**“STOP MAKING THOSE HAND SIGNS. YOU’RE EMBARRASSING HIS FAMILY!” THE MAFIA BOSS’S FIANCÉE GRABBED MY WRIST IN FRONT OF THIRTY DINNER GUESTS—BUT WHEN HIS DEAF SISTER STARTED CRYING, I RISKED MY JOB TO TELL HIM WHAT SHE WAS REALLY SAYING.**

Vanessa’s eyes darted wildly around the dining room, looking for an exit that didn’t exist.

“I found it!” she blurted out, her voice pitching an octave higher. “I found it in the laundry room, Luca! I didn’t know what it went to. I just thought it was pretty, so I kept it!”

Luca didn’t say a word. He picked up the antique silver key with the faded blue ribbon. He held it in his palm, his thumb brushing over the intricate metalwork. The silence in the room was heavier than lead.

“You found it in the laundry room,” Luca repeated softly.

“Yes! One of the maids must have dropped it.”

Luca turned to me. “Emily. Do the cleaning staff have access to my mother’s bedroom?”

“No, sir,” I answered instantly. “The third floor east wing is strictly off-limits. Only Mrs. Gable, the head housekeeper, holds the master ring, and she never opens that door.”

Luca looked back at Vanessa. “Then how did you get this?”

“I told you, I found it!” Vanessa cried, tears of frustration spilling over her cheeks. “Why are you interrogating me like a criminal? I am your fiancée! I was trying to protect our future, and now you’re obsessing over an old piece of metal!”

Audrey tugged on Luca’s sleeve. She signed quickly, her expression furious.

I translated without hesitation. “Audrey says Vanessa is lying. She says she saw Vanessa coming down the back servants' staircase late last night, carrying a flashlight.”

Vanessa sneered at Audrey. “You little eavesdropping freak.”

“That is enough,” Luca snarled.

He grabbed Vanessa by the upper arm, not hard enough to bruise, but firm enough that she couldn’t pull away.

“Emily,” Luca said, his eyes never leaving Vanessa. “Come with us. I need you to translate for Audrey.”

“Yes, sir.”

The four of us left the dining room and walked toward the grand staircase. The mansion was eerily quiet. The staff had clearly sensed the explosion and made themselves invisible. We climbed three flights of stairs, the thick velvet carpets absorbing the sound of our footsteps.

We reached the east wing. The air up here felt different—cooler, heavier, smelling faintly of lemon polish and old dust.

At the very end of the hallway stood a heavy mahogany door.

Luca let go of Vanessa. He stepped forward and slid the silver key into the lock. It turned with a heavy, satisfying click.

He pushed the door open.

I had worked in the Moretti mansion for two years, but I had never seen this room. It was beautiful, preserved exactly as it had been the day Luca’s mother died. A massive four-poster bed, walls lined with books, and the faint, lingering scent of dried lavender.

At the foot of the bed sat a large, ornate cedar chest bound in iron.

Luca walked over to it. He knelt down. The padlock on the front was missing.

He lifted the heavy wooden lid.

Vanessa stood by the doorway, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, refusing to look inside.

Luca stared down into the chest for a long time. When he finally reached his hands in, his shoulders slumped.

He pulled out three empty velvet jewelry boxes.

“My mother’s pearls,” Luca whispered. “Her diamond brooches. Her emerald rings.”

He turned to Vanessa. The betrayal in his eyes was absolute.

“You stole from a ghost,” he said.

Vanessa’s chin trembled, but she lifted her head defiantly. “I had debts, Luca. Debts from before we met. If your enemies found out my father owed half a million dollars to the illegal casinos on the South Side, they would have used it against you. I was protecting your reputation. I sold the jewelry to pay them off. I was protecting you.”

“You were protecting yourself,” Luca said in disgust. “You stole my mother’s legacy to cover your father’s gambling.”

But as Luca tossed the empty velvet boxes onto the bed, something else caught my eye inside the cedar chest.

“Mr. Moretti,” I said softly, pointing. “Under the lining.”

Luca frowned. He reached back into the chest and pulled away a piece of loose silk lining at the bottom.

Hidden underneath was a thick, sealed manila envelope. It hadn't been opened. It looked like it had been stuffed there in a panic and forgotten.

Luca picked it up. He broke the seal and pulled out a thick stack of medical files.

He scanned the first page. His brow furrowed in deep confusion.

“These aren’t my mother’s,” Luca said slowly. “These are Audrey’s.”

Audrey stepped forward, looking at the papers. She tilted her head, confused. She signed to me.

“She asks why her medical records are in your mother’s chest,” I translated.

“I don’t know,” Luca said, flipping through the pages. “These are from five years ago. From the week you contracted the fever that took your hearing.”

I watched Vanessa. She had gone from flushed to a sickening, chalky white. She took a slow step backward toward the hallway.

Luca kept reading. Suddenly, he stopped. The color drained from his own face.

“What is it, sir?” I asked.

“This is a private toxicology report,” Luca whispered, his hands trembling as he held the paper. “From an independent lab in Switzerland.”

Audrey watched his lips, her eyes widening.

“It says,” Luca continued, his voice breaking, “that the fever wasn’t a natural virus. It was a severe reaction to a continuous, low-dose chemical toxin. Heavy metals.”

The room spun.

Audrey hadn’t just gotten sick. Someone had poisoned her.

Luca flipped to the next page. A small, blue slip of paper fell out and drifted to the carpet.

I knelt down and picked it up.

It was a canceled bank check.

I looked at the date. It was dated exactly one week before Audrey’s mysterious illness began.

I looked at the payee. It was made out to Dr. Arthur Vance—the exact doctor who had overseen Audrey’s care and declared her deafness a "tragic, unavoidable viral complication."

And then, I looked at the signature on the bottom right corner.

My heart stopped beating.

I slowly stood up and held the canceled check out to Luca.

“Mr. Moretti,” I whispered, my voice barely audible.

Luca took the check. He looked at the signature.