Chapter 4 - THE CHILD'S DRAWING ON THE BACK
Teresa gripped the edge of the dining table, her knuckles turning white.
“A maternity ward?” Vanessa laughed sharply, though the sound was brittle. “Oh, this just gets better. Your saint of a father had a mistress?”
Luca ignored her. He didn't even look at Vanessa.
He kept his eyes locked on his mother.
“Mom. The receipt is dated six months before Dad died.”
Teresa couldn't speak. She covered her face with her hands, sobbing so hard her shoulders shook.
Evelyn stepped forward and gently placed a hand on Teresa’s back.
“Teresa didn't know about the receipt, Luca,” Evelyn said quietly. “But she knows what it means.”
Luca held the piece of paper up.
“It has Clara’s name on it.”
The words hit the room like a physical blow.
Clara hadn't just come back to Chicago to see her dying father.
She had come back because she was pregnant.
“She had a child,” Luca whispered, the realization washing over him. “My sister had a baby.”
Marco scoffed from his place against the wall.
“A bastard child from a nobody,” Marco sneered. “Another weakness for the Bellini family to exploit. That’s why your father was running, Luca. He wasn't just taking Clara. He was taking his grandchild.”
Luca walked slowly toward Marco.
The sheer, terrifying calm returning to his posture made Marco take a step back.
“You stopped them at the station,” Luca said, his voice completely hollow. “My father died on the platform. And you said Clara ran.”
“She did,” Marco insisted.
“With a newborn baby?”
Marco hesitated.
“Where is my niece, Marco?” Luca asked.
“I don't know,” Marco said quickly. Too quickly. “Clara disappeared. We assumed she took the brat with her.”
“You’re lying.”
Luca turned to Evelyn.
“Evelyn. Did Clara bring a baby to you?”
The elderly woman shook her head, tears shining in her eyes.
“No, Luca. Clara never came back to me. Not after that day at the station.”
Vanessa crossed her arms.
“Well, there you have it. The coward ran away and probably dumped the kid in an orphanage. Can we please end this ridiculous melodrama?”
“No,” I said.
Once again, the room fell silent.
I couldn't believe I was speaking up again. Every survival instinct I had told me to stay quiet, to protect my job, to protect my mother’s medical care.
But I thought of Teresa’s tears.
I thought of a young woman named Clara, terrified on a train platform, watching her father die.
“Hannah,” Luca said, turning toward me. “What do you know?”
I reached into the pocket of my black maid’s apron.
“When I found the cigar box,” I said, my voice trembling, “I didn't just find the tickets and the receipt. There was something stuck to the back of the receipt.”
Vanessa lunged toward me.
“Give it to me!”
But Luca caught her arm effortlessly, shoving her back into a chair.
“Don't touch her,” Luca warned Vanessa.
He held out his hand to me.
I pulled out a small, folded piece of construction paper.
It was faded, the edges worn soft from time.
I placed it in Luca’s hand.
He unfolded it gently.
It was a child’s drawing, done in bright, messy crayons.
It showed a little house with a crooked red roof, a bright yellow sun, and three stick figures holding hands. A tall man, a woman with long brown hair, and a small child.
Beneath the drawing, written in a shaky, adult script, were three words:
For my brother.
Luca stared at the drawing.
His chest heaved as he took a breath.
“Clara drew this?”
“No,” Evelyn said softly. “Clara wrote the words. But a newborn baby can't hold a crayon, Luca.”
Luca frowned, looking up.
“Then who drew it?”
“Clara’s daughter,” Evelyn said. “The receipt wasn't for a birth, Luca. It was for a medical procedure. Clara’s daughter was already four years old when they tried to leave Chicago.”
Luca’s eyes widened.
He looked at the stick figures again.
“Four years old.”
“Yes.”
Luca turned the drawing over.
There was a faint, smudged stamp on the back of the construction paper.
He squinted, trying to read the faded purple ink.
“Saint Jude’s…” Luca read aloud. “Saint Jude’s Orphanage.”
Marco’s face went completely pale.
Vanessa let out a small gasp.
“You told me she ran,” Luca said, turning toward his uncle. His voice was no longer a shout. It was a promise of violence. “But Clara didn't run with her child. She left her child at an orphanage before she went to the station.”
“She knew we were coming,” Marco muttered, avoiding Luca’s eyes. “She hid the kid.”
“And what did you do when you found out?” Luca demanded.
Marco didn't answer.
Luca pulled his gun from his shoulder holster and slammed it onto the dining table.
The heavy metal sound made half the guests flinch.
“What did you do, Marco?”
“We went to the orphanage!” Vanessa suddenly shouted, her composure finally shattering. “My father and Marco went the next day! But the girl was already gone!”
Luca stared at her.
“Gone where?”
“Adopted!” Vanessa shrieked. “The nuns said a family came in the middle of the night and took her! They wouldn't give us the records! The Bellini family spent years looking for her, but we never found her!”
Luca looked at the child’s drawing.
A four-year-old girl, hidden in the dead of night, adopted by strangers to protect her from the mafia.
Four years old, ten years ago.
That meant Clara’s daughter would be fourteen today.
Luca turned to Evelyn.
“Did you take her?”
Evelyn shook her head. “No, Luca. Your father didn't tell me about the child until it was too late.”
Teresa stood up from the table, her hands shaking as she reached for the drawing.
Luca handed it to her.
Teresa traced the messy crayon lines of the stick figures.
Then, she noticed something.
“Luca,” Teresa whispered.
She pointed to the tall stick figure of the man in the drawing.
The man had a distinct, jagged scar drawn across his cheek in red crayon.
“Clara’s daughter didn't draw a stranger,” Teresa said, her voice trembling. “She drew the man who adopted her.”
Luca stared at the red crayon scar.
His blood ran cold.
“I know that scar,” Luca whispered.
He looked up, his eyes scanning the terrified guests in the dining room, before settling on the heavy oak doors at the entrance.
“Hannah,” Luca said, without looking at me.
“Yes, sir?”
“Call security. Tell them to lock down the estate.”
“Why?” I asked, my heart pounding.
May you like
Luca pointed at the drawing.
“Because the man with that scar works for me.”
