The Boy Who Drew The Truth

“Once I’m Mrs. Moretti, I don’t need either of you to pretend anymore.”

The words hung in the quiet air of the study.

Luca didn’t move. He stood perfectly still, his dark eyes fixed on the gold cufflink resting on his mahogany desk. The silence stretched so long that the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner sounded like a hammer.

Then, Luca spoke. His voice was dangerously soft.

“Either of you.”

I nodded, my arms wrapping protectively around my bruised ribs. “Yes, sir.”

“Vincent.” Luca’s jaw tightened. “And who else?”

“I don’t know. They heard me moving. That’s when she grabbed me.”

Luca finally looked up from the cufflink. His eyes met mine. There was no rage in them. Not yet. Only a cold, terrifying calculation.

“You did exactly what you should have done, Nora,” he said quietly. “You told the truth.”

I swallowed hard. “Mr. Rowan is your best man. If Vanessa says I’m lying—”

“Vanessa’s words mean nothing to me anymore,” Luca interrupted. He walked around the desk, stopping two feet in front of me. “Are you in pain?”

“Just when I breathe deeply.”

“Sit,” he commanded softly, pointing to the leather armchair.

I didn’t argue. My legs were shaking.

Luca picked up the cufflink. “If she doesn’t need either of them to pretend once we’re married, it means someone else in this house is part of her act.”

He looked toward the ceiling. Toward the second floor.

“Leo,” he whispered.

My heart dropped. Leo was Luca’s six-year-old son from his first marriage. His mother had passed away three years ago. Since Vanessa moved in, Leo had become completely mute. He communicated only through his sketchbook.

Vanessa always claimed Leo adored her. That they had a special bond.

“Stay here,” Luca said. “Lock the door behind me.”

“Mr. Moretti—”

“Lock it, Nora. Do not open it for anyone but me.”

He stepped out into the hallway. I immediately turned the deadbolt, my hands trembling.

Upstairs, the house was silent. Luca walked past the master suite where Vanessa was supposedly sleeping. He didn’t stop. He went straight to the end of the hall.

To the nursery.

The door was cracked open. A sliver of light spilled onto the carpet.

Luca pushed the door open.

Leo wasn’t in his bed. The blankets were smooth. Untouched.

Panic flared in Luca’s chest. “Leo?”

A small rustling sound came from inside the open closet.

Luca walked over and knelt down.

Tucked into the far corner, hiding behind a row of winter coats, was a six-year-old boy. He was wearing his pajamas, clutching a thick sketchbook to his chest. He was shaking violently.

“Leo,” Luca said gently, keeping his distance so he wouldn’t frighten him. “It’s Papa. What are you doing in the dark?”

Leo didn’t speak. He just stared at the hallway behind Luca.

His eyes were wide with terror.

Luca followed his son’s gaze. He realized Leo wasn’t hiding from monsters. He was hiding from the woman down the hall.

“Did Vanessa come in here tonight?” Luca asked, his voice dropping to a whisper.

Leo slowly nodded.

Luca’s blood ran cold. “Did she hurt you?”

Leo shook his head. But his small fingers gripped the sketchbook tighter.

“What did she tell you to do?”

Leo hesitated. Then, with trembling hands, he opened the sketchbook. He flipped past pages of colorful animals and cartoon superheroes. He stopped on the last page.

He held it out to his father.

Luca took the book. He looked at the page.

It was a drawing done in heavy, frantic black crayon.

It showed a tall man with a dark suit. Vincent.

And a woman with bright blonde hair. Vanessa.

They weren’t standing in the billiard room. They were standing in the garage.

And in the drawing, Vincent was handing Vanessa a thick stack of green paper. Money.

But that wasn’t what made Luca stop breathing.

At the bottom of the page, Leo had drawn a heavy iron gate. The gate to the estate’s private wine cellar.

Behind the bars of the gate, Leo had drawn himself. Crying.

And next to the gate, holding a large brass key, was Vincent Rowan.

Luca stared at the drawing.

Vanessa hadn’t just been kissing his best friend. Vincent was paying her. And they had locked his six-year-old son in the cellar to keep him quiet.

“When did this happen, Leo?” Luca asked, his voice cracking.

Leo held up three small fingers.

Three days ago.

Luca closed his eyes. The rage he had been holding back finally cracked the surface. His best friend and his fiancée were terrorizing his child.

He pulled Leo out of the closet and lifted the boy into his arms. Leo immediately buried his face in his father’s neck, gripping his shirt.

“I’ve got you,” Luca promised fiercely. “Nobody is ever going to scare you again.”

He carried Leo downstairs.

He knocked twice on the study door.

I opened it. When I saw Leo clinging to him, my breath caught.

“Mr. Moretti?”

Luca walked in and set Leo down on the leather sofa. “Stay with Nora, buddy. She’s going to keep you safe.”

Leo looked at me. Then he ran over and grabbed the edge of my apron, pressing himself against my side. I immediately wrapped my uninjured arm around him.

Luca walked to his desk. He opened the bottom drawer.

He pulled out a heavy, black handgun.

My eyes widened. “Luca, what are you doing?”

“I’m getting answers,” he said coldly, checking the magazine.

Before he could turn toward the door, a piece of paper slipped out of the sketchbook Leo had dropped on the sofa.

It drifted to the floor.

I reached down and picked it up.

It wasn’t a drawing.

It was a train ticket.

A one-way first-class ticket to Montreal.

Dated for tomorrow.

The name on the ticket wasn’t Vanessa Bellini.