Chapter 7 - Midnight in the Study
The main house was dead silent when I slipped back through the service entrance. The crystal chandeliers in the grand dining room had long since been extinguished, leaving only the dim amber glow of the security lights bouncing off the polished mahogany tables and the white floral centerpieces. My black maid's dress made no sound against the Persian runners as I made my way toward the west wing where Luca's private study was located.
My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. Every shadow in the hallway seemed to stretch and shift, mimicking the silhouette of Vanessa in her backless red gown. I reached the heavy oak door of the study and paused, listening for any sound from the upper level where the master bedrooms were situated. Nothing. Just the low hum of the HVAC system pushing warm air through the vents.
I pulled the heavy brass ring from my belt, selected the small silver skeleton key, and slid it into the brass lock. It turned with a faint, dry click. I eased the door open just enough to slip inside, pulling it shut behind me without a sound.
The study smelled of aged paper, leather bindings, and the faint trace of Luca's cedarwood cologne. Moonlight poured through the tall arched windows, casting silver bars across the Persian rug and the massive executive desk in the center of the room. I didn't turn on the overhead lamps; instead, I clicked on a small penlight I kept in my apron pocket, sweeping its narrow beam across the bookshelves and the leather armchairs.
According to Sal, the secondary records weren't kept in the open file drawers. They would be locked in the lower credenza beneath the oil painting of Luca's grandfather. I knelt on the floor, sliding my fingers along the bottom edge of the carved mahogany cabinet. There was a small brass keyhole hidden behind a decorative molding scroll.
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I tried three different keys from my ring before the third one slid into the cylinder with a faint scrape. I held my breath, turned it slowly until I felt a firm resistance, and heard a muffled internal latch give way.
Inside the dark compartment sat a stack of leather-bound financial binders labeled with the Moretti Holdings logo. I pulled the top binder out into the moonlight and flipped open the cover. The pages were filled with columns of figures, property acquisitions, and wire transfers routed through shell companies in the Cayman Islands. But what caught my breath was a loose memo clipped to the inside cover—a memo bearing Vanessa's personal stationery, outlining a plan to declare the entire estate insolvent within six months of the wedding.
