Chapter 5 - The Coat In The Closet
The words hung in the cramped apartment like thick smoke.
Grandfather.
I stared at my mother, then slowly turned to look at Luca. He was staring at the two identical silver rosaries, his broad chest rising and falling heavily.
“That’s impossible,” Luca said, though his voice lacked its usual certainty. “My father was devoted to my mother. He never mentioned another woman.”
“He wouldn’t have,” my mother said quietly, wiping her eyes. “Clara made him promise. Before she died, she told me that the man she loved in Italy had to leave her behind to protect her from the mob. She never told me his name.”
I felt dizzy. “If Thomas Moretti was my grandfather... that means...”
I looked at Luca. The billionaire mafia boss I had been serving wine to for eleven months.
“That means you’re my niece,” Luca finished, his dark eyes wide with shock.
He didn’t look disgusted. He didn’t look angry. He just looked deeply, profoundly sad.
“All this time,” Luca whispered, stepping closer to me. “You’ve been cleaning my floors. Serving my guests. You’re a Moretti.”
“I’m an Emily Carter,” I said firmly, though my hands were shaking. “I don’t want your money, Luca. I just want to understand why Silvio Rossi is torturing us.”
Luca’s expression hardened back into the ruthless businessman I knew.
“Silvio is trying to break us apart. He wants the ledger, and he’s using our families as leverage. He knows Michael’s house is my weak spot, and now he knows you’re another one.”
“We need the box,” I told my mother. “Where is it?”
My mother stood up shakily. “In the hall closet. In the pocket of your grandmother’s old winter coat.”
I hurried to the closet. It was a tiny, cramped space filled with umbrellas and old shoes. Hanging in the back was a heavy, moth-eaten wool coat. It had belonged to Clara. I hadn’t touched it in years.
I reached into the deep right pocket. My fingers brushed against a small, smooth wooden box.
I pulled it out. It was no larger than a deck of cards, secured with a tiny brass latch.
I carried it back to the living room and set it on the coffee table next to Silvio’s note.
“Open it,” Luca said softly.
I undid the latch and lifted the lid.
Inside wasn’t a document or a letter.
It was a crumpled child’s drawing, colored with faded crayons.
I carefully unfolded the brittle paper. It was a drawing of a house with a red roof, a large oak tree, and three stick figures holding hands. A man, a woman, and a little girl.
At the bottom, written in a child’s messy handwriting, were the words: Casa Nostra. For Papa Tommy. Love, Sarah.
My mother gasped, covering her mouth. “I drew that... I was five years old. I gave it to the man who used to visit us on Sundays. My mother told me he was an uncle.”
Luca picked up the drawing. He traced the words ‘Papa Tommy’ with his thumb.
“He didn’t abandon you,” Luca said to my mother. “He kept this safe for decades. He gave it back to Clara before he died.”
“But why didn’t he just claim us?” my mother cried.
“Because of Silvio,” I realized, the pieces finally snapping together. “Silvio said Thomas forced him out of the company. If Silvio knew Thomas had a secret family in Chicago, he would have used you as leverage. Thomas stayed away to keep you alive.”
Luca’s eyes flashed with dark fury. “And now Silvio is using that exact same tactic on my brother.”
Suddenly, my phone buzzed again.
It wasn’t a text this time. It was a phone call.
The caller ID read: Michael Moretti.
Luca took the phone from my hand and answered it on speaker.
“Mike? Are you and Anna at the mansion yet?”
“Luca...” Michael’s voice was barely a whisper. He was hyperventilating.
“Mike, what’s wrong?” Luca demanded, his authority instantly returning.
“We’re at the mansion. But... Luca, the kids aren’t here.”
The blood drained from my face.
“What do you mean they aren’t there?” Luca shouted.
“Anna said she left them in the playroom with the nanny while she packed our bags! But when she went to get them... the playroom was empty, Luca. The nanny was knocked unconscious on the floor.”
Michael broke down into heavy sobs through the speaker.
“He took them, Luca. Silvio took my kids.”
Luca closed his eyes, his grip on the phone tight enough to crack the screen.
“Listen to me, Michael. Do not call the police. I will handle this.”
Luca hung up the phone. He stood in the center of my living room, a terrifying calm washing over him. It was the calm of a man who was about to go to war.
He looked down at the piece of paper Silvio had left on the table. The location of the storage unit.
“He doesn’t want the ledger,” Luca realized aloud.
“What?” I asked.
Luca picked up the paper and flipped it over.
On the back, written in elegant cursive, were three words.
Bring the girl.
May you like
Luca looked at me, his dark eyes filled with absolute dread.
“He doesn’t just want the company, Emily. He wants you.”
