Chapter 3 - The Silver Tubing Of The Walker
“What are you talking about?” I whispered, the garden around me suddenly feeling like it was spinning.
Teresa stood completely still, clutching the cracked silver pocket watch as if it were a live grenade. Without her walker, her balance wavered. Luca immediately stepped forward, wrapping a strong arm around her waist to steady her.
“Mom, sit down,” Luca commanded gently, guiding her to one of the wrought-iron patio chairs.
Teresa sank into the chair but didn't take her eyes off me. “Your father was Thomas Collins? The mechanic from the East Side?”
“Yes,” I said, my voice shaking. “He owned an auto shop. He died of a sudden heart attack five years ago.”
Teresa let out a bitter, heartbroken laugh. “A heart attack. Is that what Carlo Bellini told the police?” She looked up at her son. “Luca, look at the watch.”
Luca knelt beside his mother and inspected the tarnished silver. When he saw the engraving, his dark eyes widened in recognition. “This is Dad’s.”
“It’s not just your father’s,” Teresa said, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “It’s the watch he was wearing the night he was killed. The night the warehouse burned down.”
The air in the garden vanished. Even Vanessa seemed to shrink back, her arrogant posture dissolving into genuine unease.
I had read the news articles before taking the job at the Moretti estate. Luca’s father, Antonio Moretti, had died eight years ago in a massive warehouse fire. The police had ruled it a tragic accident—faulty wiring. But in the underworld, everyone whispered it was a hit.
“Hannah’s father didn't steal this watch to pawn it,” Teresa said, looking at me with a profound, tragic sympathy. “Thomas was your father’s friend, Luca. He was at the warehouse that night, fixing one of the transport trucks. He must have pulled this watch off Antonio’s body to keep it safe. To keep it out of Carlo Bellini’s hands.”
Vanessa scoffed loudly, crossing her arms again to hide her nerves. “This is ridiculous. It’s a cheap silver watch. My father took it because Thomas Collins was a gambling addict who couldn't pay his debts.”
“Do not speak about her father like that,” Luca snarled, rising to his feet. He stepped toward Vanessa, his imposing frame casting a long, dark shadow over her. “If Carlo took this watch from Thomas, it means Carlo was involved in my father’s death. And it means he murdered Thomas to cover it up.”
“You’re crazy,” Vanessa said, backing away toward the garden doors. “You’re making things up to get out of the wedding. My father is your most powerful ally, Luca! If you break this engagement, the Bellini family will crush you.”
“Get out,” Luca said, his voice dead and cold.
Vanessa’s eyes flashed with sudden, genuine panic. “Luca, you can't—”
“Get out of my house,” Luca roared, the sheer force of his voice echoing off the glass walls of the garden.
Vanessa jumped. She scrambled to snatch her designer purse and the foreclosure documents off the table, casting one last, hateful glare at me. “You’re going to regret this, you little rat. Your mother’s house is gone by Monday.”
She turned and ran through the glass doors, her heels clicking frantically against the marble floors inside.
Silence fell over the garden. The photographer and Claire had quietly slipped away minutes ago, sensing the danger. It was just me, Luca, and Teresa.
I looked down at my hands. They were shaking uncontrollably. My father hadn't abandoned us to debt. He hadn't died of a heart attack. He had been murdered by a mafia boss, and my mother was being tortured for it.
“Hannah,” Luca said softly. He reached out and gently placed a warm hand on my shoulder. “I am so sorry. I swear to you, I didn't know.”
“She’s going to take my mother’s house,” I choked out, a tear finally spilling over my eyelashes. “She has the deed.”
“She won't take anything,” Luca promised, his jaw set in stone. “I will buy the debt tomorrow. I’ll pay whatever Bellini demands. Your mother is safe.”
I looked at him. This man, a reputed mob boss, the man I had served coffee to for eleven months, was looking at me with absolute, unwavering loyalty.
“Luca is right,” Teresa said from her chair. She looked down at her silver walker, resting a few feet away. “But buying the debt won't stop Carlo Bellini. He knows we have the watch now. He knows we can connect him to Antonio’s murder. He will strike first.”
“Let him,” Luca said coldly. “I’ve been waiting for a reason to tear up this treaty.”
“You can't do it blindly, sweetheart,” Teresa warned. She leaned forward, wincing as her bad knee twinged. “Hannah, bring me my walker.”
I quickly wiped my eyes and carried the silver frame over to her. “Do you want to go inside, Mrs. Moretti?”
“No,” she said quietly.
Instead of standing up, Teresa gripped the left handle of the walker. She twisted the rubber grip hard. There was a faint click. She pulled upward, and the entire rubber handle, along with a six-inch plug, slid out of the hollow silver tubing.
I gasped.
Teresa reached into the hollow aluminum leg of the walker and pulled out a tightly rolled, yellowed piece of paper. It was wrapped in a delicate black silk ribbon.
“I didn't trust Vanessa from the moment she walked into this house,” Teresa whispered, handing the rolled paper to Luca. “And I knew Carlo Bellini forced this engagement because he was looking for this.”
Luca unrolled the paper. His eyes scanned the document, his breathing hitching in his chest.
“Mom,” Luca breathed, looking at her in shock. “Where did you get this?”
“Your father gave it to me the morning he died,” Teresa said, tears filling her eyes. “He told me if anything ever happened to him, I was to hide it until you were strong enough to take the Bellinis down.”
I looked at the paper in Luca’s hands.
“What is it?” I asked.
Luca turned the paper toward me. It was a signed, notarized confession from Carlo Bellini’s own brother, detailing exactly how the Bellinis had been stealing millions from the Moretti syndicate.
But at the bottom of the page, there was a second signature. A witness signature.
Thomas Collins.
My father.
Before I could even process the sight of my dad's handwriting, the heavy oak doors of the mansion’s main hallway slammed open. Heavy boots echoed against the marble.
Luca shoved the document into his jacket pocket and stepped in front of his mother and me.
Standing in the doorway of the garden, flanked by four massive men in dark suits, was a man in his sixties with silver hair and cold, dead eyes.
May you like
Carlo Bellini.
And he was holding my mother by the arm.
