The Interviev
Vincent Moretti was the last man to see my brother alive.
Today, I was interviewing for a job in his company under a name that wasn’t mine.
There were probably smarter ways to get close to a man you believed had helped bury the truth about your brother’s death.
I had tried most of them.
The police gave me eleven days of sympathetic looks and one conclusion I never believed.
A private investigator took six thousand dollars and came back with information I already knew.
Daniel’s former coworkers ignored me, lied to me, or developed sudden problems with their memory the moment I said the name Moretti.
So I built Natalie Bennett.
Twenty-four. Economics and data analytics. Two years in corporate risk. Connecticut born. No criminal record.
No dead brother.
No reason to hate Vincent Moretti.
Seven months of work condensed into four pages inside the leather folder on my lap.
— Ms. Bennett?
I looked up.
The receptionist smiled from behind a white marble desk.
— Mr. Moretti will see you now.
My fingers tightened around the folder.
Three years.
That was how long it had taken me to get here.
— Thank you.
She pressed her thumb to a black panel on the wall.
A door I hadn’t noticed opened silently.
Of course it did.
Normal companies had doors.
Vincent Moretti had checkpoints.
The corridor beyond was glass, dark stone, and the kind of silence money bought in enormous quantities. Manhattan stretched beneath the windows, thirty-two floors down, reduced to clean lines and moving dots.
Silver letters marked the wall.
MORETTI GROUP
Underneath:
SECURITY. INTELLIGENCE. RESOLUTION.
Resolution.
Daniel had been dead for three years.
Nothing about him felt resolved.
At 8:14 p.m. on a Thursday, my brother had fallen from the sixth floor of a parking structure.
No witnesses.
No suicide note.
No drugs in his system.
The police said he jumped.
Four hours earlier, Daniel had sent me one message.
Don’t believe what they tell you about me.
Then his phone went dark.
An hour before his death, he had been inside a building owned by Moretti Group.
And the last confirmed person to see him alive was Vincent Moretti.
That proved nothing.
I knew that.
Three years ago, I would have cared.
A woman waited at the end of the corridor.
Dark hair twisted into a low knot. Black suit. Thin gold watch.
I knew her immediately.
Celeste Riva.
General Counsel.
Former corporate litigator.
And one of the people caught in the background of a photograph taken outside Daniel’s funeral.
She studied me once.
Not rudely.
Thoroughly.
— Natalie Bennett?
— Yes.
The lie came easily.
It had better.
— Celeste Riva.
— I know.
A tiny pause.
I added:
— I researched the company.
Her gaze stayed on mine.
— Of course you did.
She turned.
— This way.
Vincent Moretti’s office sat behind another secured door.
Celeste opened it without knocking.
And there he was.
I had seen hundreds of photographs of him.
None had been useful.
Vincent stood beside the floor-to-ceiling windows with a phone against his ear and one hand in the pocket of dark trousers.
White shirt.
No jacket.
No tie.
Nothing that resembled the version of a criminal I had constructed in my head.
He turned.
Thirty-two, according to every profile I had memorized.
Dark hair. Straight nose. Hard mouth.
Handsome.
Annoyingly so.
But that wasn’t what made me stop.
It was the stillness.
There was something unsettling about a man who didn’t need movement to occupy a room.
Most powerful men performed their importance.
Vincent simply stood there.
Everyone else adjusted.
He ended the call.
His eyes found mine.
And stayed there.
Not my legs.
Not my chest.
My face.
He looked as though he were trying to remember where he had seen me before.
Or pretending to.
Suddenly, I was too aware of my own breathing.
— Ms. Bennett.
His voice was lower than I expected.
— Mr. Moretti.
I smiled.
He didn’t.
That irritated me more than it should have.
Celeste closed the door behind me.
Vincent indicated the chair opposite his desk.
— Sit.
No please.
I sat anyway.
He opened my résumé.
I had memorized every word on those pages.
Vincent barely glanced at them.
— Why Moretti Group?
— Your intelligence division gives junior analysts more responsibility than comparable firms.
— That’s the answer you prepared.
My heartbeat changed.
Barely.
— It’s also true.
— I didn’t ask what was true.
His eyes returned to mine.
— I asked why you’re here.
— I like difficult work.
— No.
I blinked.
— No?
— You like certainty.
— You’ve known me for thirty seconds.
— Longer than that.
