Chapter 5 - The Mistress Who Smiled While My Phone Kept Ringing
The photograph of the recovery center was taken at 6:52 P.M.
By 7:10, Detective Vega had ordered additional security around the building.
By 7:35, Jenna was packing my belongings.
And by 8:00, I was beginning to understand that the accident had not ended whatever danger I'd been in.
It had only interrupted it.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
Jenna folded a sweater into my suitcase.
“Somewhere safer.”
“Damian's going to find out.”
“Damian is not the only person in Miami with resources.”
I watched her work.
For eleven years, I had lived in a mansion with cameras at every gate and armed guards at every entrance.
My husband had told me those things meant I was protected.
Now I was leaving a medical facility in an unmarked car because someone connected to his world had found me.
It was difficult not to recognize the irony.
Dr. Hart examined me before the transfer.
She reminded me that stress could worsen my headaches and fatigue.
She also insisted that I continue my treatment.
“This is not the moment to prove how strong you are by ignoring your injuries,” she said.
I managed a small smile.
“I wasn't planning to.”
“Good.”
She squeezed my shoulder.
“Being frightened doesn't mean you're helpless, Claire.”
I carried those words with me as Jenna and I left through a staff entrance.
Detective Vega had arranged temporary accommodation through a victim-protection program while the investigation continued.
The location was confidential.
Even Samuel Price received it through a secure communication channel.
Damian was not told.
That night, however, the story of my accident became public.
A Miami news station reported that the wife of Damian Moretti had survived a serious collision and was recovering from a traumatic brain injury.
The report mentioned possible suspicious circumstances.
It also mentioned the Moretti family's shipping businesses.
By morning, the story was everywhere.
Some reporters called it an attempted assassination.
Others suggested the collision was connected to an internal family dispute.
Several gossip accounts resurrected photographs of Damian and Bianca at restaurants, hotels, and private parties.
And then one photograph appeared that made me feel physically ill.
It showed Bianca standing on the deck of The Seraphina.
She wore a white silk dress.
Damian stood behind her.
One hand rested on her waist.
The photograph had been taken on the night of my accident.
The timestamp was 8:11 P.M.
Three minutes before my car was struck.
I stared at the image on Jenna's laptop.
Damian was smiling.
Not broadly.
Not happily.
But enough.
While I was desperately trying to escape a vehicle following me through the rain, my husband had been smiling for a photograph with his mistress.
Jenna reached for the computer.
“You don't have to look at this.”
I stopped her.
“Yes, I do.”
“Claire—”
“I need to see what was real.”
I examined Damian's face.
Still nothing.
No recognition.
No memory of his smile.
But I knew something about the photograph.
The man standing behind Bianca had been comfortable.
He had been safe.
He had been surrounded by people whose jobs were to protect him.
And he'd never wondered whether his wife might need those same people.
I closed the laptop.
“I'm done protecting his reputation.”
Jenna nodded.
“Then don't.”
At noon, Detective Vega called with an update.
The Moretti security vehicle was still missing.
Its company tracking device had stopped transmitting shortly before the crash.
A vehicle access log had been altered, but investigators had preserved an earlier version from a backup system.
The records placed the vehicle under the control of a manager named Dominic Rinaldi.
“Do you recognize that name?” Vega asked.
I thought for a moment.
“No.”
“He's worked for Moretti Maritime Security for eight years.”
“Does Damian know him?”
“Yes.”
“Does Adrian?”
“Dominic reports through Adrian's operational division.”
I felt my hands tighten.
“Have you arrested him?”
“We're trying to locate him.”
“Is he missing?”
“He hasn't reported to work since the collision.”
That frightened me more than I wanted to admit.
A missing security manager.
A stolen or unauthorized company SUV.
Money disappearing from my foundation.
And a woman who had been sleeping with my husband while accessing financial systems that carried my name.
The pieces were beginning to form a picture.
I just couldn't tell how much of it Damian knew.
That afternoon, a man named Marcus Bell requested permission to speak with me.
Marcus was Damian's chief of security.
