Chapter 3 - THE PHOTOGRAPH IN THE VAULT
The rain beat heavily against the windshield of Marco’s armored SUV as we drove toward the south side of Chicago.
Isabella sat silently beside me in the backseat, her hands resting on her cane.
I looked down at the brass key in my lap.
“Why would my mother have the key to your husband’s private vault?” I asked softly.
Isabella didn't look away from the window.
“Your mother, Sofia, wasn't just a housewife, Elena. Before she had you, she was Vittorio’s most trusted bookkeeper. She knew every secret this family had.”
My breath caught. “My mother worked for the syndicate?”
“She didn't just work for it. She held it together,” Isabella said. “When Vittorio died, Sofia left the life completely. I thought she just wanted to protect you from the violence. Now, I realize she was hiding something from all of us.”
The SUV pulled off the main road, navigating down a long, overgrown driveway until we reached a massive, abandoned stone estate.
The Donovan property.
Marco parked near the back entrance. He handed Isabella an umbrella and led us through the heavy oak doors into a dusty, sprawling library.
At the back of the room, hidden behind a massive bookshelf that Marco easily slid aside, was a solid steel vault door.
My hands shook as I stepped forward. I slid the heavy brass key into the lock.
It turned with a loud, echoing click.
Marco pulled the heavy door open.
The vault was small, smelling of old paper and dust. Inside was a single metal desk, and resting on top of it was a leather briefcase.
Isabella stepped inside and opened the briefcase.
It wasn't filled with money or gold. It was filled with stacks of old letters, legal documents, and a single, faded photograph.
Isabella picked up the photograph.
As she stared at it, she let out a sharp, ragged gasp and placed a hand over her heart.
“Nonna?” I asked, rushing to her side. “What is it?”
She couldn't speak. She just handed the photograph to me.
I looked at the image.
It was a picture of my mother, looking thirty years younger. She was standing in a hospital room, holding a newborn baby wrapped in a blue blanket.
Standing next to her, looking down at the baby with absolute adoration, was Vittorio Moretti.
Anthony’s father.
But it wasn't Anthony in the blanket.
I turned the photograph over. Written in my mother’s neat handwriting were three words:
Marco Vittorio Moretti.
My stomach dropped. The room spun.
I looked up at our driver, who was standing quietly by the vault door.
“Marco,” I whispered.
Marco looked confused. “Yes, ma'am?”
Isabella leaned heavily against the desk, tears spilling over her wrinkled cheeks.
“You aren't just my driver,” Isabella cried softly. “You’re my husband’s firstborn son.”
Marco froze. The stoic, unbreakable man looked like he had just been shot.
“No,” Marco said, shaking his head. “My parents died when I was a baby. The family took me in. I’m nobody.”
“You are the true heir to the Chicago syndicate,” Isabella said, her voice breaking. “Vittorio hid you because his brothers wanted to kill his bloodline to take control. He gave you to Sofia to protect you.”
I looked down at the documents in the briefcase.
They were legitimate adoption papers, trust funds, and a legal will signed by Vittorio.
Everything Anthony currently owned actually belonged to Marco.
Suddenly, my cell phone rang, shattering the heavy silence in the vault.
It was Anthony.
I answered it, putting it on speaker.
“Did you find what you were looking for, Elena?” Anthony’s voice was eerily calm.
“We found the truth,” I said, my voice trembling with anger. “You aren't the rightful heir.”
Anthony let out a cold, dark laugh.
“I’ve known that for five years. Vanessa’s family figured it out, which is why I brought her in. I couldn't risk my grandmother finding out I was just a placeholder.”
“You’re finished, Anthony,” Isabella spoke into the phone, her voice hardening into steel. “I am stripping you of your title tonight.”
“You can’t do that, Grandmother,” Anthony replied softly.
“Watch me.”
“I wouldn't be so brave if I were you,” Anthony warned. “Because while you three were taking a trip down memory lane, Vanessa and I took a little trip of our own.”
My blood ran cold. “What are you talking about?”
“Your mother was a very smart woman, Elena,” Anthony said. “She hid the heir perfectly. But she made one massive mistake.”
“What mistake?” I demanded.
“She kept a diary,” Anthony sneered. “And Vanessa just found it in your childhood bedroom.”
I heard the sound of paper rustling over the phone line.
“Do you know what your mother wrote on the very last page, Elena?” Anthony asked.
“Don't,” I whispered.
May you like
“She wrote down the address of the orphanage in Montana,” Anthony said, his voice dripping with venom. “The one where she hid Vittorio’s second child. Marco’s little sister.”
The phone line went dead.
