Chapter 3 - The Man With the Wolf Ring

Nicholas Marchetti looked exactly like the kind of man who had never been asked to wait in a hallway.

He entered the breakfast room without invitation, kissed the air beside Mrs. Bellini’s cheek when she appeared with fresh coffee, and placed one hand on Vincent’s shoulder as if the house belonged to both of them.

Maybe, in some ways, it did.

I had heard his name during my eight months at the estate, usually in low voices.

Vincent’s uncle.

His late father’s younger brother.

A man who handled “legacy interests,” which was a phrase rich families used when they did not want employees asking what the interests were.

Nicholas looked at the security men outside the windows.

“I came as soon as I heard.”

Vincent’s face gave him nothing. “From whom?”

A beat.

“Anthony called.”

“Anthony was told not to call anyone.”

Nicholas smiled. “People get nervous when bomb technicians arrive at eight in the morning.”

Mia stopped eating.

I felt her turn toward me.

Nicholas noticed.

“My apologies. Poor choice of words.”

Vincent’s gaze dropped to his uncle’s ring.

Nicholas followed it.

Then he looked at Mia.

“Is this our famous little witness?”

The word our bothered me.

So did famous.

I pushed my chair back.

“She’s finished breakfast.”

Vincent understood immediately.

“Dominic.”

The security chief stepped closer.

“Take Elena and Mia to the library.”

“I can walk there by myself,” I said.

Dominic nodded. “I know.”

Nicholas chuckled.

“Independent. I see why you like her.”

The room went cold.

Vincent did not react, but something in my chest tightened anyway.

I lifted Mia from her chair.

As we passed Nicholas, she turned her face into my shoulder.

He reached as if to pat her back.

I moved away before he could touch her.

His hand paused in the air.

Still smiling, he said, “Protective mother.”

“Yes.”

I kept walking.

In the library, Mia immediately found a window seat and began arranging wooden animal figures someone had brought from a nursery upstairs. I sat opposite her while Dominic stood near the door.

“Is he the man?” I whispered.

Dominic’s expression stayed neutral.

“Mia has not identified anyone.”

“She saw his ring.”

“She described a ring like his.”

“You sound like a lawyer.”

“I sound like a man who has learned what happens when people decide guilt before evidence.”

I hated that he was right.

Mia held up a wooden horse.

“Mommy, this one is Vincent.”

“Why?”

“It looks mad.”

Dominic stared at the ceiling.

I rubbed my forehead.

“What is Uncle Nicholas?” I asked before I could stop myself.

Mia picked through the animals.

She selected a fox.

Of course she did.

Thirty minutes later, Vincent entered alone.

His jaw was tight.

“Nicholas left.”

“Did you ask where he was three nights ago?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“At a charity dinner in Milwaukee until midnight. His driver says they returned to Lake Forest around one-thirty.”

“That puts him near here.”

“It puts him within thirty miles.”

I stood.

“Does he have access to your garage?”

“All senior family members do.”

“Then change that.”

“I already did.”

There was something in his tone that made me stop.

“Vincent, what aren’t you saying?”

Mia hummed at the window.

He looked at her, then at Dominic.

“Take her to the kitchen.”

“No.”

Both men turned to me.

“She doesn’t go anywhere without me now.”

Vincent nodded after a second.

“Fine.”

He moved to the far end of the library and lowered his voice.

“Three months ago, I ordered a financial review of several companies Nicholas oversees.”

Before I could ask the next question, Vincent removed a small velvet box from a library drawer and opened it. Inside lay an old silver ring identical in shape to Nicholas’s, though darker with age. The wolf’s face had been worn smooth around one ear.

“This was my father’s,” he said.

I did not touch it.

“How many exist?”

“Original family rings? Five. My father, Nicholas, me, and two older cousins who live in Florida.”

“So Mia seeing a wolf does not identify Nicholas.”

“No.”

“Could someone copy one?”

“Yes.”

I appreciated that he did not try to make the clue stronger than it was.

“Then why did Nicholas look nervous?”

“I don’t know that he did.”

“He stopped smiling.”

“So did I.”

“That is your normal face.”

For one second Dominic looked as if he might choke.

Vincent closed the box. “My uncle knows what the crest means. If someone wore it while doing this, they may have wanted the act blamed on family.”

