Chapter 3 - The Girl In The Locket
“Me?” I stepped forward, my heart hammering against my ribs.
The wine soaked into my collar felt cold against my skin, but I barely noticed. I walked toward the head of the table.
Luca handed me the small, faded photograph.
It was an old Polaroid, slightly yellowed at the edges. It showed a young woman sitting on a porch steps, holding a baby. The woman had dark curly hair, striking green eyes, and a small birthmark just below her left collarbone.
She looked exactly like me.
But it wasn’t me.
“That’s not me,” I whispered, my fingers trembling as I held the photo. “That’s my grandmother. Clara. And the baby... that’s my mother.”
Michael walked over, looking over my shoulder. “Dad kept a picture of Emily’s grandmother in his pocket watch?”
Vanessa let out a bitter, mocking laugh.
“You see?” she sneered, wiping her ruined makeup. “I told you your father wasn’t the saint you thought he was. Silvio showed me that picture to prove he wasn’t bluffing. Your father had a second life, Luca.”
“Shut your mouth,” Luca snapped, without even looking at her.
He took the photograph back from my hands, studying it with intense focus. “Emily, did your grandmother ever mention my father? Thomas Moretti?”
I shook my head slowly. “No. Never. She only ever spoke of Italy, and how she had to leave Naples in a hurry. She died when I was twelve.”
Alessandro, the banker who had remained quietly in the corner, stepped forward. “Mr. Moretti, if I may. Silvio Rossi did not just send this watch to frighten your fiancée. It is a message.”
“What kind of message?” Luca asked.
“In our circles back in Milan, returning a stolen heirloom is a declaration of ownership. He is telling you that he holds your family’s past, and therefore, he owns your future.”
Michael dragged a hand over his face. “Oh, God. Anna. The kids. If Silvio is this deeply involved, he knows where we live. He holds the mortgage to my house!”
“He’s not taking your house, Mike,” Luca said firmly.
He turned to Vanessa. She was standing by the door, trying to look defiant but failing miserably.
“Take your things, Vanessa,” Luca said. The quiet authority in his voice was more terrifying than if he had shouted.
“Luca, please—”
“Take your things, pack a single bag, and leave my house. If you are not gone in twenty minutes, I will have the guards carry you out.”
Vanessa’s lips trembled. “You’re throwing away a three-year relationship over a misunderstanding? Over a maid?”
“I’m throwing you out because you betrayed my family,” Luca corrected coldly. “And the wedding is canceled.”
Vanessa looked at him, realizing he was entirely serious. She snatched her purse from the table, shot me a look of pure hatred, and stormed out of the dining room.
The heavy oak doors slammed shut behind her.
Luca exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders dropping just a fraction. He looked at Michael. “Call Anna. Tell her to pack a bag for her and the kids. Bring them here tonight. My security team will watch the perimeter.”
“You think Silvio will go after them?” Michael asked, panicked.
“I’m not taking any chances. Go.”
Michael practically ran from the room.
Alessandro offered a polite bow. “I will return to my hotel, Mr. Moretti. I will delay the foreclosure proceedings on Michael’s house for as long as I can, but I only have influence for a few days.”
“Thank you, Alessandro,” Luca said.
Once the banker left, it was just Luca and me in the massive, quiet dining room.
He looked at my ruined uniform.
“I’m sorry she did that to you,” he said softly.
“It’s just wine, Mr. Moretti,” I said, looking down.
“It’s Luca,” he corrected. He walked closer to me, holding the photograph. “You saved my brother tonight, Emily. If you hadn’t spoken up, Vanessa would have let Silvio take Michael’s home.”
“I couldn’t let her lie to you,” I said honestly.
He looked at the picture of my grandmother again. “Silvio sent this to Vanessa. He wanted her to know that my father’s secrets were tied to this woman. Do you have any idea why?”
I swallowed hard. “There’s… there’s one thing.”
Luca’s eyes locked onto mine. “What is it?”
“My grandmother left me a small wooden box before she died. She made me promise never to open it unless the name ‘Rossi’ ever found me.”
Luca’s breath hitched. “Where is the box?”
“In my apartment. My mother has it in her closet.”
“Get your coat,” Luca said instantly, pulling his car keys from his pocket. “We’re going to your apartment right now.”
I nodded and hurried toward the staff quarters.
I grabbed my heavy wool coat from my locker, my mind racing. My grandmother was a sweet, quiet woman who baked bread and sang Neapolitan lullabies. How was she connected to the Chicago mafia and a stolen pocket watch?
I hurried out to the front driveway.
Luca was waiting by his black SUV. He opened the passenger door for me—something a billionaire boss never did for a housemaid.
As I climbed in, my phone buzzed in my coat pocket.
It was a text from my mother.
May you like
I opened it, and my blood ran ice cold.
“Emily, a man named Silvio is sitting in our living room. He says he’s waiting for you.”