I recognized his name from the hospital records, but not his face.
At first, I refused.
Then he explained that he wanted to give Detective Vega a statement about the yacht.
I agreed to speak with him in the presence of Samuel and an investigator.
Marcus arrived looking deeply uncomfortable.
He was in his late forties, with close-cropped hair and a military bearing.
A white scar ran along his chin.
He sat across from me in a small conference room.
“Mrs. Moretti.”
“Please call me Claire.”
He nodded.
“Claire.”
I studied him.
“Did you know I was calling Damian?”
Marcus swallowed.
“Yes.”
“How many times?”
“Not all seventeen at first.”
“Explain.”
“The phone began ringing while Mr. Moretti was having dinner on the upper deck.”
“With Bianca?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“Mr. Moretti told me he didn't want interruptions.”
“Did he know it was me calling?”
Marcus lowered his eyes.
“He saw your name on the screen the first time.”
I felt as though something had struck me.
“He saw it?”
“Yes.”
I gripped the arm of my chair.
“What did he do?”
“He turned the phone over.”
The room seemed to tilt.
“And then?”
“Bianca asked if there was a problem. He told her it could wait.”
I looked down.
Of all the things I had learned since the accident, that detail hurt in a completely different way.
Damian hadn't simply been unreachable.
He had seen my name and decided not to answer.
Marcus continued.
“When the calls kept coming, Bianca offered to hold the phone. She said she'd make sure nothing urgent was missed.”
“And Damian agreed?”
“Yes.”
“What did she do?”
“She took it below deck.”
I stared at him.
“Did she answer any of my calls?”
“Not that I witnessed.”
“Did she listen to my messages?”
“We're reviewing the phone records and backups. Some notifications were dismissed, and at least one voicemail appears to have been accessed.”
Samuel leaned forward.
“Did you personally see Bianca access the phone?”
Marcus nodded.
“Yes.”
“Did you tell Mr. Moretti?”
“I told him after we learned about the accident.”
I looked at Marcus.
“Did you try to interrupt dinner when the calls continued?”
He hesitated.
“After the eleventh call, I told Mr. Moretti his wife had been trying to reach him repeatedly.”
My throat tightened.
“What did he say?”
Marcus closed his eyes.
“He said, 'I told you not to disturb me unless somebody's dead.'”
For several seconds, the only sound in the room was the air conditioner.
I stared at the table.
Then I asked quietly, “Was he drunk?”
“No.”
“Distracted?”
“Yes.”
“Was he angry with me?”
“I believe so.”
“Why?”
Marcus shifted uncomfortably.
“He said you'd been arguing about the foundation.”
I closed my eyes.
There it was.
The truth I had been circling since the hospital.
Damian hadn't ignored me by accident.
He had punished me with silence.
He might not have known I was in danger.
But he had decided that not knowing was acceptable.
I wiped my eyes.
“Thank you for telling me.”
Marcus looked ashamed.
“I should have insisted.”
“Yes,” I said. “You should have.”
Then I stood.
I couldn't listen to another word.
That evening, Damian called.
I almost rejected it.
But I wanted to hear what he would say now that Marcus had spoken.
“Claire?”
“Did you see my name on your phone?”
Silence.
I repeated the question.
“Did you see that I was calling?”
“Yes.”
I closed my eyes.
“Why didn't you answer?”
He exhaled shakily.
“I was angry.”
“With me?”
“Yes.”
“Because I was asking about the money?”
“Because I thought you were trying to make me choose between you and everything else.”
I laughed bitterly.
“And you chose everything else.”
“Claire, I didn't know—”
“Stop.”
He went quiet.
“You don't get to tell me what you didn't know without admitting what you chose not to find out.”
He said nothing.
I felt tears sliding down my cheeks.
“I was scared, Damian.”
“I know.”
“I was driving alone in the rain. Somebody was following me. I called you because, even after everything, I thought you would come.”
His breathing changed.
“I would have.”
“You didn't.”
“I didn't know.”
“You made sure you didn't have to know.”
He began crying.
