“Mr. Moretti, what if the coat wasn’t meant to hide the evidence?”
“What do you mean?”
“What if it was meant to lead you to someone who already had it?”
Silence.
Then Luca said, “Matteo.”
The next morning, I accompanied Luca to Milwaukee.
We met Peter Walsh at a modest diner near the station, with Daniel waiting nearby.
Peter looked exhausted.
His hands shook around a cup of coffee.
“I didn’t know Mrs. Moretti was hurt,” he said.
“I only knew Bellini wanted the coat.”
Luca watched him carefully.
“Who did you give it to?”
Peter shook his head.
“Nobody. I left it where they told me.”
“Who told you?”
Peter reached into his jacket.
He removed a small photograph.
It showed Antonio Moretti standing beside a teenage boy.
On the back was an address.
A community center in Milwaukee.
“Someone left this in my locker,” Peter said. “I figured it was a warning.”
Luca took the photograph.
His expression changed.
“That’s not a warning.”
“Then what is it?” I asked.
He looked at me.
“An invitation.”
We drove to the address.
The community center was an aging brick building surrounded by maple trees.
Inside, children were painting at folding tables.
A woman at the front desk looked up.
“Can I help you?”
Luca showed her Matteo’s photograph.
“We’re looking for this man.”
She studied it.
Then smiled.
“Oh. Mr. Matthew.”
My heart began pounding.
“Does he work here?” Luca asked.
“Every Thursday.”
“Is he here now?”
She glanced toward the hallway.
“He’s teaching the scholarship kids.”
Luca moved toward the classroom.
But the woman stepped in front of him.
“Before you go in, there’s something you should know.”
She pointed toward a framed photograph on the wall.
It showed twelve children standing beside a man in a brown hat.
All were smiling.
Beneath the photograph was a brass plaque.
THE ANTONIO MORETTI CHILDREN’S TRUST — SUPPORTED BY MATTHEW COLLINS.
I stopped breathing.
Collins.
My last name.
The same name as my late husband.
And beneath the plaque was another photograph.
A young man holding a newborn baby.
My baby.
Lily.
I gripped the wall.
“That’s my husband.”
Luca turned toward me.
“Sarah?”
My voice barely worked.
“That’s David Collins.”
The man I’d buried five years earlier.
The man I’d believed had died in a warehouse accident.
And standing beside him in the photograph was Matteo Moretti.
“Why is my dead husband in a photograph with your brother?”
My voice echoed through the community center hallway.
Luca stared at the framed picture.
David Collins stood smiling with newborn Lily in his arms.
Beside him was Matteo Moretti.
Both men wore work jackets.
Neither looked like a criminal.
Neither looked frightened.
They looked like friends.
“Sarah,” Luca said carefully, “did David work for my family?”
“He drove delivery trucks.”
“For whom?”
“A company called Lakeshore Distribution.”
Luca’s expression changed.
“Lakeshore was one of our transportation subsidiaries.”
I stared at him.
“You knew?”
“No. My family owned dozens of companies. I didn’t know every employee.”
But I could hear the guilt in his voice.
My husband had died five years earlier when a loading platform collapsed at a warehouse outside Chicago.
The company called it an accident.
I’d received a small insurance payment.
After that, nobody from Lakeshore contacted us again.
I’d never connected David’s employer to the Moretti family.
“Why didn’t anyone tell me?” I whispered.
Luca looked at the photograph.
“I don’t know.”
A classroom door opened.
A man stepped into the hallway.
He was tall, with dark hair streaked with gray.
His face was older than in the photograph, but unmistakable.
Matteo Moretti.
He stopped when he saw Luca.
For several seconds, the brothers simply stared at each other.
Then Matteo looked at me.
His expression changed.
“Sarah?”
I felt my knees weaken.
“You knew my husband.”
Matteo lowered his eyes.
“Yes.”
“You knew he died.”
“Yes.”
“And you knew about my daughter.”
His silence was answer enough.
I stepped toward him.
“Then why did you let me struggle for five years?”
Matteo didn’t defend himself immediately.
He led us into a small office overlooking the children’s classroom.
On the wall hung drawings, certificates, and a photograph of Antonio Moretti.
Matteo poured water into three paper cups.
Nobody touched them.
“David was my friend,” he finally said.
I folded my arms.
“Then you should have come to his funeral.”
“I did.”
I stared at him.
“I don’t remember seeing you.”
“I stayed outside.”
“Why?”
Matteo looked toward Luca.
“Because your brother’s people were watching me.”
Luca stiffened.
“My people?”
“Your father’s security team. They’d been told I was dangerous.”
“You disappeared with company money.”
Matteo shook his head.
“I refused to sign false invoices. When Dad accused me of stealing, I left before things became worse.”
