Chapter 10 - THE SHADOW IN THE GARDEN
The peace lasted exactly three months.
Winter settled over Chicago, blanketing the Moretti estate in pristine white snow. The charred remains of the east wing had been cleared away, replaced by the foundations of a new, modern library.
I stood at the kitchen window, sipping hot coffee, watching Marco build a snowman with the estate’s guard dogs running in circles around him.
Life felt impossibly normal.
I wore my diamond necklace every day, tucked beneath my thick sweaters—a heavy, beautiful reminder of the peace my family had bled for.
Luca walked into the kitchen, dressed in a sharp charcoal suit. He wrapped his arms around my waist from behind and kissed my neck.
“You look beautiful,” he murmured.
“You look like you have a meeting,” I smiled, leaning back against him.
“Just a boring sit-down with the union reps downtown,” he sighed. “I’ll be back by dinner. Your mother is making her famous lasagna.”
“Don't be late, or she’ll feed your portion to Marco.”
Luca laughed, kissed me once more, and headed for the door.
I spent the morning helping my mother in the guest house. She was thriving, her gray hair dyed a vibrant auburn, the stress lines on her face softening.
“You know, Emma,” my mother said, stirring a massive pot of tomato sauce. “I never thought I’d feel safe in this city again. But Luca… he’s a good man.”
“He is,” I agreed, chopping basil.
Suddenly, the heavy brass knocker on the guest house door banged three times.
I wiped my hands on a towel and opened the door.
Standing on the porch was a man I didn't recognize.
He was in his late fifties. Tall, with silver hair at his temples. He wore an expensive camel-hair coat that was dusted with snow.
“Can I help you?” I asked, keeping the door partially blocked. The estate had massive security; no one just walked up to the guest house.
The man stared at me. His eyes were a pale, icy blue.
He didn't look at my face. He looked directly at the collar of my sweater.
At the chain of the diamond necklace showing at my throat.
“You have your grandmother’s eyes,” the man said softly.
A chill shot down my spine.
“Who are you?” I demanded, taking a step back.
“Emma? Who is it?” my mother called from the kitchen.
She walked into the hallway, wiping her hands on her apron.
When she saw the man on the porch, the color completely drained from her face. She dropped the towel. It hit the floor with a soft thud.
“Sarah,” the man said.
My mother stumbled backward, gripping the wall for support.
“You’re dead,” my mother whispered, her voice trembling with absolute terror. “I saw them shoot you.”
The man gave a thin, humorless smile.
“You saw me fall, Sarah. There’s a difference.”
My heart stopped.
I looked at the man. I looked at the shape of his jaw. The way he held himself.
“Mom,” I whispered. “Who is this?”
The man answered before she could.
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“Hello, Emma,” he said, stepping out of the snow and into the warmth of the hallway. “I’m your father.”
TITLE: THE GHOST COMES HOME