I heard it.
A rough, broken sound.
It should have moved me.
Perhaps the old Claire would have rushed to comfort him.
But I didn't.
I couldn't.
Not when I was still trying to understand how close I'd come to dying.
“Do you know what Marcus told me?” I asked.
“I know he spoke to you.”
“He said you told him not to disturb you unless somebody was dead.”
Damian made a strangled sound.
I continued.
“Well, I almost was.”
“Claire—”
“I almost died while you were punishing me for asking questions.”
“Please.”
“Please what?”
“Don't hang up.”
I looked at the scar on my wrist.
“Why?”
“Because every time you do, I'm afraid I'll never hear your voice again.”
I sat very still.
Then I said something I'd been thinking for days.
“Now you know what it feels like to call someone who might never answer.”
I ended the call.
For several minutes, I sat in silence.
Then I opened my notebook.
Under the heading Things I Know About Damian Moretti, I wrote:
He didn't know I was dying.
But he knew I was calling.
That matters.
The next morning, Samuel arrived with information about Bianca.
He had obtained copies of public corporate filings and financial records through lawful document requests.
Bianca Russo had worked for three firms before joining Moretti-affiliated businesses.
Her most recent employer was a consulting company that specialized in distressed property acquisitions.
One of its former clients had been connected to a federal fraud investigation.
Bianca hadn't been charged.
But Samuel had uncovered something more interesting.
Six months earlier, she had become an authorized representative for a company called Bellwater Development Holdings.
The same company that had received money from Harbor House.
“Who owns Bellwater?” I asked.
“On paper, a holding company registered in Delaware.”
“And behind that?”
“We believe there are connections to Adrian Moretti.”
I stared at him.
“So Bianca was sleeping with Damian while working with Adrian?”
“Potentially.”
“Why?”
“That's what we're trying to establish.”
He spread several records across the table.
A private contractor had been paid to renovate a new Harbor House residence.
The work had been delayed repeatedly.
Meanwhile, the foundation had continued paying invoices.
Those funds had moved through Bellwater and several other entities.
“Were the renovations ever completed?” I asked.
“No.”
I felt furious.
The residence was supposed to provide temporary housing for women escaping abuse.
It was supposed to have twelve bedrooms.
A children's playroom.
A small library.
A secure entrance.
I remembered standing in that building before construction began.
I remembered walking through empty rooms and imagining the people who would one day be safe there.
That memory was clear.
I could see the sunlight on the unfinished floors.
I could smell fresh lumber.
I remembered feeling proud.
And now someone had stolen the money meant to complete it.
“Where did the money go?”
Samuel looked grim.
“Some of it appears to have been routed through commercial properties. Other transfers are still being traced.”
“Can we recover it?”
“We're working with the authorities.”
I looked at him.
“Samuel, I don't want this treated like a private family disagreement.”
“It won't be.”
“Those women were counting on us.”
“I know.”
“No, I need everyone to understand that.”
My voice broke.
“This wasn't just money. It was beds. It was locks on doors. It was a place for mothers who had nowhere else to go.”
Samuel nodded.
“I understand.”
I looked down at the bank statements.
For the first time since the accident, my fear began turning into anger.
Not the kind of anger that made me want revenge.
The kind that made me want answers.
That afternoon, I received a message from an unfamiliar number.
Unlike the threatening texts, this one contained a name.
Claire, it's Bianca.
My stomach tightened.
A second message appeared.
I know you think I'm responsible for what happened.
I didn't answer.
Then came another.
There's something Damian hasn't told you about the night of the accident.
I immediately showed Samuel.
He advised me not to engage directly and forwarded the messages to Detective Vega.
But Bianca continued.
You should ask him why Adrian was looking for your blue folder.
Another message arrived.
And you should ask him why he told me you were becoming a problem.
I felt sick.
The final message contained a photograph.
It showed Damian and Adrian standing in an office.
A blue folder lay on the desk between them.
The timestamp was from the afternoon before my accident.
May you like
Underneath, Bianca had written:
Your husband knew more than you think.