“Or they wanted to remind you it was family.”

His eyes met mine.

Neither interpretation helped.

“What kind of companies?”

“Trucking. Waste contracts. Construction supply.”

“Legitimate?”

His pause answered me.

“Some.”

The word settled heavily between us.

I had never pretended Vincent Marchetti was a normal employer. You did not need gossip to understand a house with armed guards and bullet-resistant glass.

But knowing a thing and hearing it admitted were different.

“What did you find?”

“Money missing. Payments to people I did not authorize. Old operations that should have been shut down two years ago were still active.”

“Old operations meaning?”

“Elena.”

“If my daughter is being hunted because of your family, I get to ask ugly questions.”

His eyes held mine.

Then he nodded.

“Extortion. Cargo theft. Protection collections. Things my father treated as ordinary business.”

I felt sick.

“And you?”

“I inherited more than I wanted and less than I deserved.”

“That is not an answer.”

“No. It isn’t.”

His mouth tightened. “I participated when I was younger. I gave orders I cannot excuse. I also spent the last five years dismantling parts of the organization that depended on violence.”

“And Nicholas fought you?”

“At first he smiled and told me I was idealistic. Then he delayed closures, moved contracts, shifted men onto legitimate payrolls while keeping the old collections alive underneath.”

“Why not remove him then?”

“Because I did not have proof strong enough to survive a family vote. My father divided ownership so nobody could remove a senior member on instinct.”

“You needed records.”

“I needed records and time.”

“Meanwhile people were still being hurt.”

His silence was answer enough.

I hated the clean logic of it. Vincent had been trying to dismantle something dangerous without causing a war inside his own organization. Maybe that had prevented bloodshed. Maybe it had also allowed harm to continue. Both could be true.

“You keep talking about control,” I said. “Control the companies. Control Nicholas. Control the damage.”

“What would you prefer?”

“Accountability.”

His mouth tightened.

“That word is easy when you are not responsible for what happens after the structure collapses.”

“And control is easy when you are the one holding it.”

We stared at each other.

Mia made the wooden horse kick the fox off the window seat.

The fox bounced on the rug.

Neither of us missed the symbolism.

I looked at Mia.

She was making the wooden fox chase the horse.

“Why would Nicholas care?”

“Because the old businesses made him rich. And because next week I intended to remove him from every company I control.”

There it was.

Not proof.

Motive.

A serious one.

Before I could answer, Mrs. Bellini appeared at the library door.

Her face was pale.

“Mr. Marchetti?”

Vincent crossed to her.

“What happened?”

“I went to the carriage house for Mia’s clothes.” She looked at me. “The back door was open.”

My skin went cold.

“It was locked last night.”

“I know.”

Dominic was already reaching for his radio.

Mrs. Bellini held something out.

A torn piece of paper.

I recognized the purple crayon before I recognized the drawing.

Mia had made it three nights ago while I cleaned the upstairs guest rooms.

A rain cloud.

Our little carriage house.

A black car.

And beside it, a tall stick figure with one oversized silver circle on his hand.

The bottom half of the page had been ripped away.

Mrs. Bellini swallowed.

“I found this under her bed.”

I took the drawing.

“Mia, baby.”

She looked over.

“Where is the rest of this?”

Her face changed.

“Gone.”

“Did you tear it?”

She shook her head.

“No.”

Vincent’s voice became very quiet.

“What was on the bottom?”

Mia climbed down from the window seat and came to me.

“The man’s car.”

Dominic stopped moving.

Vincent crouched.

“What kind of car?”

Mia shrugged.

“Blue.”

“Big or small?”

“Shiny.”

I could see frustration building in the adults, but Vincent did not push.

He only asked, “Anything else?”

Mia pressed one finger to her lip.

Then she said, “He had letters.”

“Where?”

“On the back.”

She took the purple crayon from the floor and wrote three crooked marks on the edge of the page.

Not readable letters.

But recognizable shapes.

D. M. C.

Dominic stared.

I looked at Vincent.

“What is DMC?”

He did not answer.

He did not need to.

Dominic’s face had already told me the name meant something.

Finally Vincent said, “Dominion Motor Company.”

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“Who owns it?”

“My uncle.”