Chapter 2 - The Missing Photograph
“When you told Daniel that everyone who reminded me of my father would be gone after Saturday, were you speaking for me—or were you telling him what you planned to do once you became my wife?”
Luca’s voice was terribly calm. It didn't boom through the dining room. It didn't rattle the crystal glasses. It hung in the air like a heavy, suffocating weight, demanding an answer that Vanessa couldn't give.
Vanessa’s face turned completely white. She looked around the long table, searching for an ally among the thirty guests, but her own parents were staring at their plates in mortified silence.
“Luca, darling, you’re twisting my words,” Vanessa stammered, her manicured fingers clutching the edge of the tablecloth. “The boy misunderstood. I was simply explaining that we need to modernize. This restaurant is a Chicago landmark, yes, but it’s running on nostalgia. We need Michelin stars. We need a staff that reflects our future, not our past.”
Luca didn't flinch. His dark eyes remained fixed on her.
“And my mother?” Luca asked softly.
Vanessa frowned, clearly caught off guard. “What about Isabella?”
“My mother worked the front of this house for forty years,” Luca said, taking a slow step toward his fiancée. “She knows every regular by name. She is the very definition of our past. Tell me, Vanessa. Does she reflect our future?”
“Of course she does!” Vanessa cried, her voice pitching high with panic. “Luca, you’re being ridiculous! This is just a kitchen apprentice we’re talking about!”
“We’re talking about loyalty,” Luca corrected her. “We’re talking about a woman who works seven days a week to feed her son, and a boy who wears his dead father’s coat because it’s the only piece of him he has left.”
Luca turned and looked at Daniel, who was still holding the folded apron.
“Put the jacket back on, Daniel,” Luca ordered gently.
Daniel sniffled, his hands shaking as he slipped his arms back into the faded white chef’s coat.
Luca turned back to Vanessa. “My father didn't build an empire by firing the people who bled for him. If that is your vision for our future, then we don't have one.”
Vanessa gasped, pressing a hand over her mouth. “Luca, no. You can't mean that. Not tonight.”
“I’m not discussing this further right now,” Luca said, his tone shifting from angry to utterly exhausted. He looked at Marco, the head chef. “Take Daniel back to the kitchen. Show him how to prep the veal.”
Marco nodded, a fiercely protective look in his eyes as he placed a hand on Daniel’s shoulder and guided him through the swinging doors.
Luca looked at me. “Sarah, go home. You’re done for the night.”
“But Mr. Moretti, the coffee service—” I started, panic rising as I remembered how much I needed the overtime pay.
“You’ll be paid for the full shift,” Luca interrupted softly. “Go home. Be with your son.”
I nodded mutely, tears welling in my eyes again as I untied my apron.
I hurried to the staff locker room, my heart pounding in my chest. I couldn't believe what had just happened. My son had stood up to the fiancée of the most powerful man in Chicago, and he hadn't just survived—he had won.
As I packed my purse, the heavy locker room door creaked open.
I turned, expecting to see another maid coming off shift.
Instead, it was Vanessa.
She wasn't crying anymore. The panic she had displayed in the dining room was entirely gone, replaced by a cold, calculating fury. She stepped into the locker room, letting the door click shut behind her.
“You think you’ve won, Sarah?” Vanessa whispered, her voice venomous.
I backed up against the metal lockers, my hands trembling. “Mrs. Bellini, I didn't—”
“Shut up,” she snapped. She took a step closer, the scent of her expensive perfume overpowering the smell of industrial cleaner. “You think because Luca got emotional over a dead cook’s jacket, your son’s job is secure? You think Luca is actually going to cancel this wedding over you?”
I stared at her, terrified by the sheer malice in her eyes.
“My family controls the supply chain for every Italian import in this city,” Vanessa said, her voice dropping into a deadly register. “If I walk away, this restaurant starves. Luca knows that. He’s going to come upstairs, apologize to me, and we are going to get married on Saturday.”
She reached into her small, designer clutch purse.
“And when I am officially his wife,” Vanessa smiled cruelly, pulling something out of her bag, “I’m not just going to fire you and your pathetic son. I’m going to make sure no restaurant or estate in Illinois ever hires either of you again.”
She tossed a small, folded piece of paper onto the bench in front of me.
“But since you love living in the past so much,” Vanessa sneered, turning toward the door, “I thought you should have this. I found it in Luca’s private office while I was cleaning out the trash he refuses to throw away.”
She walked out, leaving me alone in the freezing locker room.
My hands shook as I reached down and picked up the folded paper. It was thick, heavy cardstock. A photograph.
I unfolded it.
It was an old picture, taken inside this very restaurant at least ten years ago. It showed the original kitchen staff laughing around a massive prep table. Right in the middle was my late husband, Michael, wearing the exact jacket Daniel was wearing tonight.
But my eyes didn't focus on Michael.
They focused on the man standing directly behind him.
It was Luca’s father, the original Mafia Don, smiling broadly with his arm draped around Michael’s shoulders.
And resting heavily in Michael’s hand, completely visible to the camera, was a large, distinct, gold signet ring bearing the Moretti family crest.
The ring only worn by the Underboss of the family.
I gasped, the air rushing out of my lungs.
May you like
My husband wasn't just a chef.
He was second-in-command of the Chicago mafia.
