Don’t Drink That, Michael

I didn't sleep that night.

At four in the morning, I sat on the edge of the enormous bed in Michael Moretti's guest suite, staring at the photograph of the burning hospital.

Outside, rain battered the windows.

Inside, the air smelled faintly of leather, expensive soap, and the coffee someone had left untouched on the desk.

Michael had disappeared after telling me about his wife.

He had given me no explanation about the child.

He had refused to tell me why Luca had mentioned Saint Agnes.

And when I demanded to know whether he had killed my brother, he had answered with a question.

“Would you believe me if I said no?””

I had told him the truth.

“No.””

He had nodded as if he expected nothing else.

Now the bedroom door opened, and a woman in a gray suit entered carrying a tray.

She was in her early fifties, with silver-streaked hair and a small scar beneath her chin.

“Breakfast,” she said.

“I'm not hungry.””

“Then drink the coffee. You look like you're about to collapse.””

She placed the tray on the table.

“Who are you?”” I asked.

“Margaret Shaw. I manage this house.””

“Do you manage the secrets, too?””

Margaret's expression didn't change.

“Only the ones that become dangerous.””

I stared at her.

She glanced toward the locked door.

“Mr. Moretti has asked me to make you comfortable.””

“Does he always lock women in bedrooms when he wants them comfortable?””

“Only when he thinks someone is trying to kill them.””

I looked down at the coffee.

“Is someone trying to kill me?””

Margaret hesitated.

It lasted less than a second.

But I saw it.

“Eat something,” she said.

“And don't open the door for anyone except me or Mr. Moretti.””

She left.

I waited until her footsteps faded, then examined the tray.

Toast. Eggs. Coffee.

And beneath the folded napkin, a small brass key.

I picked it up.

A piece of paper had been wrapped around its stem.

Three words were written in blue ink.

*THE OLD CHAPEL.*

I was halfway to the door when I heard a man's voice in the corridor.

“She's awake?””

“Yes,” Margaret answered.

“Good. Mr. Bellini wants her brought downstairs.””

Margaret's voice sharpened.

“Mr. Moretti specifically ordered—”

A slap cracked through the hallway.

I froze.

“Listen carefully, old woman,” the man said.

“The Bellinis don't take orders from Michael anymore.””

I moved toward the door and pressed my ear against it.

Footsteps approached.

Then the handle turned.

I slipped into the bathroom, locked the door, and waited.

A second later, someone entered the bedroom.

“Anna?”” a man called.

“Come out. We need to talk.””

I recognized the voice.

One of the guards from the ballroom.

The one who had held my left arm while Vanessa slapped me.

“I'm getting dressed,” I called.

“Mr. Bellini doesn't like to wait.””

“Then he should learn patience.””

Silence.

Then the man laughed.

“You have no idea whose house you're in.””

“Apparently, neither do you.””

His laughter stopped.

The bathroom lock rattled.

I backed away, clutching the brass key.

Then another voice cut through the room.

“Step away from that door.””

Michael.

The guard muttered something I couldn't hear.

Michael answered with a sentence that made the room go silent.

“You touch her again, and you'll spend the rest of your life wishing I had killed you.””

The footsteps retreated.

I unlocked the bathroom door.

Michael stood near the bed, holding a black handgun pointed at the floor.

His eyes moved to the key in my hand.

“Where did you get that?””

“Breakfast.””

“Margaret gave it to you?””

“I assume so.””

He exhaled through his nose.

“Of course she did.””

“What does it open?””

“The chapel.””

“Why would you leave a key to a chapel in my breakfast?””

“I didn't.””

I stared at him.

He looked at the key again.

“Margaret has worked for my family for twenty-three years. She doesn't do anything without a reason.””

“Then perhaps you should ask her what the reason is.””

“I intend to.””

He put the gun away.

“Get dressed. We're leaving.””

“Where?””

“Saint Agnes.””

My heart began to pound.

“You said it burned down.””

“It did.””

“Then what are we going to find there?””

Michael's expression darkened.

“The reason your brother disappeared.””

Twenty minutes later, we were driving through the rain in a black SUV.

Michael sat beside me in the back seat. Two armed men occupied the front, and a third vehicle followed behind us.

Chicago blurred beyond the windows.

“Tell me about your wife,” I said.

Michael didn't answer immediately.

“Her name was Elena. She was twenty-six when she died.””

“And the child?””

“Her name was Sofia.””

“Your daughter?””

He looked out at the wet streets.

“That depends on which version of the story you believe.””

I turned toward him.

“What does that mean?””

“It means someone spent a great deal of money making sure I believed Sofia was my daughter.””

“And you don't?””

“I don't know what I believe anymore.””

His voice had become quieter.

“When Elena died, I was told the child had died with her. I buried an empty coffin because the hospital claimed the body had been destroyed in the fire.””

“An empty coffin?””

“I found out six months ago.””

The SUV slowed.

Through the window, I saw the remains of Saint Agnes Medical Center.

The building stood behind a rusted fence, its upper floors blackened by fire. Weeds grew through the cracked parking lot. A faded sign hung above the entrance.

Michael stared at it.

“I came here the night of the fire,” he said.

“By the time I arrived, the building was burning. Someone had locked the emergency exits.””

“Who?””

“That's what Luca was investigating.””

My breath caught.

“You knew my brother?””

“I hired him because he was a good driver. I kept him because he was a good man.””

“And then he disappeared.””

Michael's jaw tightened.

“Three weeks before Luca vanished, he found evidence that someone inside my organization had been paying the hospital to falsify birth records.””

“Why would anyone do that?””

“Because children are valuable when powerful people believe they belong to them.””

The SUV stopped.

We climbed out into the rain.

Michael's security team cut through the chain on the fence. We entered the hospital through a broken side door, stepping over glass and fallen plaster.

The air smelled of wet concrete and old smoke.

Michael led us down a corridor.

“This was the maternity ward,” he said.

I looked through a doorway.

A rusted bed frame lay on its side. The walls were black with soot.

On the floor, someone had scratched a name into the concrete.

*SOFIA MORETTI.*

Beneath it was another name.

*LUCA REED.*

I knelt.

The letters were fresh.

Someone had been here recently.

“Michael,” I whispered.

He was already looking toward the far end of the corridor.

A door stood half open.

Beyond it, a red light blinked in the darkness.

Michael drew his gun.

“Stay behind me.””

We entered a small records room.

Metal cabinets lined the walls. Most had been burned beyond recognition, but one stood untouched in the corner.

Its lock had been broken.

Inside lay a stack of files sealed in plastic.

Michael pulled out the first.

His face changed as he read the name on the cover.

“What is it?”” I asked.

He handed it to me.

The document was a birth certificate.

The mother's name was Elena Moretti.

The father's name was blank.

And the child's name had been crossed out and replaced in handwriting I recognized.

Luca's handwriting.

*ANNA REED.*

My fingers went numb.

“No,” I whispered.

Michael stared at me.

“Anna?””

I shook my head, unable to speak.

The date of birth was wrong by only three days.

My mother had always told me I was born at a small hospital outside Chicago. She had refused to discuss the details, saying the delivery had been complicated and that she wanted to forget it.

I had believed her.

I had believed everything.

Until I saw the signature at the bottom of the document.

Dr. Samuel Voss.

The same doctor who had signed my mother's death certificate.

A sound came from behind us.

The door slammed shut.

Metal scraped against metal.

Then a voice spoke through a hidden loudspeaker.

“Mr. Moretti, we've been waiting for you.””

Michael raised his gun.

“Show yourself.””