Chapter 2 - THE PHOTOGRAPH IN THE BLUE COAT
Vanessa’s voice echoed against the high, vaulted ceiling of the dining room.
“There’s something your mother said before she left,” Vanessa repeated, stepping closer to Luca. The diamond necklace around her throat glittered under the chandelier, but her eyes were completely devoid of light. “And if you go after her, she’s going to tell you everything.”
The thirty wealthy guests sitting at the long mahogany table held their collective breath. Nobody moved. Nobody made a sound.
Luca Moretti did not flinch. He didn’t raise his voice. He simply looked down at the woman he was supposed to marry, his expression hardening into a mask of pure, terrifying ice.
“If my mother has something to tell me, Vanessa,” Luca said, his voice dropping to a low, lethal baritone, “I suggest you pray I don’t believe her.”
Vanessa’s confident smile faltered.
Luca didn’t wait for her to respond. He turned his back on the Chicago elite, on his own engagement party, and looked directly at me.
“Emma. We are leaving.”
My hands were shaking as I placed the kitchen towel on the back of a velvet chair. I was just a housekeeper. I had forty-three dollars in my checking account and a father with Alzheimer’s who depended on my paycheck. I had no business walking out of a billionaire’s mansion in the middle of a shift.
But I thought of Rosa Moretti, eating cold soup alone in the kitchen.
I nodded, untying my white apron and letting it fall to the marble floor.
The ride to Union Station was suffocating. The rain lashed against the tinted windows of Luca’s armored SUV. Sitting in the back seat beside the head of the Chicago syndicate, I stared at my scuffed black work shoes.
“Sir,” I whispered, breaking the heavy silence. “I’m sorry if I ruined your evening. I just couldn't leave her down there.”
Luca turned his head. In the shadows of the car, his dark eyes were heavy with a sorrow I hadn't known he possessed.
“You did the right thing, Emma. Never apologize for protecting my mother when I failed to do it myself.”
The SUV screeched to a halt outside the massive stone columns of Union Station. Luca didn’t wait for his security detail. He pushed open the door and strode into the crowded, echoing terminal. I had to run to keep up with his long strides.
We found her sitting on a wooden bench near the departure gates for the late-night Greyhound buses.
Rosa Moretti looked so incredibly small. Her faded blue cardigan was pulled tightly across her chest, her battered suitcase resting against her ankles. She was staring blankly at the marble floor.
“Mom,” Luca choked out, his voice cracking.
Rosa looked up. When she saw her son, a mixture of profound relief and terrible sadness washed over her lined face.
Luca dropped to his knees right there in the middle of the filthy train station. He didn't care who was watching. He wrapped his large arms around his mother, burying his face in her shoulder.
“I’m so sorry,” Luca whispered fiercely. “I didn't know. I swear to God, Mom, I didn't know she put you in the kitchen.”
Rosa gently stroked her son’s dark hair, her hands trembling.
“I know you didn't, my sweet boy,” Rosa murmured. She looked up and met my eyes, offering me a weak, grateful smile. “Thank you, Emma.”
Luca pulled back, his jaw tight with rage. “Come home with me. You are taking the master guest suite. Vanessa will be gone by the time we get back. The wedding is off.”
But Rosa didn't stand up. She gently placed her hands on Luca’s cheeks, forcing him to look at her.
“Luca, listen to me,” she said, her voice dropping to a frightened whisper. “I didn't leave the house tonight because Vanessa insulted my clothes. I left because of what I found in her private study.”
My stomach tightened.
Luca frowned. “What were you doing in her study?”
“I went looking for a pen to write you a note,” Rosa explained, her breath hitching. “Her purse was spilled open on the desk. And I saw this.”
Rosa reached into the pocket of her cardigan. Her hand was shaking violently as she pulled out a crumpled photograph.
She handed it to Luca.
I stood close enough to see the image over his broad shoulder.
It wasn't a picture of Vanessa with another man. It wasn't proof of an affair.
It was a photograph of a little boy, about six years old, sitting on the front steps of a crumbling brick duplex. He was smiling, missing his two front teeth, holding a worn-out baseball glove.
All the air rushed out of my lungs. The terminal spun around me.
“Leo,” I gasped, clutching my chest.
Luca’s head snapped up. “Emma? You know this child?”
“He’s my son,” I sobbed, a wave of primal, suffocating terror crashing over me. “That’s my baby. He’s at home with my father tonight.”
Luca looked back down at the photograph. He flipped it over.
Written on the back, in Vanessa’s elegant, sweeping cursive, were four words.
The maid talks, he dies.
I stumbled backward, pressing my hands over my mouth to muffle a scream. Vanessa hadn't just insulted Luca’s mother. She had been threatening my family.
But why? I was just a housekeeper. I dusted the blinds. I polished the silver.
“Mom,” Luca said, his voice turning deadly cold. “Why would Vanessa have a threat against Emma’s child in her purse?”
Rosa closed her eyes, a tear slipping down her cheek.
“Because, Luca,” Rosa whispered. “Emma was the one who cleaned Vanessa’s dressing room yesterday morning. Emma is the only person in that house who could have seen what Vanessa was hiding.”
Luca stood up slowly, his imposing frame blocking out the station lights. He looked at me, his eyes burning with an intense, terrifying focus.
“Emma,” Luca demanded softly. “What did you see in her room yesterday?”
My mind raced. I thought back to the dusting, the vacuuming, the quiet hours spent in the sprawling master suite. And then, I remembered the heavy mahogany jewelry box. I had bumped it. A hidden bottom drawer had slid open.
“A watch,” I whispered, my mouth going dry. “I saw a silver pocket watch with a cracked face. It had a strange engraving on the back. A wolf.”
Luca’s entire body went rigid. The color drained completely from his face.
He reached into his own tailored jacket, slowly pulling out a heavy, silver rosary.
“Did the wolf look like this?” Luca asked, holding up the cross. Etched into the silver was the exact same crest.
I nodded, terrified. “Yes. Exactly like that.”
May you like
Luca stared at me, the air around him growing dangerously cold.
“That crest belongs to the Moretti family,” Luca breathed, his voice thick with a sudden, horrifying realization. “That pocket watch was buried with my father ten years ago. If Vanessa has it… it means she was the one who dug up his grave.”
