Chapter 4 - THE CRAYON LIGHTHOUSE
“Give me that!”
Vanessa lunged for the drawing, her manicured nails clawing at my hand.
I stepped back, shielding Isabella, while Luca’s hand clamped down on Vanessa’s shoulder, spinning her around.
“Don’t touch her,” Luca warned, his voice vibrating with enough menace to freeze the room. He snapped his fingers. Two of his men, who had rushed upstairs at the commotion, appeared in the doorway.
“Take Vanessa to the study. Lock the door. If she makes a sound, gag her.”
“Luca, please! You’re making a mistake!” Vanessa screamed as the men dragged her away, her designer heels dragging across the expensive Persian rug. “That maid is setting you up!”
When the screaming faded down the stairs, Luca turned to me. The dangerous mafia boss was gone. In his place stood a desperate, heartbroken father.
“Emily,” he said quietly. “What is that drawing?”
I looked down at the crumpled paper. The red crayon lighthouse stood tall on a jagged black cliff, with a distinct yellow crescent moon in the corner.
“My grandmother painted this exact image in my bedroom when I was a little girl,” I whispered, tracing the yellow moon. “She always told me it was a place where lost things are kept safe.”
Isabella looked up at me, wiping her eyes. “Mommy drew that? But how did she know about your grandmother?”
I looked at Rosa. The old nurse had collapsed back into the armchair, exhausted.
“Elena knew everything about your grandmother, Emily,” Rosa wheezed. “Because your grandmother, Sophia, was Elena’s nanny in Naples. She was the one who smuggled Elena out of Italy when the rival families tried to kill her.”
The room seemed to tilt.
My grandmother. The quiet woman who baked bread in our tiny Chicago kitchen. She had never spoken of her life in Italy. She only told me to wear the braided bracelet and never take it off.
“Your grandmother hid something for the Moretti family,” Rosa continued, clutching the armrests. “Vanessa found out. That’s why she arranged the crash. She needed Elena out of the way to find the heirloom.”
Luca was pacing now, running a hand through his dark hair. “The heirloom. The Naples Ledger. It’s the only thing that proves the rival syndicate’s treason.” He stopped and looked at me. “Emily, where is the lighthouse?”
I shook my head. “It’s not a real place. It’s just a painting in my old house.”
“No,” Luca said, his eyes darkening. “Elena wouldn’t draw it if it meant nothing. Think, Emily. Where is your childhood home?”
“We sold it,” I said softly. “Five years ago, to pay for my mother’s medical bills. It’s in the South Side. An old brick house on 42nd Street.”
Luca pulled his phone from his pocket. “Get the cars ready,” he barked into the receiver.
He looked down at Isabella, his expression softening. “Bella, stay here with Rosa. Daddy is going to find Mommy.”
“I want to go with Emily,” Isabella cried, gripping my apron.
Luca hesitated, but I knelt down to her level. “I promise I’ll bring her back, sweetie. You need to be brave right now.”
She nodded, wiping a tear away.
Luca and I rushed out of the room, leaving the mansion behind. We piled into the back of a black SUV. The rain had started to fall, slicking the Chicago streets in a gloomy glare.
“If Vanessa moved her,” Luca said, staring out the window, “she moved her to a place nobody would look.”
We pulled up to my old childhood home twenty minutes later. The house looked abandoned. The windows were boarded up, the front yard overgrown with weeds.
Luca’s men kicked the front door open. Flashlights pierced the darkness.
We walked into my old bedroom. The walls were peeling, but the mural of the lighthouse was still there, painted on the plaster.
Luca shined his flashlight on the wall.
“It’s just a painting,” I whispered, feeling a crushing wave of disappointment.
But Luca stepped closer. He reached out and touched the red brick of the painted lighthouse.
He pushed.
There was a hollow click.
May you like
A section of the wall swung open, revealing a dark, narrow staircase leading down into the earth.
And from the bottom of the stairs, I heard the faint ticking of a pocket watch.