Something cold slipped beneath my ribs.
He turned one page.
— You arrived forty-one minutes early.
That meant nothing.
— You walked past the entrance twice.
That meant more.
— Yesterday, you stood across the street for eleven minutes and watched the lobby.
There it was.
I held his gaze.
— Do you investigate every applicant?
— Everyone who gets this far.
— Am I supposed to be impressed?
— No.
— Intimidated?
Something changed in his expression.
Not enough for anyone else to notice.
Enough for me.
— Are you?
The answer should have been easy.
Instead, I held his stare a second longer than necessary.
— Not yet.
Silence.
Celeste glanced at him.
The corner of Vincent’s mouth moved.
Barely.
Not a smile.
Something worse, because I had caused it.
— Good.
One word.
My body responded with a small rush of heat I immediately resented.
Adrenaline.
Obviously.
My nervous system had apparently confused investigating my brother’s death with flirting.
Wonderful.
Vincent looked back at my résumé.
— Parrish and Cole offered you a promotion before you resigned.
— They discussed one.
— They offered it.
— Not formally.
— Formally enough to generate paperwork.
I let a beat pass.
— Your background checks are thorough.
— They have to be.
— Because of the work you do?
His gaze rose.
— Because of the people who want access to it.
The words settled between us.
— Am I supposed to convince you I’m harmless?
— Are you harmless?
— I’m applying for an analyst position.
— That wasn’t an answer.
— Neither was yours.
His attention sharpened.
There was something almost physical about having all of it directed at me.
Vincent didn’t merely listen when someone spoke.
He watched what happened while they did it.
My thumb started toward the side of my index finger.
I caught myself.
His eyes dropped to the movement.
Damn it.
He reached for a sheet of paper and slid it across the desk.
— Tell me what you see.
Four companies.
Dates.
Transactions.
Nothing else.
— Is this part of the interview?
— It is now.
I looked down.
Different banks. Different values. Different intervals.
Random.
Until they weren’t.
Three sets of transfers moved within forty-eight hours of one another.
Different amounts.
Same proportions.
— These three are connected.
— How?
— Same percentage of the initial deposit.
— And the fourth?
I leaned closer.
Money entered the fourth account and fractured into smaller transfers.
Same general timing.
Cleaner values.
Too clean.
Daniel’s voice surfaced from a memory I hadn’t invited.
Find the broken pattern, Nor.
I swallowed.
— It doesn’t belong.
Vincent’s attention sharpened.
— Why?
— Because it makes the others easier to see.
— Explain.
— If someone was trying to hide these transfers, they wouldn’t create a fourth trail this neat. Either whoever added it didn’t understand the original structure…
I paused.
— Or they wanted someone to find it.
Celeste spoke from behind me.
— For what purpose?
— To direct attention.
— Away from?
— I’d need more data.
For the first time, neither of them immediately responded.
Whatever was on the page, it wasn’t an interview exercise.
Vincent reached for it.
So did I.
Our fingers met at the edge.
Barely.
His thumb brushed the side of my index finger.
I pulled back.
Too fast.
His eyes dropped to my hand.
Then lifted.
— Interesting.
— What?
He took the page.
— Nothing.
I hated him for saying it like that.
More irritatingly, I hated the warmth left where his skin had touched mine.
— Who taught you to look for patterns that way?
Daniel.
The lie was ready.
— Professor Michael Alden.
— At Northeastern?
— Yes.
Vincent watched me.
The silence stretched.
— Professor Alden retired two years before you enrolled.
The warmth disappeared.
I had checked him.
Just not carefully enough.
— Then I remembered the name wrong.
— Did you?
— Apparently.
His gaze dropped again.
My thumb had pressed against my index finger.
Once.
I separated them.
— Nervous?
— Of you?
His eyes moved to my mouth.
Just once.
Slow enough that I knew it wasn’t accidental.
Then back to my eyes.
— You tell me.
My pulse kicked.
— Do you do this with every employee?
— Do what?
— Try to make them uncomfortable.
— I haven’t tried yet.
For half a second, I forgot why I was there.
His gaze stayed on mine.
Mine stayed on his.
Celeste cleared her throat.
I had forgotten she was in the room.
That irritated me more than anything else.
Daniel.
Concrete.
Police reports.
Focus.
A knock sounded.
A man stepped inside.
