Chapter 2 - THE PHOTOGRAPH IN THE ATTORNEY’S HAND
“Because her mother knows what happened the night your father died, Luca.”
Arthur Harris’s words hung in the dead silence of the dining room.
Nobody breathed. The forty-six wealthy guests who had just been applauding Vanessa’s fake charity were now frozen in their seats.
I stared at the gray-haired attorney, my heart hammering against my ribs.
Who I really am?
I was Emily Carter. A housemaid. A daughter trying to keep her mother from freezing on the streets.
But as I looked at Luca Moretti, the air in the room seemed to shift. He hadn’t moved a muscle. His dark eyes remained fixed on his lawyer, but the stillness in his posture was terrifying. It was the stillness of a predator realizing it had been caged.
“Arthur,” Luca said, his voice barely a whisper, yet it carried across the long banquet table. “Explain yourself.”
Vanessa lunged forward, her diamond earrings shaking. “Luca, don’t listen to him! Arthur is having a breakdown. He’s been drinking all evening—”
“Sit down, Vanessa.”
Luca didn’t yell. He didn’t even look at her. But the absolute authority in his voice made Vanessa collapse back into her chair, her face ashen.
He slowly turned his gaze to me.
For the first time since I’d started working at the Moretti mansion eleven months ago, Luca wasn’t looking at me like a maid. He was looking at me like a puzzle piece he hadn’t known he was missing.
“My father died of a heart attack in his study fifteen years ago,” Luca said evenly. “The coroner confirmed it. The police confirmed it. What could a housekeeper’s mother possibly know about it?”
Arthur’s hands trembled as he reached into his breast pocket.
“Your father didn’t have a heart attack, Luca.”
The attorney pulled out a small, worn leather wallet. “He was murdered. And the Bellini family arranged it.”
Vanessa let out a strangled gasp. “That is a lie! You’re fired, Arthur! Get out of this house!”
“Vanessa’s father, Carlo, orchestrated it,” Arthur continued, his voice gaining strength, refusing to look at the hysterical woman. “They needed the Moretti empire weakened. They needed you young, grieving, and vulnerable so they could maneuver this marriage.”
Luca slowly unbuttoned his suit jacket. He looked down at his left wrist, touching the heavy gold watch he always wore. I knew that watch. I polished it every week. It had belonged to his father.
“And Emily?” Luca asked, his voice chillingly calm. “Where does the girl cleaning my floors fit into this?”
My breath caught in my throat. I looked at Margaret Ellis, the retired social worker, who was watching me with profound sadness.
“Eleven months ago,” I whispered, stepping forward. The words tasted like ash. “A man came to our apartment. My mother had just lost her job at the hotel. We were drowning in debt.”
Luca turned to me, his dark eyes intense. “What did this man say?”
“He said he was from a philanthropic agency,” I replied, my voice shaking. “He paid off my mother’s medical bills. He cleared our back rent. But he said the only way the foundation could sustain the payments was if I accepted a job he had arranged for me.”
“Here,” Luca said.
“Yes. At your estate.”
I looked at Vanessa. She was clutching her silk napkin, her knuckles stark white.
“He wasn’t a philanthropist,” I realized aloud, the sick feeling in my stomach turning into ice. “He was a warden. You moved me into this house to keep an eye on me. You kept my mother hostage with those payments so she would never speak.”
Vanessa’s lips curled into an ugly sneer. “You’re a maid, Emily. You should be on your knees thanking me that you’re not sleeping in a gutter.”
Luca slammed his hand down on the table.
The crystal wineglasses rattled. Two female guests flinched.
“Arthur,” Luca commanded. “You said Vanessa wasn’t supposed to let me find out who Emily really is. What did you mean?”
Arthur opened the worn leather wallet. He pulled out a crumpled, faded photograph.
“Your father wasn’t alone in his study the night he died, Luca.”
Arthur slid the photograph across the polished mahogany table. It stopped right in front of Luca.
Luca stared at it for a long time. His jaw tightened. The veins in his tattooed hands bulged against his skin.
“Is this a joke?” Luca whispered.
“It’s the truth,” Arthur said.
Luca slowly picked up the photo and held it up so I could see it.
The blood drained from my face.
It was a picture of my mother, thirty years younger. She was standing in the Moretti family study. But she wasn’t wearing a maid’s uniform.
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She was wearing a stunning evening gown, standing beside Luca’s father.
And resting against her chest, hanging from a delicate silver chain, was the exact same necklace I was wearing right now.
