The Interview
Vincent Moretti was the last man to see my brother alive.
At ten thirty on Monday morning, I sat twenty feet from his office and waited for him to decide whether to hire me.
Under a name that wasn’t mine.
I had imagined this moment for three years.
None of those versions included a receptionist asking whether I wanted sparkling or still water.
— Still, please.
She placed a glass in front of me.
— Mr. Moretti is running a few minutes behind.
— That’s fine.
It wasn’t.
Nothing about being here was fine.
The thirty-second floor of Moretti Group was too quiet. Not empty—people moved behind glass walls, screens glowed inside conference rooms, phones vibrated against polished desks—but everything seemed engineered to produce as little evidence of human existence as possible.
No family photographs.
No half-dead office plants.
No coffee rings.
Just stone, smoked glass and Manhattan stretched beneath the windows.
On the wall opposite me:
MORETTI GROUP
SECURITY. INTELLIGENCE. RESOLUTION.
I had read those words hundreds of times.
The first two were easy enough to verify.
The third was where things became interesting.
Moretti Group officially protected executives, investigated corporate theft, recovered stolen assets and handled crises for clients rich enough to dislike police reports.
Unofficially, people disappeared around them.
Evidence disappeared too.
Witnesses changed statements.
Investigations stalled.
Three years ago, my brother had died.
Eleven days later, his case had effectively died with him.
I picked up the water.
My hand was steady.
Good.
Natalie Bennett had steady hands.
Natalie Bennett was twenty-four, worked in corporate risk, had graduated from Northeastern and had never heard the name Daniel Bellamy.
She certainly hadn’t spent three years collecting everything she could find about the man behind the door at the end of the corridor.
A door opened.
I looked up.
Celeste Riva walked toward me.
I recognized her immediately.
General Counsel, Moretti Group.
Forty, give or take. Columbia Law. Twelve years in corporate litigation before Moretti recruited her. Almost no social media. Almost no interviews.
One photograph at Daniel’s funeral.
She had been standing near the back, partially obscured by a black umbrella.
I had found the photograph fourteen months after he died.
She had never spoken to us.
— Ms. Bennett?
I stood.
— Yes.
Her eyes settled briefly on my face.
Nothing about her suggested recognition.
That should have reassured me.
It didn’t.
— Celeste Riva.
— Nice to meet you.
I didn’t tell her I already knew who she was.
Improvement.
— Mr. Moretti will see you now.
She turned.
I followed.
There was a security panel beside his office door.
Celeste touched her card to it.
A green light flashed.
I watched without appearing to watch.
Habit.
Daniel had taught me that.
Not intentionally.
When we were children, he used to turn everything into puzzles.
Which car on the street had moved?
Which person in the restaurant was waiting for someone?
What changed in the room while I was gone?
I had thought it was a game.
Years later, I found out he’d made a career of noticing things people preferred not to have noticed.
The office door opened.
And there he was.
Vincent Moretti stood beside the windows with his back partially turned to us, reading something on a tablet.
For three years, he had existed mostly as pixels.
Court photographs.
Business profiles.
Charity events.
One security-camera image from the night Daniel died.
The real man was more difficult.
Not larger than life.
That would have been easier.
He looked controlled.
Dark trousers. White shirt. No tie. Sleeves buttoned at the wrist. Nothing flashy except the view behind him and the fact that he seemed entirely comfortable standing in front of it.
Celeste spoke.
— Natalie Bennett.
Vincent raised his eyes.
The first thing I noticed was that he didn’t smile.
The second was that he didn’t look at Celeste.
Only me.
A beat passed.
Then another.
— Ms. Bennett.
His voice was lower than I expected.
— Mr. Moretti.
Celeste closed the door.
She stayed inside.
That hadn’t been in the interview schedule.
Vincent indicated the chair opposite his desk.
— Sit.
I sat.
He did the same.
My résumé lay in front of him.
Four pages.
Seven months of work.
