Chapter 7 - THE FAMILY HEIRLOOM IN THE ATTIC
The basement cell went completely silent.
Luca stared at me, his dark eyes wide with shock.
“Your mother’s house?” Luca repeated, his voice barely a whisper. “Are you telling me my son has been living with your mother?”
I couldn't breathe. My mind raced back through the last four years.
My mother had taken in a foster child shortly after my father died. A quiet little boy named Leo. She had told me it was a closed adoption, handled through a private agency. She never let me post pictures of him online. She never let me bring friends to the house when he was there.
I had always thought she was just being overprotective.
“Oh my God,” I gasped, covering my mouth with trembling hands. “Leo. He has your eyes.”
Luca grabbed my shoulders, his grip tight but not painful.
“Emma. How far away is her house?”
“Forty minutes,” I stammered. “In Oak Park.”
Luca checked his watch.
“Matteo’s men received the coordinates five minutes ago. If they were waiting in the city, they’re thirty minutes out.”
He turned to the doorway, his terrifying composure returning instantly.
“We’re leaving. Now.”
He didn't look at Vanessa, who was still cowering on the cot. He just slammed the heavy iron door shut, locking her inside with Daniel’s body.
We sprinted up the stairs and burst through the front doors of the mansion.
Luca didn't bother calling for his drivers. He ran to the sleek, black armored SUV parked in the circular driveway.
“Get in,” he ordered.
I climbed into the passenger seat as Luca threw the SUV into drive. The massive engine roared to life, and we tore out of the estate gates, the tires screaming against the asphalt.
The drive was a blur of streetlights and adrenaline.
Luca drove like a madman, weaving through the late-night Chicago traffic with terrifying precision. His jaw was set in stone, his eyes fixed on the road ahead.
“Mr. Moretti,” I said, my voice shaking over the roar of the engine. “Why my mother? Out of all the foster families in the city, why did you choose her?”
Luca didn't look away from the road.
“I didn't choose her randomly, Emma. I chose her because of your father.”
I stared at him. “My father? He was a baker.”
“He was a baker who saved my grandfather’s life thirty years ago during a syndicate war,” Luca explained, his voice tight. “My family owed him a debt. When he died, I made sure your mother’s mortgage was paid off through a shell company.”
He swallowed hard.
“And when I needed a safe place for my son, I knew the widow of a man who saved a Moretti would protect my blood with her life.”
Tears blurred my vision. My father hadn't just baked bread. He had saved a mafia boss. And Luca had been silently watching over my family ever since.
Answer one: Luca had hidden his son with my mother to repay a blood debt to my father.
Open two: If Matteo’s men were on their way to kill Leo… would they kill my mother too?
“They won't hurt her, Emma,” Luca said, reading the terror on my face. “I won't let them.”
We skidded to a halt at the end of my mother’s quiet, suburban street.
The neighborhood was dead silent. The streetlights flickered in the cold wind.
Luca killed the headlights.
He pulled a heavy, suppressed assault rifle from the back seat, checking the magazine with practiced efficiency.
“Stay in the car,” Luca ordered.
“No,” I said firmly, unbuckling my seatbelt. “That’s my mother. That’s my brother inside.”
Luca looked at me. He saw the same stubborn defiance that had made me refuse to serve the poisoned cake.
He reached into the center console and handed me a small, heavy pistol.
“Safety is off. Keep your finger off the trigger until you’re ready to shoot.”
I took the gun. My hands were shaking, but I nodded.
We slipped out of the SUV and crept toward the small, single-story house with the red front door.
The rusty blue pickup truck was parked in the driveway.
Everything looked peaceful.
But as we approached the front porch, Luca held up a fist, signaling me to stop.
The front door was slightly ajar.
The wood around the lock was splintered.
We were too late.
Luca moved like a shadow, slipping through the broken doorway, his rifle raised. I followed closely behind him, my heart hammering so loudly I thought it would wake the neighbors.
The living room was tossed. Bookshelves overturned, lamps shattered.
“Mom!” I whispered frantically.
No answer.
Luca cleared the kitchen, then the downstairs bedrooms.
Empty.
“Where are they?” Luca hissed, his panic bleeding through his icy facade.
I looked toward the ceiling.
“The attic,” I realized. “My dad built a hidden crawlspace behind the old chimney to store his hunting gear. My mom knows about it.”
I ran toward the hallway closet and pulled the pull-down stairs.
We climbed into the dark, dusty attic.
The air smelled of old wood and mothballs.
“Mom?” I called softly.
A shuffling sound came from the back corner, behind a stack of old cardboard boxes.
“Emma?” my mother’s trembling voice whispered.
I ran toward the sound, pulling the boxes away.
My mother was huddled in the dark crawlspace. She was bruised, her lip bleeding, but she was alive.
Clutched tightly to her chest, fast asleep and completely unaware of the danger, was Leo.
“Mom!” I sobbed, dropping to my knees and hugging her.
Luca rushed forward, dropping his rifle. He scooped Leo out of my mother’s arms, burying his face in his son’s dark hair, weeping tears of absolute relief.
“You kept him safe,” Luca whispered to my mother, kissing her hand. “Thank you. Thank you.”
“They broke in ten minutes ago,” my mother gasped, holding my hand tightly. “Three men. They tore the house apart. But they couldn't find the panel.”
“Where are they now?” Luca asked, his eyes hardening instantly.
“They went outside to search the perimeter,” she said. “But Emma…”
My mother looked at me, her eyes wide with terror.
“They found your father’s old lockbox.”
My blood ran cold.
“The one with his will?” I asked.
“No,” she whispered. “The one he told us never to open.”
She pointed to the center of the attic floor.
A rusted, heavy iron lockbox had been pried open by the intruders.
Luca walked over and looked inside.
He reached down and pulled something out into the dim light of the attic window.
It wasn't money. It wasn't documents.
It was a heavy, ornate gold ring. A massive family heirloom adorned with the crest of the Chicago syndicate.
But it didn't belong to Luca’s father.
It belonged to Matteo.
“Mr. Moretti,” I stammered. “Why does my father have your brother’s ring?”
Luca stared at the ring, the color draining from his face.
He looked at my mother.
“Because Arthur wasn't just a baker who saved my grandfather,” Luca said, his voice barely a whisper.
He held up the ring.
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“Your father was the hitman who assassinated my uncle twenty years ago.”
TITLE: THE NECKLACE OF LIES
