The Drawing of the Empty Safe

The diamond bracelet sparkled mockingly inside the plastic bag.

I stared at it, the blood rushing in my ears so loudly I could barely hear the rain beginning to lash against the study windows.

The maid took the watch, Luca. And she’ll take the fall for everything else.

“I didn’t take anything,” I whispered, stepping backward until my shoulders hit the cold spines of the bookshelves. My bandaged hand throbbed in time with my racing heart. “I swear to you, Mr. Moretti. I have never been in your safe. I have never taken a single thing from this house.”

I looked at Daniel, waiting for him to step forward and arrest me. Waiting for the cold reality of my situation to set in. I was a maid with seventy-six dollars to my name. Vanessa was a socialite backed by a rival crime family. Who would the police believe?

But Daniel didn’t move. He kept his eyes locked on his boss.

Luca stared at the note, his jaw tight. Then, very slowly, he reached out and picked up the plastic bag.

He didn’t look angry. He looked entirely, terrifyingly calm.

“I know you didn’t take it, Sarah,” Luca said softly.

He tossed the bag into the trash can beside his desk.

Daniel blinked in surprise. “Boss? That’s fifty grand in diamonds.”

“It’s a frame job,” Luca said, his voice cold as ice. “Vanessa knew I would find the empty safe. She knew she needed a distraction to get out of the house. So she planted the bracelet in Sarah’s room, hoping I would spend the next three hours interrogating my staff while she escaped to the Falcones.”

He turned to Daniel. “Lock down the estate. Nobody in, nobody out. I want men on all the gates, and I want two guards stationed outside Leo’s door immediately. Shoot anyone who isn’t on our payroll who tries to step onto this property.”

“Yes, sir,” Daniel nodded firmly, pulling his radio from his belt as he hurried out of the room.

Once we were alone, Luca finally looked at me. The calm mask slipped, just for a second, revealing the bone-deep exhaustion underneath.

“You need to pack your things,” he said.

Panic seized my chest. “You’re firing me?”

“I’m saving your life,” he corrected, walking around the desk to stand in front of me. “Vanessa is with the Falcones now. She knows that you know about the burned letters. She knows you were in the room when Leo exposed her. You are a loose end, Sarah. And the Falcones do not leave loose ends.”

Tears pricked my eyes. “I have nowhere to go. My mother is sick. I can’t afford a hotel. If I lose this job—”

“You aren’t losing anything,” Luca interrupted, reaching out to gently grip my shoulders. His touch was grounding, anchoring me in the swirling chaos. “I’m not sending you away. I’m moving you. I have a secure penthouse downtown. No one knows about it. You and your mother will go there tonight.”

I stared up at him. The man I had served coffee to for ten months was suddenly rearranging my entire life to keep me alive.

“Why?” I asked, my voice cracking. “I’m just a maid. Why are you doing this for me?”

Luca looked at me for a long time. The shadows of the study seemed to deepen around us. His thumb lightly brushed against my collarbone, a touch so tender it made my breath hitch.

“You aren’t just a maid to me, Sarah,” he said quietly. “You never were.”

Before he could explain, a loud, piercing alarm shattered the silence of the mansion.

It wasn’t the standard security alarm. It was a deep, resonant klaxon. The perimeter breach alarm.

Luca’s hands dropped from my shoulders. He spun toward the window, pulling a heavy black handgun from his shoulder holster with terrifying speed.

“They’re here,” he muttered.

“The Falcones?” I asked, terrified.

“No,” Luca said, looking down at the driveway. “Red and blue lights.”

The police.

I ran to the window and looked down. Three Chicago PD cruisers had just smashed through the wrought-iron gates of the estate, coming to a screeching halt on the cobblestone driveway.

“Vanessa called them,” Luca deduced instantly. “She planted the bracelet in your room, then called in a robbery to get you arrested. If you’re in police custody, the Falcones can get to you in holding.”

He turned to me, his eyes blazing with protective fury. “Go to Mrs. Carter’s quarters. Use the servant stairs. Do not let the police see you.”

“But they’ll search my room!” I panicked. “They’ll see the empty box, they’ll—”

“Sarah, look at me,” Luca commanded.

I looked at him.

“I handle the police in this city. You just hide.”

I didn’t hesitate. I turned and ran.

I sprinted down the narrow, dimly lit servant staircase, my soft-soled shoes making no noise on the wood. I could hear the heavy pounding of boots on the grand staircase as the police breached the front doors.

I reached the ground floor and slipped into the long, dark corridor that led to the staff quarters.

I needed to get to Mrs. Carter’s room. But as I passed my own bedroom, I stopped.

The door was ajar.

I knew I had closed it.

I pushed it open slightly, holding my breath.

The small, modest room was a mess. My drawers had been pulled out, my few clothes scattered across the floor. Someone had searched it after Vanessa planted the bracelet.

But it wasn’t the police. They had just arrived.

I stepped inside, my eyes scanning the wreckage. My gaze landed on the small nightstand beside my bed.

Sitting perfectly centered on the cheap laminate wood was a silver picture frame.

It was a photograph of my mother and me, taken at my high school graduation. It was the only thing of value I owned.

But the frame was lying face down.

And the cardboard backing had been peeled away.

I walked over, my hands trembling as I picked it up. Someone had taken the photo out.

But they had left something else behind.

Folded neatly inside the empty frame was a torn, yellowed piece of paper. It looked like a page ripped from an old accounting ledger.

I carefully unfolded it.

It was a list of bank transfers. Massive sums of money. Ten thousand dollars a month, stretching back over twenty years.

And at the very top of the page, listed as the recipient of every single payment, was a name I knew better than my own.

Katherine Mitchell.

My mother.

I stared at the paper, the world tilting violently on its axis.

Why was the Moretti crime family paying my mother ten thousand dollars a month? We had lived in poverty my entire life. We had never seen a dime of this money.

A heavy footstep creaked on the floorboards directly behind me.

I froze.

I slowly turned around, the ledger page clutched in my injured hand.

Standing in the doorway, blocking my only exit, was Mrs. Carter.

The sweet, elderly housekeeper I had trusted for ten months.

But she wasn’t holding a feather duster.