He didn’t touch it.
— Why do you want to work here?
No warm-up.
Fine.
— Moretti Group’s intelligence division handles cases junior analysts normally wouldn’t see for years elsewhere.
— That’s why someone would want the position.
He leaned back slightly.
— I asked why you want it.
I had six prepared answers.
None felt right anymore.
— I get bored easily.
His expression didn’t change.
— Do you?
— Sometimes.
— Parrish and Cole offered you a promotion three weeks before you resigned.
There it was.
I kept my face neutral.
— The work wasn’t interesting.
— Better title. Higher salary.
— Same work.
— Most people would have stayed.
— I’m not most people.
Silence.
Too easy.
The line sounded rehearsed even to me.
Vincent seemed to agree.
— No, he said. — I don’t imagine you are.
I couldn’t tell whether that was approval.
I doubted it.
He finally opened my résumé.
— Northeastern.
— Yes.
— Data analytics and economics.
— Yes.
— Professor Alden.
My pulse moved once.
I hadn’t mentioned Alden.
— What about him?
Vincent looked up.
— You listed his course as part of your concentration.
Right.
Of course.
— It was.
— What did he teach you?
Wrong question.
Not because I couldn’t answer.
Because Alden was real, but the course wasn’t mine.
I had borrowed it from a transcript belonging to Natalie Bennett’s skeleton identity.
— Pattern recognition in financial data.
— That’s broad.
— It was an introductory course.
— Was it?
I held his eyes.
— Is there a correct answer?
— Usually.
Something about the way he said it made me want to look away.
I didn’t.
He pushed a sheet of paper across the desk.
— Tell me what you see.
No heading.
Four companies.
Dates.
Transfers.
I scanned it.
The numbers looked unrelated until I stopped reading them as amounts.
Ratios.
Three companies received different values at almost identical intervals.
The fourth didn’t.
— These three are moving the same percentage.
— Of what?
— I’d need the original deposits.
— Assume you have them.
I did the rough calculations.
— Eleven percent.
— And the fourth company?
I studied it.
It received money later.
Then split it into smaller amounts.
Too consistently.
— It’s wrong.
Celeste spoke for the first time.
— Wrong how?
I pointed.
— It’s cleaner than the others.
— Meaning?
— If this is laundering, the fourth path is too obvious.
Vincent watched me.
I continued.
— Either whoever created it was worse at hiding money than the person who structured the other three…
I paused.
— Or they wanted someone to find this one.
No one spoke.
That silence told me more than either of their faces.
This wasn’t hypothetical.
I looked down again.
— What’s the fourth company?
Vincent took the page from me.
— You aren’t interviewing me.
— Pity.
His eyes lifted.
Something almost happened in them.
Not amusement.
Recognition, perhaps.
Then it vanished.
— Who taught you to look for the mistake instead of the pattern?
Daniel.
My thumb touched the side of my index finger.
Once.
I stopped it.
— University.
— Professor Alden?
— Among others.
Vincent’s gaze dropped.
Not to the résumé.
My hand.
I curled my fingers into my palm.
When I looked back at his face, he was already watching me again.
— Professor Alden retired two years before you enrolled.
Cold moved slowly through my stomach.
There were moments when panic arrived loudly.
This wasn’t one of them.
This was quieter.
A door closing somewhere very far away.
I shrugged.
— Then I’m remembering the professor wrong.
— Are you?
— Apparently.
Vincent said nothing.
He didn’t need to.
Celeste did not look at me.
That was worse.
I picked up the glass of water.
Didn’t drink.
Just held it.
— Do you fact-check every university anecdote applicants tell you?
— No.
— Then I’m flattered.
— You shouldn’t be.
His tone hadn’t changed.
Not once.
That was beginning to bother me.
People usually revealed themselves through irritation.
Vincent seemed to become quieter when he was interested.
I set the glass down.
— Why am I actually here?
Celeste looked at him.
