Chapter 8 - THE CARPENTER'S KNOT
The interior of the SUV was silent except for the rhythmic thumping of the windshield wipers.
I stared at the braided leather bracelet resting in my unbandaged palm.
The lady with the splintered hand.
Michael had been dead for three years. How could he possibly have known that I would injure my hand on that specific wooden doorframe today?
Unless he knew the wood was going to break.
Unless he knew how it was built.
I looked at Leo, who was exhausted and shivering against my chest.
“Leo, sweetheart,” I asked, my voice trembling. “Who taught your daddy how to tie this knot?”
Leo rubbed his sleepy eyes. “The man who fixed the stairs. The quiet man with the hammer.”
My heart hammered against my ribs.
My father.
Thomas Bennett.
For thirty-seven years, my father had been the premier private carpenter for the elite families of Chicago. He had built cabinets for the Morettis, bookshelves for the Bellinis, and apparently, a hidden compartment inside a doorframe that no one else knew about.
I pulled out my phone. My hands were shaking so badly I could barely unlock the screen.
I dialed my father’s number.
He answered on the second ring, his voice raspy from age and fatigue.
“Claire-bear? Are you okay? It’s late.”
“Dad,” I choked out, tears suddenly blurring my vision. “I have a question about the Moretti kitchen doorframe. The one you moved twenty years ago.”
Silence stretched over the line.
A long, heavy silence.
“Dad?”
“You broke it, didn't you?” my father asked softly.
“I didn't break it. Vanessa ordered it torn down. But it split perfectly down the middle, Dad. I found the hollow joint. I found the letters.”
My father let out a long, shuddering sigh. It sounded like the release of a breath he had been holding for two decades.
“Is the boy safe?” my father asked.
A sob ripped from my throat. “Yes. Leo is with me. We’re in the car.”
“Thank God,” my father whispered, his voice cracking. “Thank God.”
“Dad, what is going on? How do you know Leo? How did Michael know about me?”
“Bring the boy to the Moretti estate, Claire,” my father said, his voice finding a sudden strength. “I’m already here. I’m sitting with Teresa. It’s time they knew everything.”
When the SUV finally pulled through the massive iron gates of the Moretti estate, the front driveway was swarming with police cars.
My stomach dropped. Had Arthur beaten us here?
But as I stepped out of the car, shielding Leo from the rain, I saw Daniel walking out the front doors, directing the officers.
Luca was alive.
I hurried up the marble steps, clutching Leo tightly to my chest, the heavy lockbox banging against my leg.
We walked into the grand foyer.
Luca was standing near the fireplace, his suit torn, blood on his collar, but he was standing tall. He was talking to a federal prosecutor.
When Luca saw me, he stopped speaking mid-sentence.
He looked at Leo in my arms.
Luca crossed the room and gently placed his large, tattooed hand on Leo’s head.
“You did it, Claire,” Luca whispered, his eyes shining with unshed tears. “You saved him.”
“Did you get Arthur?” I asked, my voice shaking.
Luca’s smile was colder than the winter rain.
“Arthur is currently in a federal holding cell,” Luca said. “We held them off at the house until the FBI arrived. I handed them the first flash drive from Michael’s dossier. Arthur and Vanessa are finished. They’ll never see the outside of a prison again.”
It was over.
The engagement, the extortion, the thirty years of terror. It was finally over.
But the biggest secret was still waiting for us in the library.
Luca gently took the lockbox from my hand and led us down the hall.
When we opened the library doors, Teresa was sitting on the sofa, weeping softly into a handkerchief.
Sitting in the chair opposite her, wearing his worn flannel shirt and holding his old flat-cap, was my father.
Thomas Bennett.
I stopped in the doorway.
“Dad?” I whispered.
My father looked up. His tired, lined face broke into a beautiful, heartbreaking smile when he saw the little boy hiding behind my legs.
“Hello, Leo,” my father said gently.
Leo’s eyes widened. He let go of my apron and ran across the library, throwing his small arms around my father’s knees.
“Mr. Tommy!” Leo cried.
My father patted the boy’s head, tears spilling down his weathered cheeks.
Luca stood completely frozen, staring at my father.
“Mr. Bennett,” Luca said, his voice thick with confusion. “How do you know my nephew?”
May you like
My father looked up at Luca.
“Because, Mr. Moretti,” my father said quietly, “for the last twenty years, I was the only person Michael trusted to carry his secrets.”
