Chapter 2 - The Woman Who Came Back From The Dead
Matteo stared at the woman sitting to Vanessa’s right.
For the past three years, she had been introduced to everyone as Sylvia, Vanessa’s fiercely private godmother. She always wore high-collared silk dresses, her silver hair pulled into a severe knot, her face partially obscured by heavy framed glasses and a quiet demeanor. Matteo had respected her. He had poured her wine. He had welcomed her into his home.
But as Arthur’s words echoed through the silent dining room, Matteo’s vision tunneled.
He took a slow step forward. “What did you just say?”
Arthur didn’t flinch. The old man, still wearing his frayed brown coat, pointed a weathered finger at the woman. “Take off the glasses, Beatrice. Show our son the scar on your left cheek. The one you got the night you swore you’d rather die than let him take over the family.”
The entire room of thirty-two guests held its collective breath.
Vanessa’s face drained of color. She instinctively reached out, but the older woman held up a single, manicured hand.
Slowly, deliberately, the woman removed her glasses. She looked up at Matteo. The ambient light of the crystal chandeliers caught the faint, jagged line beneath her left eye. A scar Matteo had traced with his small fingers when he was a little boy, crying over a scraped knee.
It was her. His mother.
“You’re dead,” Matteo whispered, his voice cracking in a way a mafia boss’s voice never should. “I buried you. I stood in the rain when I was twelve years old and threw dirt on your casket.”
Beatrice Moretti did not look ashamed. She looked inconvenienced.
“You buried wood and stones, Matteo,” she said, her voice carrying the exact same chilling authority he remembered from his childhood. “It was necessary.”
I pulled Caleb tighter against my apron. My heart hammered against my ribs. We were servants. We weren't supposed to witness the collapse of the city’s most powerful family. I bent down, whispering into my son’s ear. “Don't look at them, baby. We’re going to the kitchen.”
But Caleb’s little fingers gripped my skirt. “Mommy, I can’t. Mr. Arthur told me to give Mr. Matteo the thing.”
“What thing?” I hissed quietly.
Before I could stop him, Caleb slipped from my grasp. He walked right up to Matteo, who was still frozen in shock, and tugged on his dark suit jacket.
“Mr. Matteo?” Caleb said softly.
Matteo blinked, tearing his eyes away from his mother to look down at my son.
Caleb reached into the tiny pocket of his jeans and pulled out a heavy, tarnished silver pocket watch. The metal was heavily dented on one side. “Mr. Arthur said to give this to you. He said you’d know what the dent means.”
Matteo’s breath hitched. He dropped to one knee, ignoring the ruined champagne on the marble floor, and took the watch with trembling hands.
“My father’s watch,” Matteo whispered. He ran his thumb over the dent. “I did this. I dropped it on the marble stairs when I was ten. He told me it made it unique.”
“He said to open it,” Caleb added, his innocent voice cutting through the heavy tension of the room.
Matteo clicked the latch. The watch face popped open.
Inside, tucked behind the glass, wasn't a picture of Arthur and his wife. It was a folded, yellowed train ticket.
Matteo pulled it out with shaking fingers. He read the date printed on the faded paper. He looked up, his jaw clenching so hard the muscles jumped beneath his skin.
“This ticket is dated August 14th, 1999,” Matteo said, his voice dropping an octave. “The exact night you supposedly died in your sleep, Mother.”
Beatrice kept her chin high. “I had to leave. Your father was weak. He was going to let our enemies walk all over us. I needed to operate from the shadows to ensure your future.”
“To ensure my future?” Matteo stood up, his towering frame casting a shadow over the table. “By faking your death? By letting me grieve for you for twenty-three years?”
“I did what was necessary for the family!” Beatrice snapped, her refined mask slipping.
But Arthur finally stepped fully into the room. His worn boots left faint dust marks on the pristine floor. “You didn’t leave to protect him, Beatrice. You left to destroy me.”
Arthur turned to Matteo, his weary eyes full of a pain that made my own chest ache.
“She didn't run away from our enemies, son,” Arthur said gently. “She bought that ticket to run away with the man who ran our rival family. And when I found out, she threatened to kill you if I didn't let her go.”
A collective gasp echoed through the room.
Matteo staggered back a half-step. He looked at Vanessa, who was shaking violently in her seat.
“You knew,” Matteo said to his fiancée, his voice dangerously soft. “You’ve known who she is this whole time.”
Vanessa stood up, tears spilling over her perfect makeup. “Matteo, please! She made me do it! She said if I didn't help her keep an eye on you, she’d make sure we never got married!”
Matteo didn't shout. He didn't throw anything. He just looked at the woman he was supposed to marry with utter disgust.
“Get out,” he whispered.
Vanessa sobbed, reaching for him. “Darling—”
“I said get out!” Matteo roared, the sound vibrating the crystal above us.
Security guards instantly moved forward, grabbing Vanessa by the arms. But Beatrice didn't move. She just stared at Arthur with cold, venomous eyes.
“You shouldn't have come back, old man,” Beatrice said smoothly.
Arthur smiled a sad, broken smile. “I wouldn't have. But I couldn't let my son marry the daughter of the man you ran away with.”
Matteo froze. The entire room went dead silent.
I looked at Vanessa, who was struggling against the guards. Her red dress suddenly looked like blood.
May you like
Arthur looked right at Matteo.
“Vanessa isn't just your fiancée, Matteo. She’s your half-sister.”
