The First Class Ticket To Geneva

(Three Months Later)

The Chicago skyline sparkled through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Moretti corporate headquarters.

I sat behind a massive mahogany desk, reviewing a stack of philanthropic grants.

I wasn't wearing a housekeeping apron. I was wearing a tailored navy blazer and a silk blouse.

My nameplate on the desk read: Natalia Moretti, VP of Operations.

The transition hadn't been easy. The press had swarmed the story of the lost mafia heiress returning to the fold, but Luca had protected me fiercely. He insulated me from the syndicate's darker dealings, officially moving the family's primary focus into legitimate real estate and charity.

Maya was safe, living in a luxury apartment near her college, her tuition fully paid.

And Sarah—the woman who had raised me, the woman I would always call Mom—was finally free from fear. She lived comfortably in a quiet suburb, enjoying the retirement Anthony insisted on funding.

A soft knock interrupted my thoughts.

The heavy glass door opened, and Luca walked in.

He looked sharp in a dark charcoal suit, holding two cups of coffee.

“You’re working late again,” Luca said, setting a cup on my desk.

“I have to approve the funding for the new children’s hospital wing by tomorrow,” I smiled, taking a sip. “Thanks for the coffee, big brother.”

He sat in the chair across from me, kicking his feet out.

“Dad’s asking about Sunday dinner,” Luca said. “He wants to know if Maya is coming.”

“She wouldn't miss it,” I laughed. “Anthony spoils her more than he spoils me.”

“Because she lets him win at chess,” Luca smirked.

It was true. Anthony’s recovery had skyrocketed in the last three months. Without Camille secretly drugging his food and abusing him, his speech was nearly perfect. He was walking with a cane, leaving the wheelchair in storage.

But as I looked at Luca, I noticed a tightness around his eyes. A shadow that hadn't been there yesterday.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, closing my laptop.

Luca hesitated. He looked out the window at the city below.

“I got a call from the warden at the federal penitentiary this morning,” Luca said quietly.

My stomach dropped.

Camille and Daniel were serving life sentences without parole.

“What happened?” I asked.

“Daniel was killed in the yard yesterday,” Luca said flatly. “A dispute over a gambling debt. He’s gone.”

I didn't feel sadness. I didn't feel joy. I just felt a cold sense of finality.

“And Camille?” I asked.

“She’s in solitary confinement for her own protection,” Luca said. “But before Daniel died, he made a phone call to her. The warden monitored it.”

Luca reached into his inner jacket pocket.

He pulled out a heavy, tarnished gold necklace.

He set it on my desk.

I frowned, picking it up. The pendant was a thick, solid gold locket.

“This was found in Camille’s cell,” Luca explained. “She managed to smuggle it in when she was arrested. The guards confiscated it this morning.”

I turned the locket over in my hands. “Why is this important?”

“Because of what Daniel told her on the phone,” Luca said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Daniel told her that he didn't tell us everything about the night your mother was kidnapped.”

My blood ran cold.

“What do you mean?”

“Camille’s father didn't just take you and Sarah,” Luca said. “He took something else from the house that night. Something he hid, and only Camille knew where it was.”

I looked at the gold locket.

I found the tiny latch on the side and pressed it with my thumbnail.

The locket sprang open.

Inside wasn't a picture.

It was a tiny, folded, yellowed piece of paper.

I pulled it out carefully, unfolding the brittle edges.

It was a hand-drawn map.

“A map?” I whispered.

“Not just a map,” Luca said, standing up and walking around the desk to look over my shoulder. “Look at the handwriting at the bottom.”

I looked.

At the bottom of the map, written in a rushed, elegant cursive, were three words:

For my daughter.

I gasped, covering my mouth with my hand.

“That’s our mother’s handwriting,” Luca said.

“Maria,” I breathed.

“Yes.”

Before my mother died of cancer, when I was still a hidden secret in Ohio, she had drawn this map.

“But how did Camille’s father get it?” I asked.

“He didn't,” Luca said, his eyes burning with intensity. “He stole a box of my mother’s jewelry the night he took you. The locket was in it. He never knew the map was inside. Camille found it years later and kept it as leverage.”

I stared at the map. It depicted a stretch of the family’s private estate grounds, leading out toward the dense woods near Lake Michigan.

An X marked a spot near an old oak tree.

“She hid something out there,” I said.