Chapter 4 - The Key To The Basement Vault
Luca stared at the brass skeleton key on the floor.
The threats of a rival family usually meant war. But threatening a man’s child in his own home? That meant a massacre.
The three mafia underbosses seated at the table immediately stood, their hands sliding beneath their tailored jackets.
“Nobody moves,” Luca commanded.
His voice didn't echo this time. It was terrifyingly quiet.
He looked at me. “Hannah. Take Sophie and Thomas upstairs. Lock the door to the nursery. Do not open it for anyone but me.”
“Yes, sir,” I whispered.
I picked up Sophie, carrying her in my arms, and motioned for Thomas to follow. The old man leaned heavily on his cane, but his eyes were sharp. We hurried up the grand staircase.
As we reached the landing, I looked back down.
Luca was slowly walking toward Dr. Thorne. He picked up the brass key from the floor.
“You think a piece of paper and a vault give you power in my house?” Luca asked.
“I know they do,” Thorne sneered.
I hurried down the hall, pushing Thomas and Sophie into the nursery. I locked the heavy oak door and slid the deadbolt into place.
Sophie clung to my neck. “Hannah? Is Daddy going to be okay?”
“Your daddy is the strongest man I know,” I promised her, rubbing her back.
Thomas sat heavily in the rocking chair. He looked exhausted, the adrenaline finally leaving his frail body.
“Mr. DeLuca,” I said softly. “Are you alright?”
He looked up at me. “She murdered Catherine, Hannah. I knew it. For three years, I knew it in my bones.”
“Why didn't you tell Mr. Moretti?”
“Because I had no proof,” Thomas whispered. “And because Vanessa threatened to hurt Sophie if I ever spoke against her. I stayed to protect the child.”
I looked at the old man’s shaking hands. He had endured three years of humiliation, eating in the kitchen, being spoken to like garbage, all to watch over a little girl who had lost her mother.
Suddenly, Thomas reached into his inner suit pocket.
“Hannah,” he said. “My coat. The lining is torn. Can you pull it out?”
I knelt beside him and gently reached into the torn silk lining of his old suit jacket. My fingers brushed against a thick, folded envelope.
I pulled it out.
It was sealed with red wax.
“What is this?” I asked.
“Catherine gave it to me the morning she died,” Thomas said. “She told me to hide it. She said if anything ever happened to her, I was to wait until the right moment to give it to Luca. But I’ve been too afraid.”
I looked at the envelope. On the front, in elegant, sweeping handwriting, was one word: Hannah.
My heart stopped.
“Mr. DeLuca,” I whispered, my hands trembling. “Why does Catherine Moretti’s letter have my name on it?”
Thomas looked confused. “Your name? No, she wrote ‘Luca’.”
I turned the envelope around so he could see it.
The handwriting was clear. It didn't say Luca.
It said Hannah Collins.
“Catherine died three years ago,” I said, panic rising in my throat. “I only started working here eleven months ago.”
Suddenly, the heavy oak door of the nursery rattled.
Someone was turning the doorknob from the outside.
Then, a voice spoke through the wood.
“Open the door, Hannah. Or I’ll shoot the lock.”
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It was Vanessa.
TITLE: The Letter With My Name On It