There.
Tiny.
But I saw it.
Vincent didn’t.
Or pretended not to.
— You applied for a job.
— And you’re interviewing me about a professor who retired before I supposedly studied with him.
I let the silence stretch this time.
— Either your hiring process is pathological, or this isn’t about the job.
For the first time, Vincent smiled.
Not fully.
One corner of his mouth moved.
It made him look worse.
Not kinder.
More dangerous.
I became aware of an entirely inappropriate physical fact:
I wanted him to do it again.
I hated that immediately.
— Which answer would make you stay? he asked.
— Neither.
— Yet you’re still sitting down.
Point to him.
I leaned back.
— Maybe I’m curious.
— Curiosity is expensive.
— So is private investigation.
That came out before I could stop it.
Celeste’s attention shifted to me.
Vincent went very still.
Shit.
I smiled.
Natalie Bennett.
Stay Natalie Bennett.
— Occupational hazard, I added. — Risk analysts investigate things.
— Of course.
He closed my résumé.
Interview over.
At least, I thought so.
Then there was a knock.
The door opened.
Luca Santoro stepped inside.
I knew him too.
Director of Operations.
Officially.
The man in the photographs beside Vincent whenever circumstances became less official.
Broad shoulders, dark suit, pale scar through one eyebrow.
He took two steps into the office before seeing me.
Stopped.
Not long.
Less than a second.
But enough.
Recognition.
My stomach dropped.
Luca looked at Vincent.
The look between them contained an entire conversation I wasn’t part of.
He said something quietly in Italian.
Vincent answered.
Luca’s eyes returned to me.
This time there was no question in them.
He knew.
I stood.
— I think we’re done.
Vincent remained seated.
— Sit down.
— No.
Luca’s attention sharpened.
Celeste said nothing.
Vincent looked up at me.
We stayed that way for several seconds.
Then:
— Fine.
The lack of resistance unsettled me more than an argument would have.
I reached for my folder.
— Thank you for your time.
— Ms. Bennett.
I stopped.
Don’t turn around.
I did anyway.
Vincent was looking at my hand.
My thumb had found my index finger again.
I separated them.
Slowly.
His eyes rose to mine.
— Daniel did that too.
Everything inside me became silent.
Not stopped.
Silent.
I heard the air conditioning.
Traffic thirty-two floors below.
The faint electrical hum of the lights.
Nothing else.
— I’m sorry?
Vincent stood.
— Your brother.
My mouth dried.
— I don’t have a brother.
The lie was absurd now.
His gaze dropped to my fingers.
I forced them still.
— He did that when he lied.
I looked at Luca.
No surprise.
Celeste.
Nothing.
Back to Vincent.
— Who are you?
His expression remained unreadable.
— You know exactly who I am.
— Did you kill him?
Celeste shifted.
Luca didn’t.
Vincent’s face changed.
Not visibly enough to name.
But whatever small amount of amusement had been there disappeared.
— No.
One word.
I had spent three years imagining his denial.
I’d expected explanations.
Anger.
Maybe contempt.
The simplicity of it made me furious.
— He met you that night.
— Yes.
— You were the last person to see him alive.
— No.
I stared at him.
— The police report—
— Is wrong.
The room tilted by half a degree.
— Who saw him after you?
— I’m not discussing Daniel with you here.
I laughed once.
— Here?
— Correct.
— I’ve spent three years trying to find out what happened to him.
— I know.
That was worse.
— You know?
— Yes.
— How?
No answer.
I stepped toward him.
— How long have you known who I am?
Vincent looked at me.
No performance now.
No half-smile.
Nothing.
— Long enough.
— Before today?
Silence.
My anger sharpened.
— Before I applied?
Still nothing.
That was an answer.
I looked at the résumé on his desk.
Natalie Bennett.
My perfect little ghost.
— Then why let me through three interviews?
— I didn’t.
I looked up.
— What?
Vincent came around the desk.
