Chapter 6
Evelyn:
I’ve tried before.
Clara:
When?
Evelyn:
Years ago. Through his father’s office. Then through attorneys after Mr. Antonio Valente passed away. I never reached Dominic directly.
There was a long gap.
Then Clara:
Tell me what happened.
I stopped reading.
“She should have brought this to me.”
Mateo gave me a look.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“No. Say it.”
He folded his arms.
“Would you have listened?”
I stared at him.
He continued before I could answer.
“Four months ago?”
“I listen to my wife.”
“Dom.”
The single word irritated me because of how gently he said it.
“Four months ago, you missed her birthday dinner.”
“I sent flowers.”
“You sent three hundred roses.”
“They were her favorite.”
“Her favorite flowers are peonies.”
I went still.
Mateo looked away.
I could not decide whether I was angrier that he corrected me or that he was right.
Three hundred roses.
Serena had told me roses were romantic.
Clara had thanked me anyway.
Of course she had.
I sat down.
“Keep reading,” Mateo said.
I did.
Evelyn claimed Lakefront Development had purchased several properties in her neighborhood twenty years earlier as part of a proposed redevelopment project.
Families had been encouraged to sell.
Some refused.
Then, according to Evelyn, a second company began purchasing the remaining properties.
Harbor Ridge Holdings.
At first, I saw nothing unusual.
Then Clara had asked one question.
Who owned Harbor Ridge?
Evelyn’s answer was simple.
That’s what I hoped you could help me discover.
Over the following months, Clara had done exactly that.
She searched old corporate filings.
She contacted retired accountants.
She compared bank transfers.
She visited the Chicago History Museum archives.
My wife—the woman I had assumed spent her days planning dinners and overseeing household renovations—had quietly reconstructed twenty years of financial records.
And she had found something.
Harbor Ridge Holdings had been funded through a trust.
The Valente Family Preservation Trust.
My father’s trust.
I looked at Mateo.
“You knew about that trust?”
“I knew there were several.”
“Not good enough.”
He didn’t react.
I rubbed my hand over my face.
“What happened to the neighborhood?”
“The redevelopment project failed.”
“And the houses?”
“Most were eventually resold.”
“For profit?”
“Some.”
“How much?”
“Enough.”
I looked back at Clara’s messages.
There were no accusations.
No angry declarations.
Only questions.
That made it worse.
Clara had been trying to understand before judging.
A patience I had rarely shown anyone.