Chapter 3 - THE MAN IN THE PHOTOGRAPH
The photograph wasn't a picture of Mateo. It wasn't a picture of Luca.
It was a Polaroid of a man standing in front of a blue pickup truck. He had a warm smile, grease on his hands, and kind eyes.
It was my father.
My father, who had died in a hit-and-run accident ten years ago when I was fifteen.
Answer one: Vanessa’s partner wasn't just a random thief. He was someone intimately connected to my past. Someone who knew exactly who I was before I ever took this job.
“Mateo,” Luca was instantly on his knees in front of his son, his large hands gripping the boy’s small shoulders. “Who is in your room? What did he look like?”
Mateo pointed a small, shaking finger at the photograph in my hand.
“He looked just like the man in the picture,” Mateo whispered. “But older. And he had a scar on his neck.”
My heart stopped beating.
My father didn't have a brother. But he did have a business partner. A man who had disappeared the exact same night my father was killed. A man named Arthur Vance.
“Arthur,” I breathed out loud.
Luca snapped his head toward me. “You know him?”
“He was my father’s mechanic,” I said, my hands shaking so badly I nearly dropped the photo. “He vanished ten years ago. The police thought he was the one who ran my father off the road.”
Open two: If Arthur Vance killed my father, why is he in the Moretti mansion ten years later? And why is he teaming up with Luca’s fiancée?
Luca stood up, his eyes burning with a sudden, violent clarity.
“Daniel,” Luca barked into his radio. “Lock down the west wing. We have an intruder in Mateo’s bedroom. Shoot on sight.”
“Wait!” Vanessa screamed, lunging forward and grabbing Luca’s jacket. “Don't let them shoot him! If he doesn't check in every ten minutes, the bomb goes off!”
The forty guests erupted into pure panic. Women screamed. Men pushed toward the front doors, only to find them locked by the automated security protocol.
“Quiet!” Luca roared, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling with such force that the room instantly froze.
He turned back to Vanessa, grabbing her by the arms and lifting her slightly off the marble floor.
“What bomb?” Luca demanded.
“He wired the sub-basement!” Vanessa sobbed hysterically. “He said if the elevator distraction didn't work, he would blow the foundation! He just wants the bearer bonds, Luca! Give him the money and let us go!”
“Let us go?” Luca repeated, his disgust palpable. “You're running away with a mechanic who murders people with pickup trucks?”
“He’s not a mechanic!” Vanessa shrieked. “He’s my husband!”
The entire room gasped.
I took a step back, my mind reeling.
Answer one: Vanessa Bellini wasn't a wealthy socialite. She was married to Arthur Vance. This entire engagement was a long-con to infiltrate the Moretti family and rob them blind.
“You're married to him,” Luca said, his voice dropping into a deadly calm. “You sat at my table, you wore my mother’s ring, and you planned to drop my housekeeper down an elevator shaft to rob my son’s inheritance.”
“I had to!” Vanessa cried. “We owe money to the New York syndicate! If we don't pay them, they’ll kill us!”
Luca dropped her in absolute disgust.
“Daniel,” Luca said into the radio. “Change of plans. Evacuate the guests to the greenhouse. Keep Mateo with Claire. I’m going to the west wing to handle Arthur myself.”
“No,” I said firmly, stepping in front of Luca.
Luca looked down at me, surprised. “Claire, this is a syndicate matter now. Get to safety with my son.”
“He killed my father, Mr. Moretti,” I said, my voice shaking, but my spine perfectly straight. “He framed me tonight. And he used this little boy to deliver a threat. You aren't going alone.”
Luca stared at me. He saw the fierce, unyielding determination in my eyes—a look that didn't belong to a housekeeper. It belonged to a daughter who had waited ten years for justice.
Before Luca could argue, a loud, metallic screech echoed through the mansion.
It came from the elevator shaft.
The heavy brass doors on the first floor suddenly groaned, bending outward.
“Get back!” Luca yelled, grabbing me by the waist and pulling me behind the marble staircase, dragging Mateo with us.
The elevator doors burst open.
But Arthur Vance didn't walk out.
Instead, a heavy, blood-stained winter coat was thrown from the dark elevator car, landing with a sickening thud on the marble floor.
I recognized the coat instantly.
It was my father’s. The exact coat he was wearing the night he was killed.
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And tucked into the collar was a glowing digital timer, counting down from three minutes.
TITLE: THE TIMER ON THE COAT
