Chapter 10 - THE LOCKET'S SECRET
The shattered ceramic of the mug lay scattered across the wooden porch boards.
Coffee seeped into the grain.
I couldn't move. I couldn't breathe.
I just stared at the locket in Vincent's open palm.
My mother.
Eleanor Mercer.
She was smiling, wearing a simple white sundress, her blonde hair blowing across her cheek. The photo looked like it was taken at least thirty years ago.
"Where exactly did he keep this?" I asked, my voice barely a rasp.
"In a false bottom of his primary wall safe," Vincent said, his brow furrowed in deep concentration. "Along with his grandfather's signet ring and his will. It was treated as his most prized possession."
I shook my head, stepping back. "No. No, that makes no sense. My mother was a kindergarten teacher. She never stepped foot in your world."
"Everyone steps into my world eventually, Grace. Usually because of money, or mistakes."
Vincent closed the locket with a soft snap.
"Or blood."
"Don't," I warned, pointing a shaking finger at him. "Do not imply what I think you're implying."
"I'm not implying anything," Vincent said gently, stepping closer. "But we have to look at the facts. Your father knew about the hidden money. He had the routing numbers. My father kept a photo of your mother. There is a missing piece to this puzzle."
Leo ran up to the porch, his face flushed with joy.
"Aunt Grace! The dog can catch a frisbee in the air!"
I forced a smile, masking the absolute terror spiraling in my chest. "That's amazing, sweetie. Go throw it again."
As Leo bounded away, Vincent touched my arm.
"We need to go to your father's old union hall," Vincent said. "He worked out of the South Side local for thirty years. Someone there knows the history between our families."
Two hours later, we parked outside a gritty brick building covered in fading paint: Local 412 - Elevator Constructors & Mechanics.
We walked inside. The air smelled of stale beer and cheap cigars.
An old man with a face like worn leather was sitting behind a scratched wooden desk. He looked up.
When he saw Vincent Moretti, he paled.
"I don't want any trouble, Mr. Moretti," the old man croaked.
"No trouble, Arthur," Vincent said smoothly. "Just history. You knew Thomas Mercer."
Arthur swallowed hard, looking at me. "I knew Tommy. Good man. Terrible accident."
"It wasn't an accident," I said, stepping forward. "And you know it."
Arthur looked away, shame coloring his cheeks.
"I need to know about Tommy and my father, Don Carlo," Vincent pressed. "When did they meet?"
Arthur sighed, rubbing his face with a trembling hand.
"They didn't meet through the union," Arthur muttered. "They met through Eleanor."
My heart stalled. "My mother?"
"Eleanor wasn't just a teacher," Arthur said softly, looking at me with pity. "Before she married your dad... she was Carlo Moretti's mistress."
The room started to spin.
Answer one: The locket wasn't a random trophy. It was a token of love.
Open two: If my mother was Carlo's mistress... who was my real father?
Arthur reached into a drawer and pulled out a faded birth certificate.
He slid it across the desk.
"Tommy Mercer loved Eleanor so much he took you as his own, Grace," Arthur whispered. "But you need to look at the name on the father's line."
I looked down.
My name: Grace Eleanor Moretti.
May you like
I looked up at Vincent, whose face had gone completely white.
"You're not just the mechanic's daughter," Vincent breathed, stepping back from me as if he had been burned. "You're my sister."
