Chapter 3 - The Ghost in the Dining Room
The grand dining room of the Moretti mansion was a symphony of wealth and power. Two hundred guests sat beneath three massive crystal chandeliers that had been imported from Murano by Vincent’s grandfather in 1954. The walls were lined with dark mahogany paneling, and the long banquet tables were laden with heavy silver service, porcelain from Limoges, and bottles of wine that cost more than a maid’s annual salary.
At the head of the center table sat Senator Marcus Vale, Isabella’s father. He was a man of large proportions, with a florid face and a white mane of hair that made him look like a statesman from a movie poster. Beside him sat Judge Anthony Scalia of the Illinois Circuit Court, and across from them were the caporegimes of the Moretti family—the old men who handled the unions, the waste management companies, and the construction rackets that kept the family’s wealth looking legal.
It was an alliance dinner. A marriage between the blood of the old syndicate and the respectability of the state capitol.
When Vincent entered the dining room, the chatter died down slightly, a murmur of respect passing through the tables as the young don took his place at the head of the room. He had changed his clothes, his dark tailored suit immaculate, his cuffs straight. But those who knew Vincent well noticed the slight stiffness in his jaw, the way his eyes remained cold despite the golden light of the chandeliers.
Isabella entered a moment later, her arm slipping through his with a calculated, desperate grip. Her white silk gown shimmered under the lights, but her skin was pale beneath her makeup.
"Smile, darling," she whispered through her teeth as they walked toward their seats. "The press photographer from the Tribune is by the entrance. We have a narrative to maintain."
"Your father’s friends are loud tonight," Vincent said, his voice flat as he sat down.
"They are celebrating our union, Vincent," Senator Vale boomed from his right, raising a glass of dark red Amarone. "A great night for Chicago. Stability. Legacy. That’s what this dinner represents."
Vincent looked across the table at Edwin Clark, who stood near the sideboard, supervising the wine service with his usual clockwork efficiency. To any guest, Edwin was the perfect English-style butler, a fixture of the house who had been there longer than the furniture. But Vincent’s eyes didn't see the perfect butler anymore. He saw the blue ink on the child welfare referral. He saw the plastic zip-ties.
"Edwin," Vincent called out over the sound of clinking silver.
Edwin moved instantly to his side, bending his ear low. "Yes, Mr. Moretti?"
"Where is the Parker girl and her mother now?" Vincent asked, his voice loud enough for Isabella to hear, though the music from the string quartet in the foyer drowned it out for the rest of the table.
"They are in the secondary staff quarters, sir," Edwin whispered, his expression unreadable. "Under guard, as requested. The state worker was told there was a delay in the paperwork."
"Keep them there," Vincent said. "And tell the cook to send a tray of chicken broth and fresh bread to that room. If I find out they are given scraps, Edwin, I will have the cook’s hands."
Edwin’s eyes widened slightly, but he bowed. "Immediately, sir."
As Edwin walked away, Isabella leaned over the table, her fork clattering against her porcelain plate. "Vincent, this is an insult. You are treating a common thief like a guest while my father is sitting right here. It’s embarrassing."
"What’s embarrassing, Isabella," Vincent said, his voice dropping into a chilling whisper that made the senator look up from his steak, "is that someone in this house thought they could use my name to commit a kidnapping before I had my coffee."
"Kidnapping?" Senator Vale asked, his loud voice dropping as his political instincts caught the scent of a scandal. "What's this about a kidnapping, Vincent? Is there a security issue in the house?"
"Nothing for you to worry about, Senator," Vincent said, turning to the older man with a cold, polished smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Just a small clerical error in the household staff files. We are fixing it. My father always said: if a door squeaks in your house, you don't oil it. You find out who loosened the screws."
Judge Scalia chuckled, raising his glass. "Old Leo Moretti was a wise man, Vincent. Always knew how to keep his backyard clean."
Vincent looked back at his plate, his fingers turning his mother’s sapphire brooch over in his pocket. The silver was warming against his thigh. He could still feel the child’s tiny hand against his trousers, the broken tag with the scratched letters: For Mama.
May you like
He knew Grace Parker hadn't stolen that brooch. The brooch had been placed in that room for one reason only: to create a legal pretext to remove her from the estate, and more importantly, to remove Lily. The blue form at 7:41 p.m. was the proof. It wasn't a reaction to a theft; it was a schedule.
The dinner continued for three long hours. To the high-society crowd of Chicago, it was a flawless evening of luxury and celebration. To Vincent Moretti, it was a countdown. Every laugh from Isabella, every toast from her father, every silent movement from Edwin Clark was a data point being entered into a ledger that would be balanced before the sun rose over the lake.
