Chapter 2 - THE PHOTOGRAPH IN THE PURSE
The dining room was so silent I could hear the rain hitting the tall glass windows.
Luca’s words hung in the air.
Nobody in this house will ever make you ask permission to fight for your life again.
I looked up at him through my tears. He was still crouching beside my chair, his dark eyes fiercely protective. For five years, he had been a distant, respectful employer. Tonight, he was a shield between me and the cruelest woman I had ever met.
Vanessa Bellini’s face was completely drained of color.
She stared at the engagement ring on her left hand, then up at Luca.
“You’re calling off our wedding?” her voice trembled, but not with sadness. It was pure, venomous rage. “Over a sick housemaid?”
Luca slowly stood.
“I am calling it off because I finally see who you are, Vanessa. You didn't just insult Emma. You tried to force her to abandon her medical care so she could serve your dinner. That isn't just cruel. It's pathological.”
The twenty-eight guests murmured quietly. Several of Vanessa’s wealthy friends looked away in embarrassment.
Vanessa’s hands curled into fists.
“You think you’re being a hero, Luca? Protecting the poor, tragic girl with cancer?” She let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “You don’t even know who you’re protecting.”
Luca’s jaw tightened. “Get out of my house.”
“Oh, I’ll leave,” Vanessa spat, stepping toward the small serving table where my belongings rested. “But you are going to regret humiliating me for a liar.”
Before anyone could stop her, Vanessa grabbed my small, worn leather purse from the side table.
“Hey!” Mrs. Carter yelled, stepping forward. “Put that down!”
Vanessa ignored her. She unclasped the bag and dumped its contents directly onto the polished mahogany dining table.
My keys, my cheap flip-phone, a tube of lip balm, and my medical chart spilled out.
And a single, faded photograph.
I gasped and scrambled to my feet. “Don’t touch that!”
But Vanessa was faster. She snatched the photograph off the table.
It was a picture of my father.
He had abandoned my mother and me when I was four years old. I didn't have many memories of him, but my mother had given me that picture when I turned eighteen. She told me to keep it, to remember that even broken men have faces, and to never let a man break me the way he had broken her.
Vanessa looked at the picture.
Her mocking smile instantly vanished.
Her eyes widened in absolute shock. The color completely left her lips.
“Where did you get this?” Vanessa whispered, staring at the photo.
My hands were shaking. “Give it back. It’s my father.”
Vanessa’s head snapped up. She looked at me as if she had seen a ghost.
“Your father?” she breathed. “Arthur Lawson is your father?”
Luca stepped forward, his entire demeanor shifting. The protective warmth was gone, replaced by the lethal, calculating coldness of a Mafia boss.
“Vanessa,” Luca said, his voice dropping an octave. “What did you just say?”
Vanessa looked from Luca to me, a slow, twisted smile returning to her face.
“You really don’t know, do you, Luca?” she laughed, tossing the photograph onto the table in front of him. “You’ve been paying the medical bills for the daughter of the man who murdered your uncle.”
The room went dead silent.
My heart slammed against my ribs. “What? No. My father was a mechanic. He left us.”
Luca picked up the photograph. He stared at it for a long, agonizing moment. I watched his knuckles turn white as he gripped the edges of the worn paper.
Teresa Moretti, sitting beside me, let out a soft, choked gasp.
“Luca,” Teresa whispered, her hands flying to her mouth. “It’s him. It’s Arthur.”
I backed away, bumping into the serving cart. “There’s a mistake. My father never hurt anyone. He just... he walked out on us.”
Vanessa stepped into the center of the room, her red satin gown shimmering under the chandelier. She was thriving in the chaos.
“Arthur Lawson didn't walk out on you, Emma,” Vanessa said coldly. “Twenty-four years ago, he was the accountant for the Bellini and Moretti families. He embezzled two million dollars, shot Luca’s uncle when he was caught, and vanished into the wind.”
I couldn't breathe. I looked at Luca, begging him to deny it.
But Luca’s eyes were locked on the photo, burning with a twenty-year-old betrayal.
“You didn't know?” Vanessa taunted, looking at me. “Or did your mother plant you here to spy on the family he stole from?”
“No!” I cried, tears spilling hot and fast down my cheeks. “I didn't know! I swear!”
I looked at Luca. “Mr. Moretti, please. I just needed a job. I swear I didn't know.”
Luca didn't look at me. He carefully placed the photograph in his breast pocket.
“Mrs. Carter,” Luca said, his voice devoid of all emotion. “Take Emma to the security office. Do not let her leave.”
“Sir, please!” I begged.
Two of Luca’s men stepped into the dining room, their hands resting on the holsters of their suits.
Vanessa smiled triumphantly. “I told you, Luca. She’s not a tragic victim. She’s a rat.”
Before the guards could touch me, the heavy wooden doors of the dining room swung open.
Everyone turned.
Standing in the doorway was my sixty-three-year-old mother.
She was soaking wet from the rain, holding a dripping umbrella.
But it wasn't her sudden appearance that made the entire room freeze.
It was what she was holding in her other hand.
May you like
A heavy, tarnished silver revolver, pointed directly at Vanessa Bellini’s chest.
“My husband didn't murder anyone,” my mother said, her voice shaking but full of steel. “And if you don't tell them the truth about what your father did, Vanessa, I will pull this trigger.”