He stopped several feet away.
Not close enough to threaten.
Close enough that I had to remind myself not to notice the clean line of his collar or the scar across one knuckle.
He lowered his voice.
— You keep assuming you found your way in here.
My skin went cold.
— Didn’t I?
— No.
— Then what exactly are you saying?
For the first time since I entered, Vincent looked almost impatient.
Not with me.
With the question.
— Someone wanted you in this building.
The sentence settled between us.
I thought about the anonymous email.
The job link.
If you want answers, stop looking from the outside.
I had never told anyone about it.
— Who?
— That’s what I intend to find out.
I stared at him.
— And you expect me to believe you’re helping me?
— No.
There was something almost insulting about how quickly he answered.
— Good.
— I expect you to understand that if someone spent months guiding you toward me, you’re useful to them.
His gaze dropped briefly to the folder in my hand.
— Which makes you useful to me.
There it was.
No concern.
No protection.
No pretending.
A transaction.
For some reason, that was easier to handle.
— So that’s why I’m here.
— Partly.
— What’s the other part?
Vincent looked at me for a long moment.
I had the strange sensation of being evaluated again.
Only this time there was no résumé between us.
— You saw the fourth account.
I frowned.
— What does that have to do with anything?
— My analysts didn’t.
That surprised me.
He noticed.
— Don’t look pleased.
— I wasn’t.
— You were.
— Apparently you know everything.
— Not everything.
His eyes stayed on mine.
— That’s the problem.
A knock sounded again.
Luca opened the door just enough to speak.
— Vincent.
Something in his tone changed the room.
Vincent looked at him.
Luca said nothing else.
He didn’t have to.
Vincent turned back to me.
The interview was over now.
Really over.
— Go home.
I almost laughed.
— You’re hiring me?
— HR will contact you.
— I haven’t accepted.
— I know.
— And you think I will?
He looked down at the fake résumé.
Then at me.
— Yes.
The certainty irritated me enough that I stepped closer.
— You don’t know me.
His gaze lowered for half a second.
My mouth.
So brief I could have denied it.
I didn’t.
When his eyes returned to mine, nothing in his expression had changed.
— No, Nora.
My real name sounded too intimate in his voice.
— But I knew your brother.
The anger returned immediately.
Useful.
— Don’t call me Nora.
— Then stop answering to it.
I stared at him.
He turned toward Luca.
Dismissed.
Just like that.
I made it to the door.
— Nora.
I stopped again.
This time I hated myself for it.
Vincent stood behind his desk.
— Whoever sent you the listing—
My fingers tightened around the folder.
— Don’t contact them.
— Why?
A pause.
— Because if they wanted you to reach me, they’ll want to know what happened when you did.
— Maybe I want them to know.
His face hardened.
Finally.
Not much.
Enough.
— Then you’re not as intelligent as your résumé suggests.
Anger flashed hot and clean through me.
— Fuck you.
Luca looked away.
Celeste’s expression didn’t change.
Vincent did.
Barely.
His eyes held mine.
Something colder than amusement moved through them.
— There you are.
I hated the way those three words affected me.
Not because they were threatening.
Because he sounded as if he had been waiting all morning for me to stop pretending.
I opened the door.
— Send the offer to Natalie Bennett.
— Why?
I looked back.
— You hired her.
For the first time, Vincent had no immediate response.
Good.
I walked out.
The door closed behind me.
My hands didn’t start shaking until I reached the elevator.
I pressed the button once.
Then again.
My phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
I looked at the screen.
One message.
Did he recognize you?
I stopped breathing.
A second message appeared before I could move.
Don’t answer.
Then a third.
Just get away from the building.
I looked back toward the secured corridor.
Vincent’s office was no longer visible from where I stood.
My phone vibrated again.
Now, Nora.
The elevator doors opened.
I stepped inside.
And for the first time in three years, I wasn’t sure Vincent Moretti was the person I should be running from.
