Chapter 2 - THE TRUTH ABOUT THAT RAINY AFTERNOON
The crystal chandeliers above the dining table seemed to hum in the silence.
Thirty-six guests held their breath.
Uncle Marco, sitting two chairs away, slowly set his wine glass down. The clinking sound echoed like a gunshot in the massive room.
Vanessa’s face was completely drained of color.
“Teresa,” she warned, her voice dropping to a dangerous, trembling whisper. “Do not ruin this night. Luca and I are moving forward.”
But Luca stepped between his fiancée and his mother.
His broad shoulders completely blocked Vanessa from Teresa’s view.
“Mom,” Luca said softly, his voice carrying the quiet, absolute authority of a man who ruled Chicago’s underground, yet loved his mother fiercely. “Tell me what Catherine meant.”
Teresa’s hands were still shaking on the edge of the piano bench.
I stood right beside her, my heart hammering against my ribs. I gently placed my hand on her shoulder, hoping to give her strength.
She looked up at me, her eyes filled with years of held-back tears, and then she looked at her son.
“Vanessa has always told everyone you met at the country club charity gala,” Teresa began, her voice brittle. “She told you she was the daughter of a wealthy importer from Boston. That she spilled champagne on Catherine’s dress, and you all laughed, and became fast friends.”
Luca nodded slowly. “That’s what she told me.”
Vanessa took a step forward, her red silk gown rustling. “Because that is what happened, Luca! Your mother’s memory is failing. She’s confused—”
“I am old, Vanessa,” Teresa interrupted, her voice suddenly finding its steel. “But I am not blind. And I am not a fool.”
Teresa reached into the small pocket of her knitted cardigan.
My breath caught as she pulled out a small, faded Polaroid photograph. The edges were worn, the colors slightly yellowed from time.
She handed it to Luca.
“Catherine didn’t meet her at a gala, Luca,” Teresa said softly. “Catherine found her in the alley behind the Catholic charity clinic on 4th Street. In the pouring rain.”
Luca stared at the photograph.
From where I stood, I could see the image. It was Vanessa. But not the polished, diamond-draped woman standing in the dining room today.
The woman in the photo looked exhausted, thin, and desperate. She was wearing a cheap, torn jacket, sitting on a soaked cardboard box, holding a paper cup of coffee.
And standing right beside her, holding an umbrella over Vanessa’s head to keep her dry, was Catherine.
Luca’s jaw clenched. The muscles in his neck tightened as he stared at the image of his late wife smiling kindly at the woman who was now trying to replace her.
“Catherine brought her home that afternoon,” Teresa whispered into the silence. “She told me Vanessa had nowhere to go. She told me Vanessa was running from some very bad people in Boston. Catherine gave her a warm bath, hot food, and a job as her personal assistant.”
A gasp rippled through the guests.
Vanessa’s perfect facade was cracking. Her hands balled into fists.
“That’s a lie!” Vanessa spat, though her voice shook. “Catherine was jealous of me! She fabricated that photo!”
Luca didn’t look up from the picture.
“Catherine didn’t have a jealous bone in her body,” he said quietly.
“Daddy?” Sophie’s small voice broke through the tension. She was still standing near the piano, clutching the sheet music. “Mommy told me Vanessa was very sad when she came to live with us. Mommy said she gave Vanessa her favorite blue coat so she wouldn’t freeze.”
Luca finally looked up. His dark eyes locked onto Vanessa.
“You told me you came from old money,” Luca said, his voice dropping an octave. “You told me you were an executive consultant. You sat at my table, drank my wine, and let my wife treat you like a sister.”
“Luca, please,” Vanessa stepped forward, reaching for his arm. “I had to lie! You’re a powerful man. I was embarrassed. I wanted to be worthy of your circle. Catherine… Catherine promised she would never tell you.”
“And she didn’t,” Luca said coldly, stepping back so Vanessa’s hand grabbed only empty air. “She took your secret to her grave. Because she had a pure heart.”
He looked back at the sheet music on the piano.
“But if she protected you,” Luca asked, his eyes narrowing, “why did she leave a hidden message warning me about you?”
Vanessa swallowed hard. “She was sick, Luca. The medication made her paranoid. You know that.”
Teresa shook her head. “Catherine wasn’t paranoid. She was terrified.”
I felt a sudden chill run down my spine.
I had been cleaning the guest wing three days ago. I remembered seeing Vanessa’s closet open.
“Mr. Moretti,” I said.
The words left my mouth before I could stop them.
Thirty-six pairs of eyes snapped toward me. The maid. The twenty-five-year-old girl who was supposed to be invisible.
Vanessa glared at me, her eyes filled with pure venom. “Shut your mouth, Hannah. You are fired. Get out of this house tonight.”
I thought about my mother’s medical bills. The eviction notice sitting on my kitchen counter. I needed this job to keep my mother alive.
But I looked at nine-year-old Sophie, holding her mother’s music.
“Mr. Moretti,” I said again, my voice shaking but loud enough for the room to hear. “If Catherine gave Vanessa her favorite blue coat… it’s still here. I saw it in Mrs. Bellini’s closet on Tuesday.”
Luca looked at me. He remembered I was the one who had stayed with his mother when everyone else ignored her.
“Go get it, Hannah,” Luca commanded.
“Luca, no!” Vanessa panicked, lunging forward. “You can’t let the help rifle through my things!”
But two of Luca’s men—massive guards in dark suits—stepped smoothly out of the shadows, blocking Vanessa’s path.
“Go, Hannah,” Luca repeated.
I ran up the grand staircase. My heart pounded in my ears. I rushed into the guest suite, threw open Vanessa’s massive walk-in closet, and pushed past the rows of designer dresses.
Way in the back, hidden behind winter gowns, was a simple, faded blue wool coat.
I grabbed it off the hanger.
As I pulled it out, I felt something hard and heavy sitting in the bottom right pocket.
I reached inside.
My fingers wrapped around a small, velvet jewelry box, and a folded piece of yellowed paper.
I opened the paper first.
It was a pawn shop receipt from four years ago.
And the name on the ticket wasn't Vanessa's. It was Catherine Moretti's.
I opened the velvet box.
Inside sat a breathtaking, vintage diamond watch.
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But the terrifying part wasn't the watch itself.
It was the dark, dried stain on the leather band that looked exactly like blood.
