Chapter 2 - THE LOCKED DOOR
“Adrian! I know she’s in there!”
Vanessa’s voice was shrill, the elegant restraint she displayed in front of her high-society friends completely abandoned. The heavy brass doorknob rattled violently.
I stood paralyzed across from Adrian’s desk, my bandaged hand clutching my apron. My heart hammered against my ribs, loud enough that I feared he could hear it.
Adrian Moretti didn't move. He didn't answer Vanessa. He simply stared at the photograph in his hands. The picture of his soon-to-be wife, married to another man, holding a child.
“Mr. Moretti,” I whispered, panic rising in my throat. “If she finds out I gave that to you—”
“Sit down, Olivia,” Adrian ordered quietly.
His voice was calm, but the air around him had changed. The quiet authority was gone, replaced by something far more dangerous. He was a man who controlled shipping lanes, politicians, and the quiet, violent undertow of Chicago. He did not tolerate deception.
He slipped the photograph into his suit jacket pocket, then unlocked his desk drawer and placed his heavy, matte-black handgun onto the polished mahogany surface.
It wasn't a threat toward me. It was a statement of reality.
Then, he walked to the door and turned the key.
Vanessa practically fell into the room. Her expensive silk dress was slightly wrinkled, her makeup flawless but her eyes wide with a frantic, unhinged energy.
She looked at me, sitting in the leather chair, and pure hatred flashed across her face.
“What is she doing in here?” Vanessa demanded, turning to Adrian. “Why are you locking the door with the help?”
“Olivia was just explaining the incident at the front gate,” Adrian said smoothly, returning to his chair. He didn't offer Vanessa a seat. “It seems she didn't just catch her hand by accident. Someone closed the gate on her.”
Vanessa’s jaw tightened. She forced a laugh. “I told you, she’s dramatic. She tripped—”
“I saw the security footage, Vanessa.”
The laugh died in Vanessa’s throat. She stared at him, the color draining from her face.
“You closed the gate on her hand,” Adrian continued, his voice devoid of any emotion. “While she was trying to let an older woman onto the property. An older woman who shares your maiden name.”
Vanessa swallowed hard. “That woman… she’s a stalker, Adrian. She’s mentally unwell. She thinks she’s my mother. She’s been harassing me for months. I didn't want to worry you with it.”
It was a good lie. Seamless. Delivered with just the right amount of vulnerability.
“A stalker,” Adrian repeated.
“Yes,” Vanessa said, stepping closer to his desk, trying to reach for his hand. “I was just trying to protect our home. When Olivia let her in, I panicked. I didn't mean to hurt her hand.”
Adrian didn't take Vanessa’s hand. He simply looked at her.
“Then why did you try to take the paper she gave Olivia?”
Vanessa froze. The lie had run its course.
Before she could invent another excuse, Adrian reached into his jacket and pulled out the photograph. He tossed it onto the desk, right next to the gun.
Vanessa looked down. She let out a short, choked gasp, stumbling backward as if the photograph had physically burned her.
“Who is the man in the picture, Vanessa?” Adrian asked.
She couldn't speak. She shook her head, tears finally welling in her eyes—real tears of absolute terror.
“Is he your husband?” Adrian pushed.
“He’s dead!” Vanessa suddenly screamed, her voice cracking. “He’s dead, Adrian! I swear to you!”
“And the child?”
Vanessa covered her face, sobbing violently. “Dead. They both died in a car crash three years ago. My mother… my mother blames me. She hates me. That’s why she brought this to you. She wants to ruin my life because I survived!”
I sat silently, watching the performance. It was convincing. But Adrian didn't look convinced. He looked like a man examining a structural flaw in a building he was about to demolish.
“Olivia,” Adrian said, his eyes never leaving Vanessa. “When Margaret Bellini gave you this photograph, did she say the child was dead?”
Vanessa whipped her head around, glaring at me with a terrifying ferocity. Don't you dare, her eyes screamed.
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I looked at the bruising on my hand. I thought of the desperate, weeping woman at the gate.
“No, Mr. Moretti,” I said clearly. “She told me the child is five years old. And she told me where to find him.”
