Chapter 4 - The Necklace of the Swallow
The silver locket rattled against the dresser top, the sound shockingly loud in the quiet bedroom.
I stared at the tiny photograph inside, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
The woman in the picture, holding the newborn baby, was my mother. She looked younger, her dark hair longer, her face free of the deep lines of exhaustion she wore now.
But the silver swallow necklace around her neck was unmistakable. She never took it off. She had told me my father gave it to her before he died.
I stepped backward, bumping into the armchair.
Why did Teresa Moretti have a picture of my mother in her private locket?
And who was the baby in her arms?
I was an only child. I had never had a brother or a sister.
My mind raced, connecting impossible, terrifying dots. The picture of the boy on the swing... the age... five or six years old.
The baby in my mother's arms in the locket looked to be about that same age if he had grown up.
"Hannah?"
I jumped, spinning around.
Teresa was awake, propped up on her elbows in the dim light. Her eyes were blurry from the medication, but she was looking directly at the locket on the dresser.
"I'm sorry," I stammered, my hands shaking as I quickly closed the locket. "I didn't mean to pry. It popped open."
Teresa let out a soft, heavy sigh. She didn't look angry. She just looked incredibly sad.
"Bring it here, child," she whispered.
I hesitated, then picked up the locket and walked slowly to the edge of the bed. I placed it in her outstretched hand.
Teresa traced the tarnished silver with her thumb.
"She was beautiful, wasn't she?" Teresa said softly.
"Yes," I breathed. "Who is she?"
I needed to hear her say it. I needed to know if I was losing my mind.
Teresa looked up at me, her eyes filled with a deep, lingering sorrow.
"Her name was Clara," Teresa said.
My mother’s name.
"She was Matteo’s fiancée," Teresa continued, the words hitting me like a physical blow.
I gripped the bedpost to keep from collapsing.
My mother was engaged to Matteo Moretti? The golden boy of the mafia? But my mother was fifty years old, and Matteo had died in his late twenties.
"I don't understand," I whispered, the confusion twisting my stomach into knots. "Matteo died five years ago. The woman in this picture looks much older than him."
Teresa smiled a sad, watery smile. "No, Hannah. Matteo was my youngest. He died when he was twenty-eight. But Clara... Clara was his nurse. She was older than him by ten years. She took care of him when he was hospitalized for appendicitis. They fell in love. A quiet, fierce love."
My head was spinning. My mother had been a nurse. She lost her license five years ago under mysterious circumstances she refused to talk about.
"Luca's father, my late husband, forbade the marriage," Teresa said, tears pooling in her eyes. "He said Clara was too old, too common. He threatened to disown Matteo."
Teresa opened the locket again, looking at the baby.
"But Matteo didn't care," Teresa whispered. "He bought her a silver swallow necklace, promising they would fly away together. They planned to elope and leave the mafia behind. But a week before they were supposed to leave... Matteo’s car went off the cliff."
I couldn't breathe.
"And the baby?" I choked out.
Teresa closed her eyes, a tear slipping down her cheek. "I didn't know about the baby until three months after Matteo died. Clara came to me in secret. She was terrified. She had just given birth to a little boy. Matteo’s son."
Teresa looked at me, her expression desperate.
"I told her to run," Teresa cried. "I gave her money and told her to take the baby and disappear. If my husband or the rival families found out Matteo had an heir, they would have used the child as a pawn. I promised Clara I would never tell anyone, not even Luca."
I stared at the fragile old woman.
"You hid your own grandson?" I asked, horrified.
"To save his life!" Teresa sobbed, clutching the locket to her chest. "And for five years, I thought they were safe. But now... they have him, Hannah. Whoever sent that picture found them."
I felt the blood drain from my face.
If my mother was Clara... and the baby was Matteo’s son...
The boy in the picture wasn't just my mother’s child.
He was my half-brother.
A brother I never knew existed, because I had moved out for college six years ago and rarely came home. My mother had hidden an entire pregnancy and a child from me to protect us both.
"I have to make a phone call," I said, my voice completely devoid of emotion.
I backed away from the bed and ran out of the room before Teresa could stop me.
I sprinted down the hallway to a small alcove where the staff kept a landline phone. I dialed my mother’s number, my fingers trembling so violently I messed up twice.
It rang. And rang. And rang.
"Please pick up, Mom," I begged into the receiver. "Please."
On the fifth ring, the line clicked open.
But it wasn't my mother’s voice.
"Hello, Hannah," a smooth, chillingly calm voice said.
I froze. "Who is this? Where is my mother?"
"Your mother is currently resting," the voice purred. "She put up quite a fight when we came to collect little Leo. But we have him now."
"Leo," I whispered, finally knowing my brother’s name. "Don't you touch him. Don't you dare hurt him."
The man chuckled. "That depends entirely on your boss. Don Moretti has until midnight tomorrow to sign over the Bellini territory."
"Who are you?" I demanded, tears of pure rage spilling down my face. "What family are you with?"
"I'm not with a family, Hannah," the man said softly. "I'm the man your mother was supposed to marry before the mafia prince ruined my life."
The line went dead.
I stared at the phone in absolute horror.
My mother’s ex-fiancé. The man she left for Matteo.
Before I could process the terrifying reality, a heavy hand clamped down on my shoulder.
I screamed, spinning around.
Luca Moretti stood over me, his face a mask of cold, lethal suspicion.
"Who were you just talking to?" Luca demanded.
I swallowed hard, terrified of what he would do if he found out who I really was.
"Nobody," I lied, my voice shaking.
Luca’s eyes narrowed. He looked at the phone, then back at me.
"Lie to me again," Luca whispered dangerously, "and I will treat you like an enemy of this family. Tell me who was on the phone."
Before I could answer, a loud crash echoed from the main foyer downstairs, followed by shouting and the sound of breaking glass.
Luca immediately drew a handgun from his shoulder holster and pushed me behind him.
"Stay here," he ordered.
He ran toward the grand staircase.
I didn't listen. I followed him, peering over the marble banister.
Down in the foyer, three of Luca’s guards were dragging a woman through the front doors. She was soaking wet from the rain, her clothes torn, her face bruised and bleeding.
"Let me go!" the woman screamed, fighting wildly against the massive guards. "I need to see him! I need to see Luca!"
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I gasped, gripping the banister so tightly my knuckles turned white.
It was my mother.
