Chapter 4 - The Man In The Living Room
“Drive,” I gasped, showing Luca the glowing screen of my phone. “Please, drive!”
Luca read the text, his jaw locking tight. He didn’t say a word. He slammed the SUV into gear, and the heavy tires squealed against the asphalt as we tore out of the mansion’s gates.
My hands shook uncontrollably.
“He’s with my mother,” I whispered, staring blindly at the dashboard. “Luca, she’s sick. She has a heart condition. If he scares her—”
“He won’t touch her,” Luca’s voice was a low, steady rumble that somehow anchored the panic spiraling in my chest. “Silvio doesn’t act without purpose. He’s there to negotiate, not to hurt her. If he wanted to hurt her, he wouldn’t have let her text you.”
The twenty-minute drive to my small apartment in the South Loop felt like hours.
When we finally pulled up to the curb, Luca didn’t wait for his security detail. He threw the car into park, stepped out, and reached into his jacket. I caught the briefest glimpse of dark metal—a gun—before he smoothly concealed it again.
“Stay behind me,” he ordered.
We hurried up the narrow, dimly lit stairwell to the third floor.
My apartment door was unlocked. It was cracked open slightly.
Luca pushed it open, stepping into the small living room. I followed right behind him, my heart hammering in my ears.
My mother, Sarah, was sitting on our worn floral sofa. She looked pale and terrified, clutching a knitted blanket to her chest.
Sitting across from her, in my late grandfather’s armchair, was an older man in a tailored charcoal suit. He had silver hair, a neatly trimmed beard, and dark, empty eyes.
Silvio Rossi.
He didn’t look like a monster. He looked like an aristocratic grandfather.
“Ah,” Silvio said, resting his silver-tipped cane against the floor. “Luca Moretti. You’ve grown into exactly the kind of man your father feared you’d become.”
Luca stepped between Silvio and my mother. “Get out of this apartment, Silvio.”
“Or what?” Silvio smiled thinly. “You’ll shoot an old man in front of a young lady’s mother? Thomas taught you better manners.”
I rushed past Luca and knelt beside my mother. “Mom, are you okay? Did he hurt you?”
She shook her head, tears shining in her eyes. “He just... he asked about Grammy Clara. And he asked for the box.”
My head whipped around. “Did you give it to him?”
Silvio tapped his cane on the floorboards. “She didn’t have to. I already know what’s inside it.”
He looked at me, his cold eyes studying my face. “You have her eyes. Clara’s eyes. It’s a tragic resemblance, really. It cost Clara her life.”
I froze. “My grandmother died of pneumonia.”
Silvio laughed, a dry, scraping sound. “Is that what Thomas told your mother? How remarkably convenient.”
“I said get out,” Luca repeated, his voice dropping an octave.
“I will leave,” Silvio said, standing up slowly. “But first, Luca, you need to understand the situation. I hold the deed to your brother’s house. Your foolish fiancée practically handed it to me wrapped in a bow. By tomorrow morning, my associates will evict Michael, his lovely wife Anna, and their two sweet children.”
Luca’s fist tightened. “I’ll pay the two million. Tonight. Tell me the account number.”
“It’s no longer about the money,” Silvio said softly. “The debt has accrued interest. Moral interest.”
He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a small, folded piece of paper. He tossed it onto the coffee table.
“This is what I want in exchange for your brother’s home.”
Luca didn’t move to pick it up. He just stared at the older man.
“What is it?” Luca demanded.
“It’s a location,” Silvio said smoothly. “A storage unit downtown. Inside is a ledger your father stole from me twenty years ago. The ledger proves that I was the rightful owner of the Moretti empire, and that Thomas forged the documents to push me out.”
He walked slowly toward the door, pausing just beside Luca.
“Bring me the ledger by midnight tomorrow. If you don’t, Michael’s house is mine. And little Emily here will finally learn the truth about how her precious grandmother really died.”
Silvio tipped his head to my mother, stepped out into the hallway, and the door clicked shut behind him.
The silence in the apartment was deafening.
My mother burst into tears, and I wrapped my arms around her.
Luca stood perfectly still for a moment. Then, he reached down and picked up the paper Silvio had left.
“Mom, it’s okay,” I soothed her, though I was shaking myself. “He’s gone.”
My mother pulled back, her hands trembling as she reached toward the collar of her shirt. She pulled out a delicate silver chain. Hanging from it was an intricate, old-world silver rosary.
“Emily,” my mother cried softly. “He didn’t just ask for the box. He saw the rosary. When he saw it, he told me something terrible.”
Luca turned around, his eyes locking onto the silver beads.
“Where did you get that?” Luca asked, his voice suddenly thick with emotion.
My mother looked up at him. “It was my mother’s. Clara’s. She was wearing it the night she fled Italy.”
Luca reached into his own pocket and pulled out a nearly identical silver rosary. The beads matched perfectly. The crosses were identical.
“My father had the exact same one,” Luca whispered. “He never took it off.”
I stared at the two matching rosaries, the room spinning slightly.
“Mom,” I asked, my voice cracking. “What did Silvio tell you?”
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My mother looked at me, a tear tracking down her pale cheek.
“He said Thomas Moretti wasn’t just Clara’s friend,” she whispered. “He said Thomas was your grandfather.”
