THE ASHES OF A FATHER'S LEGACY

The next morning, the Moretti estate was a hive of frantic activity.

Florists arranged thousands of white hydrangeas in the ballroom.

Caterers rushed through my kitchen carrying silver trays of hors d'oeuvres.

And I moved among them, wearing my crisp black uniform and fresh white apron, pretending my hands weren’t shaking.

Luca was locked in his study.

He had given orders that he was not to be disturbed. He was supposedly handling "urgent overseas contracts."

In reality, he was translating the thirty pages of dense, handwritten Italian his father had hidden.

At 4:00 p.m., the front doors opened.

Carlo Bellini arrived.

He was a large man with silver hair, an expensive camel-hair coat, and a smile that never quite reached his cold, dead eyes.

Vanessa glided down the grand staircase to greet him.

“Daddy,” she beamed, kissing his cheek.

I was polishing the mahogany credenza in the foyer. I kept my head down, making myself invisible.

“Is everything arranged for tomorrow, my darling?” Carlo asked softly.

“Everything,” Vanessa said.

But her eyes flicked toward the hallway leading to Luca’s study.

“Though Luca seems quite distracted today.”

Carlo patted her hand.

“Let him be distracted. By tomorrow night, the Moretti empire will be ours, and whatever old ghosts he’s chasing won’t matter.”

He handed his coat to the butler, then turned and looked directly at me.

“You,” Carlo said.

My stomach dropped.

“Yes, sir?”

“Fetch me a double scotch. No ice. Bring it to the library.”

“Right away, sir.”

I hurried to the pantry, my heart hammering against my ribs.

I grabbed a crystal tumbler and the bottle of scotch.

As I poured the amber liquid, the pantry door clicked shut.

I spun around.

Carlo Bellini was standing inside the small room with me.

He leaned against the closed door, effectively trapping me.

“You’re the girl from the coach house,” he said.

It wasn’t a question.

I swallowed hard.

“I’m the housemaid, sir.”

“Yes,” he murmured, stepping closer. “And my daughter tells me you were quite busy last night.”

He reached out and suddenly gripped my left arm—right over the bandage covering my scrape.

I winced, but didn’t cry out.

“Vanessa saw you and Luca walking back to the house,” Carlo whispered, his grip tightening painfully. “Where is Daniel?”

Answer one. Open two.

They knew Daniel was missing.

But they didn’t know what Luca had done with him, or if Luca had actually opened the safe.

“I don’t know any Daniel, sir,” I lied, keeping my voice steady.

Carlo smiled. It was a terrifying expression.

He let go of my arm and reached into his jacket pocket.

He pulled out a small, glass vial filled with a clear liquid.

“You know, Anna, Chicago is a dangerous city for older men who live alone,” Carlo said casually. “Men like your father.”

All the blood rushed from my head.

“How do you know about my father?”

“I know he lives in a first-floor apartment on 33rd Street. I know he has a bad heart. And I know I have two men sitting in a black sedan outside his building right now.”

Carlo set the small glass vial on the pantry shelf next to the scotch.

“Tonight, at the rehearsal dinner, you will serve the champagne toast,” he instructed. “You will empty this vial into Luca’s glass.”

I stared at the vial.

“What is it?”

“It’s a fast-acting cardiac stimulant,” Carlo said. “It mimics a massive heart attack. It leaves the system in an hour. By the time the paramedics arrive, Luca will be dead, and my daughter will inherit the estate as his legal fiancée.”

Tears burned the backs of my eyes.

“I can’t do that.”

“You will,” Carlo whispered, leaning in so close I could smell his expensive cologne. “Or my men will pay your father a visit. The choice is yours. A boss you barely know, or the man who raised you.”

He turned and opened the pantry door.

“I’ll take that scotch now,” he said, stepping out into the hallway.

I was left alone in the pantry.

My hands were shaking so violently I knocked a box of sugar to the floor.

I had to warn Luca.

But as I stepped out of the pantry, Vanessa was standing in the corridor.

“I’ll be keeping an eye on you all night, Anna,” she smiled softly. “Don’t even think about going near Luca’s study.”

For the next three hours, I was trapped.

Vanessa shadowed my every move.

I served appetizers. I poured wine.

I watched the clock tick closer to the 8:00 p.m. champagne toast.

At 7:45, I was standing in the kitchen, staring at the silver tray holding twenty crystal flutes of champagne.

And one special glass for the groom.

I pulled the vial from my apron pocket.

I thought about my father, sitting in his armchair, completely unaware of the men outside his door.

I thought about Luca, kneeling in the dirt, promising to protect me.

I uncorked the vial.

“Anna.”

I gasped and spun around.

Luca was standing in the kitchen doorway.

He looked exhausted. His tie was loosened, his sleeves rolled up.

But his eyes were piercing.

He looked at the tray. He looked at the vial in my hand.

“Did Carlo give you that?” he asked quietly.

I broke down.

The tears fell, hot and fast.

“He has men at my father’s apartment, Luca. He said if I don’t put this in your drink, they’ll kill him.”

I held out the vial, my hands trembling.

“I couldn’t do it. But I don’t know how to save my dad.”

Luca didn’t look angry.

He just looked incredibly sad.

He walked over, took the vial from my hand, and dropped it into the kitchen sink.

“I know about the men at your father’s apartment, Anna.”

I froze.

“What?”

“When I told you I would protect you last night, I meant it,” Luca said softly. “I sent a team to your father’s building at dawn. Carlo’s men have been dealt with. Your father is currently sitting in a private suite at the Four Seasons, eating room service.”

A massive wave of relief hit me so hard my knees buckled.

Luca caught me by the arms, holding me steady.

“He’s safe,” Luca promised.

“But what about Carlo?” I sobbed. “He’ll know I didn’t poison you.”

Luca’s eyes hardened into dark, dangerous obsidian.

“Oh, he’s going to find out soon enough.”

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his father’s black leather journal.

“Because I finished translating the book.”

Answer one. Open two.

“What did it say?” I asked.

Luca looked toward the dining room doors, where the rehearsal dinner was waiting.

“It says that Carlo didn’t just kill his wife,” Luca whispered. “He framed a sixteen-year-old boy for it. Me.”