A Silver Pin and a Shattered Trust

Luca stared at his grandfather’s gold watch in Vanessa’s outstretched hand.

He knew for an absolute fact that the watch had been in the top drawer of his bedside table an hour ago. Grace had not been on the second floor all evening. Vanessa, however, had gone upstairs to “freshen her lipstick” just before dinner.

Vanessa was framing Grace. She wanted the maid out of the house tonight, desperately enough to fake a theft.

“I’ll handle Grace,” Luca said, his tone devoid of any emotion. He took the watch from Vanessa’s palm.

“Luca, she’s a thief. You can’t possibly let her stay.”

“I said, I will handle it, Vanessa. Return to your parents. It’s our engagement dinner.”

He didn't wait for her response. He turned and walked directly toward the staff quarters at the back of the estate. The narrow hallways smelled of starch and lemon polish. He stopped at the door with Grace’s name on it and knocked twice.

Grace opened the door. She had taken off her uniform and was wearing a simple gray sweater, holding a small duffel bag. Her left wrist was still heavily bandaged.

“Mr. Moretti,” she stammered, stepping back. “I was just packing. Mrs. Carter told me Vanessa said I was fired—”

“You’re not fired.”

Luca stepped inside and closed the door behind him. He held up the gold watch.

Grace gasped. “I didn’t take that. I swear to you, Mr. Moretti, I have never—”

“I know you didn't,” Luca interrupted gently. “Because Vanessa planted it.”

Grace stopped talking, her eyes wide with confusion. “Why would she do that?”

“Because you saw her lock a woman in the gift-room closet, and she knows you’re a liability.” Luca watched Grace’s shoulders drop as the tension released. “Grace, I need you to do exactly as I say. Lock this door. Do not come out until I come back for you. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

Luca left the staff quarters, his mind moving like a chess player. If Vanessa was bold enough to frame a maid, she was panicking. He needed to make sure the rest of the house was secure.

He walked up to the third floor, toward the nursery wing. His son, Leo, was eight years old. Leo had been asleep for hours, having been excused from the engagement dinner due to a slight fever.

Luca quietly pushed open the heavy mahogany door to Leo’s room.

The room was dark, illuminated only by a small nightlight.

Luca approached the bed to pull up the blanket.

His stomach dropped.

The bed was empty.

The sheets were thrown back, and the window was locked. But resting in the exact center of Leo’s pillow was a child’s crayon drawing. Luca picked it up with a trembling hand.

It was a drawing of a woman wearing a bright red coat, holding a small boy by the hand.