Chapter 7 - The Letter
The envelope contained a single letter.
It was dated seven months earlier.
The first line made me sit down.
“Clara Moretti is not to be trusted with the truth until the final records are secured.”
I read it twice.
Then again.
The letter wasn't addressed to me.
It was written by Daniel Voss.
He had apparently discovered that someone was using Maison Dubois to move expensive imported seafood through false invoices.
But the seafood itself wasn't the real business.
The restaurant was being used to disguise financial transfers.
The ingredients were simply the excuse.
Daniel had found irregular payments moving between suppliers, investors, and several shell companies.
Then he had discovered something worse.
One employee had unknowingly signed delivery forms for shipments that never existed.
That employee was Ethan.
Daniel had tried to protect him.
That's why Daniel disappeared.
I looked at Beatrice.
“Why didn't you give this to the authorities?”
She laughed bitterly.
“Because the last person who tried was found unconscious in a parking garage.”
“Who threatened you?”
“I never saw his face.”
“You met him.”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“In the wine cellar.”
“When?”
“Every second Thursday.”
I looked at the calendar.
Tomorrow was Thursday.
Beatrice continued.
“He comes after closing.”
“Why tell me now?”
“Because yesterday you stood there covered in boiling soup and didn't cry.”
I said nothing.
She looked almost ashamed.
“I've spent years being afraid of him.”
“Then help me.”
Her eyes dropped.
“I don't know if I can.”
“You can.”
She looked up.
“What will you do?”
I folded Daniel's letter.
“Find out who comes tomorrow.”
That night, Marco and I planned everything.
No police yet.
No confrontation.
No reckless move.
We needed the person behind the operation to reveal himself.
The next evening, I hid near the wine cellar.
At 11:56 p.m., the restaurant was dark.
At midnight, a key turned in the cellar door.
A man entered.
Tall.
Gray coat.
Expensive watch.
He placed a black folder on the table.
Then Beatrice stepped forward.
I held my breath.
The man said:
“Is Moretti still asking questions?”
Beatrice looked at him.
“Yes.”
The man smiled.
May you like
“Then tomorrow, she stops.”
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