Chapter 2 - The Man Who Wasn’t Laughing
Giovanni Moretti did not meet me in some dark warehouse.
He chose a closed Italian restaurant on a public street.
Franco remained near the entrance.
Cameras were visible above both doors.
“You may leave whenever you want,” Giovanni said.
That was the first thing about him that surprised me.
The second was the envelope.
Four hundred fifty dollars.
Exactly what Rebecca had refused to pay me.
I pushed it back.
“I don’t take charity.”
“It isn’t charity. It’s reimbursement for theft.”
“You didn’t steal it.”
“No. But I witnessed it.”
He studied me.
“Yale?”
My spine stiffened.
“You investigated me.”
“Five languages. International relations. Graduated near the top of your class.”
“That’s invasive.”
“Yes.”
At least he didn’t pretend otherwise.
“Why am I cleaning rich people’s floors?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“Correct.”
He slid another document toward me.
A job offer.
International correspondence and translation.
Six thousand dollars monthly.
Health insurance.
Flexible hours.
I laughed because otherwise I might have cried.
“Nobody offers this to a stranger because someone poured wine on her.”
Giovanni nodded.
“Finally, someone in this city who understands that.”
Then came the third document.
A $50,000 donation authorization to my mother’s oncology program.
My hands stopped moving.
“You contacted her hospital?”
“No medical information was released to me. Franco confirmed only the public fundraising information your family posted.”
“Why?”
Giovanni’s jaw tightened.
“Because powerful people humiliating someone who cannot afford to retaliate disgusts me.”
“That still doesn’t explain this.”
“No.”
Before he could continue, Franco entered carrying a black folder.
The Ashford crest was embossed on its seal.
Giovanni broke it.
His eyes moved across the first page.
Then stopped.
“What?”
He turned the folder away from Franco.
For the first time, the intimidating Giovanni Moretti looked genuinely shocked.
“Hannah, what is your mother’s full name?”
“Margaret Evans.”
“Before marriage.”
I hesitated.
“Margaret Bell.”
Franco swore softly.
Giovanni turned the page toward me.
My mother’s name appeared at the top.
Margaret Bell.
Below it was a photograph.
My mother was perhaps twenty-five.
Beside her stood a much younger Rebecca Ashford.
And Giovanni.
Not the man sitting across from me.
An older man with the same eyes.
Giovanni whispered:
“My father.”
I stared at him.
“What was my mother doing with your father and Rebecca Ashford?”
Giovanni closed the folder.
“I don’t know.”
Then Franco removed another page.
“Boss.”
Giovanni read it.
His expression hardened.
“What?”
He looked at me.
“The Ashfords paid your mother $180,000 eighteen years ago.”
The exact amount her treatment cost now.
“But that isn’t the strange part.”
He turned the page.
“The money was returned three days later.”
“Why?”
May you like
Giovanni looked toward the final line.
“Because your mother refused whatever they were paying her to forget.”
