Chapter 8 - THE FIRE IN THE STUDY
We left Silvio bleeding on his penthouse floor, clutching his shattered shoulder. Luca didn't waste a second calling an ambulance; his uncle had chosen his side, and the Bellinis had delivered his reward.
We tore through the service stairwell, bursting out into the alley behind the high-rise. The black sedan was still running at the curb. Luca threw himself into the driver’s seat, and I scrambled into the passenger side just as the tires screamed against the wet pavement.
“If Vanessa gets into that safe and destroys the original deed, everything is gone,” Luca said, his eyes intensely focused on the road. “The forgery becomes the only legal document left.”
“But the mansion is empty,” I said, panic rising in my throat. “Marco took everyone to the safe house!”
“Vanessa knows that,” Luca grimly replied. “That’s why she went there. She knows the house is unguarded.”
The drive back to the estate felt agonizingly long. The rain had intensified into a blinding storm, the thunder rattling the windows of the car. When we finally turned onto the long driveway of the Moretti estate, the massive iron gates had been rammed open, hanging off their hinges.
Luca cut the headlights. He parked the car fifty yards from the front entrance, hidden in the shadows of the old oak trees.
“Stay close and stay quiet,” he whispered, checking his magazine.
We moved quickly across the wet lawn. The front doors of the mansion were wide open. Inside, the grand foyer was dead silent, illuminated only by flashes of lightning through the shattered windows.
A faint orange glow was coming from the west corridor.
The study.
We crept down the hallway, keeping our backs to the wall. As we approached the heavy mahogany doors, the smell of woodsmoke and burning paper hit my nose.
Luca peeked around the doorframe.
Vanessa was inside.
She had thrown aside the Persian rug and pried up the floorboards near the desk. The heavy iron safe, hidden for years, was wide open.
In her hands, she held a stack of yellowed, original legal documents—the true will and deed of Antonio Moretti.
She was standing next to the fireplace, striking a long wooden match.
“Put it down, Vanessa.”
Luca’s voice was deadly calm as he stepped into the room, his gun raised.
Vanessa jumped, dropping the match onto the stone hearth. She spun around, clutching the papers to her chest. When she saw Luca, a frantic, desperate laugh escaped her lips.
“You’re too late, Luca,” she sneered, backing away toward the open flames of the fireplace. “My father’s men are sweeping the city. You have nothing left.”
“I have the brass key,” Luca said, stepping closer.
Vanessa’s eyes darted to my hand, where I was holding Teresa’s old key. Her face contorted with rage.
“That stupid old woman,” Vanessa spat. “I should have taken it from her months ago.”
“You couldn't,” I said, stepping into the room beside Luca. “Because she guarded it with her life. She knew what you were.”
Vanessa glared at me. “Shut your mouth, you pathetic little maid. You think you’re part of this family? You scrub our floors!”
“She’s twice the woman you will ever be,” Luca snarled. “Hand over the documents, Vanessa. It’s over.”
“It’s never over!” she screamed, tears of absolute fury streaming down her face. “Your father ruined my family! He took the shipping contracts, he took the ports! We were supposed to be kings of this city, and Antonio treated us like dirt! This was my birthright!”
She lunged toward the fireplace, shoving the stack of original documents toward the flames.
Luca didn't shoot. He couldn't risk the bullet passing through and igniting the dry paper.
Instead, he threw his gun aside and tackled her.
They crashed onto the floor, knocking over the small table and the antique tea set. The teacup Margaret had bought shattered into a hundred pieces across the hardwood.
Vanessa fought like a cornered animal. She clawed at Luca’s face, screaming curses, desperately trying to throw the papers into the fire.
“Hannah! The papers!” Luca shouted, pinning Vanessa’s arms to the floor.
I dove across the rug, sliding on my knees just as the corner of the heavy envelope brushed the hot coals. I snatched the documents away, pulling them safely to my chest, stamping out a tiny ember that had caught on the edge of the paper.
“I’ve got them!” I cried, backing away.
Vanessa shrieked in defeat. She bucked wildly, managing to throw Luca off balance just enough to slide out from under him. She scrambled to her feet, grabbing a heavy brass fire poker from the hearth.
She swung it wildly at Luca’s head. He ducked, the heavy metal smashing into the mahogany desk with a sickening crunch.
Before she could swing again, a loud, authoritative voice echoed from the doorway.
“Drop the weapon, Vanessa.”
We all froze.
Standing in the doorway, completely drenched in rain, was Margaret. And flanking her were four heavily armed men wearing badges.
The Chicago Police Department.
Vanessa dropped the fire poker, her mouth hanging open.
Luca stood up, breathing heavily, and looked at his aunt in shock. “Margaret? What are you doing here? I told Marco to take you to the safe house!”
Margaret stepped into the room, her expression utterly resolute.
“I am done hiding,” Margaret said firmly. “For four years I stayed away because I was afraid of the Bellinis. But when Marco told me Silvio was involved, I realized running wouldn't end this. So I made a phone call.”
A tall, grey-haired detective stepped forward.
“Mr. Moretti,” the detective said, flashing his badge. “Your aunt provided us with a sworn statement regarding the pawning of your father’s stolen jewelry, and the medical records she kept hidden proving your father’s poisoning.”
Vanessa backed against the wall, her face completely pale. “You can't prove anything!”
“We don't have to,” the detective replied coldly. “We found your father, Don Bellini, an hour ago trying to flee the state. He rolled on everyone to save himself. He gave us Silvio, and he gave us you.”
Two officers moved forward, grabbing Vanessa’s arms and wrenching them behind her back. The sound of metal handcuffs ratcheting shut echoed loudly in the ruined study.
“Luca!” Vanessa screamed as they dragged her toward the door. “Luca, you can't do this! We’re getting married! Luca!”
Luca didn't even look at her. He turned his back, picking up the small, broken pieces of the teacup from the floor.
“Get her out of my house,” Luca said quietly.
As Vanessa’s screams faded down the hallway, the study fell into a profound, exhausted silence.
Margaret walked over to Luca and gently placed her hand on his cheek. “It’s over, sweetheart. Your father can finally rest.”
I stood near the desk, clutching the original documents. I looked down at the envelope. But as I held it, a small, folded piece of thick cardstock slipped out from between the pages and fluttered to the floor.
I bent down and picked it up.
It was a photograph.
An old Polaroid, faded at the edges.
I turned it over, and my heart completely stopped.
“Mr. Moretti,” I whispered, my voice shaking so badly I could barely speak.
Luca turned to me, his exhaustion evident. “What is it, Hannah?”
I held the photograph out to him.
It was a picture of a young woman standing on the front porch of the mansion, holding a baby wrapped in a blue blanket.
The woman in the photo wasn't Teresa.
It was my mother.
May you like
And written on the bottom of the photo, in Antonio Moretti’s handwriting, were four words.
Clara and our daughter.