Tall. Broad. Dark suit. A pale scar through one eyebrow.
Luca Ferretti.
Director of Operations.
He looked at Vincent.
Then at me.
Stopped.
Less than a second.
Recognition.
My stomach tightened.
Luca said something quickly in Italian.
Vincent answered without taking his eyes off me.
Luca’s jaw hardened.
Then he left.
The door shut.
I stood.
— I think that’s enough.
Vincent remained seated.
— Enough for what?
— For me to know I don’t want the position.
— You haven’t heard the offer.
— I’m not interested.
— You spent three weeks researching the salary.
Cold slid down my spine.
I stared at him.
He knew too much.
This wasn’t an interview.
Maybe it never had been.
I picked up my folder.
— Thank you for your time.
I turned toward the door.
— Ms. Bennett.
I stopped.
Natalie Bennett had no reason to fear Vincent Moretti.
Natalie Bennett didn’t know Daniel Bellamy.
I looked back.
Vincent was watching my hand.
My thumb had found my index finger again.
I pulled them apart.
Too late.
— Daniel used to do that.
Everything inside me stopped.
— What did you say?
— Your brother.
My mouth went dry.
— I don’t have a brother.
His gaze dropped to my hand.
It moved again.
One tiny betrayal.
— That.
I curled my fingers into my palm.
— What?
— He did the same thing when he lied.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then Vincent stood.
Slowly.
He came around the desk and stopped several feet away.
A perfectly acceptable distance.
It didn’t feel like one.
I had spent three years staring at photographs of this man.
I had imagined confronting him.
Screaming at him.
Demanding answers.
I had never imagined standing close enough to see the faint scar across his knuckle or the shadow along his jaw.
I hated myself for noticing either.
— Did you kill him?
Whatever amusement had existed disappeared.
— No.
Immediate.
Clean.
— I don’t believe you.
— I know.
— Daniel met you the night he died.
— Yes.
— You were the last person to see him alive.
A pause.
— No.
My anger stalled.
— What?
— I was the last person you know about.
My heartbeat stumbled.
— Then who was?
— I’m not telling you.
— Why?
— Because you don’t know what you’re asking for.
— I’ve spent three years figuring out exactly what I’m asking for.
— No.
He took one step closer.
— You’ve spent three years deciding what happened before you had enough information to know.
— Fuck you.
Celeste inhaled behind me.
Vincent’s attention sharpened.
— There she is.
I stared at him.
— Excuse me?
— Natalie Bennett smiles when she’s angry.
Another step.
Still no contact.
Close enough that I had to tilt my chin to hold his gaze.
— Nora Bellamy swears at me.
My real name sounded wrong in his voice.
Too familiar.
Too intimate.
Heat moved through me before anger swallowed it.
— Don’t call me that.
— It’s your name.
— Not to you.
His gaze dipped briefly to my mouth.
This time I was sure.
— Then what would you prefer?
The question shouldn’t have felt like anything.
It did.
I stepped closer instead of back.
His expression changed.
Barely.
But I saw it.
Good.
For the first time since entering the room, I had made something happen to him.
— How long have you known?
— Long enough.
— Since the background check?
Silence.
— Before?
Nothing.
My stomach tightened.
— You knew before I applied.
He didn’t answer.
He didn’t have to.
I glanced at Celeste.
She wasn’t surprised.
Of course she wasn’t.
— Then why did you let me get this far?
Vincent turned toward his desk.
Picked up my résumé.
Placed it neatly in the center.
— I didn’t.
— What?
His eyes returned to mine.
— I didn’t let you in, Nora.
A beat.
— You were brought to me.
Every trace of heat disappeared.
— By who?
Vincent looked at me for a long moment.
Then stepped past me.
Close enough that his shoulder almost brushed mine.
I caught the clean, dark scent of him.
Cedar. Something warmer underneath.
My body went painfully still.
He stopped beside me.
— That is the first useful question you’ve asked.
Then he opened the door.
Dismissed.
Just like that.
I should have walked out without looking back.
I made it three steps.
— Nora.
I turned.
Vincent stood beside the open door.
— Whoever gave you the name Natalie Bennett…
My fingers tightened around the folder.
— …don’t contact them again.
— Why?
His expression didn’t change.
— Because they already know you’re here.
The door closed between us.
And for the first time in three years, Vincent Moretti wasn’t the person I was most afraid of.
