers whispering that the upper floors belonged to a private investor.
Now she knew.
Dante led her into an office.
“Stay here.”
“I’m not a prisoner.”
“No. Prisoners don’t get the good coffee.”
“Dante.”
He stopped.
It was the first time she had used his first name.
They both noticed.
“Find the child,” Josephine said.
“I already started.”
“And Rebecca.”
“If she’s alive.”
Josephine looked at the photograph.
“She needs to be.”
Dante left.
Josephine spent the next hour reading documents copied from St. Agnes.
The deeper she went, the less she recognized the man she had married.
Andrew had used shell companies.
False identities.
Encrypted accounts.
He had met federal agents.
He had met criminals.
He had moved millions through charities Josephine believed were legitimate.
Then she found something unexpected.
Payments to women’s shelters.
Children’s hospitals.
Witness relocation funds.
Andrew had stolen money from criminals.
But much of it had been redirected toward people those criminals had hurt.
Josephine hated the relief she felt.
Even now she wanted evidence that he had been good.
A door opened.
Dante returned.
“We found the boy.”
Josephine stood.
“Where?”
“Wisconsin.”
“With Rebecca?”
“No.”
“Then who?”
“An elderly couple.”
They drove north.
Three hours later Josephine stood outside a farmhouse near Lake Geneva.
A woman in her seventies opened the door.
When she saw Josephine, she began crying.
“You look like Michael.”
Josephine froze.
“You knew my father?”
The woman nodded.
“My name is Margaret Vale.”
Leonard Vale’s wife.
Rebecca’s mother.
Dante remained several steps behind.
Margaret looked at him.
“You shouldn’t have brought him.”
“He brought me.”
“That’s worse.”
Josephine stepped closer.
“Where is the boy?”
Margaret’s face softened.
“Upstairs.”
“Is Andrew his father?”
Margaret hesitated.
Josephine’s chest tightened.
“Please.”
“No.”
Josephine blinked.
“What?”
“Andrew protected him.”
“Then why did the files say—”
“Because anyone looking for the boy needed to believe Andrew was his father.”
Dante stepped forward.
“Who is?”
Margaret looked at Josephine.
“Your brother.”
Josephine stopped breathing.
“My what?”
The boy appeared at the top of the stairs.
He held a toy airplane.
He had Josephine’s eyes.
Margaret wiped her tears.
“Your mother gave birth twice.”
Josephine stared at the child.
“That’s impossible.”
“No.”
“My mother died ten years ago.”
“Yes.”
“She never—”
“She was protecting him.”
Josephine looked again at the boy.
“The age doesn’t make sense.”
Margaret nodded.
“Because he isn’t your mother’s son.”
Josephine’s frustration burst.
“Then what do you mean?”
Margaret sat down.
“Michael Moretti had another child before he met your mother.”
Dante went completely still.
“Who?”
Margaret looked toward the hallway.
A floorboard creaked.
Someone else was in the house.
Margaret’s face drained of color.
“No.”
Dante reached for his gun.
Josephine turned.
A man stepped from the shadows.
Alive.
Uninjured.
Wearing the same wedding ring Josephine had buried eight months earlier.
May you like
Andrew looked directly at her.
“Hello, Josie.”
