Chapter 2 - THE EMPTY APARTMENT
The silence in the dining room was suffocating.
Vanessa’s face lost all its color, the expensive diamond necklace at her throat suddenly looking like a noose.
Luca Moretti didn't raise his voice. He didn't yell. In the mafia world, Luca's silence was always far more terrifying than his anger.
“Answer me, Vanessa,” Luca said, his voice a low, lethal whisper. “Why did you tell this man that his wife would be forced to abandon her home?”
Vanessa swallowed hard, her manicured fingers gripping the edge of the mahogany table. “Luca, darling, it was just... administrative restructuring. I thought it would be more efficient to have the primary staff living on-site once we are married.”
“Without discussing it with me?” Luca asked.
“I am the lady of this house,” Vanessa snapped, her panic briefly flashing into entitlement. “I manage the staff.”
“You do not manage their marriages,” Luca stated coldly.
He turned his dark eyes to me, then to Ben, who was still holding my hand tightly beneath the table.
“Hannah,” Luca said. “You did not know about this rule?”
“No, sir,” I answered honestly, my voice shaking. “I would never choose my job over Ben. Never.”
Ben exhaled a ragged breath, the tension leaving his shoulders. He brought my hand to his lips, pressing a kiss against my cheap silver ring.
Vanessa scoffed, trying to regain control of the narrative. “Oh, please. It's just a job. She can always find another one.”
“No,” Luca corrected sharply. “She will stay. And she will continue to go home to her husband every night.”
Luca signaled to the head butler, standing near the doorway. “Pay Hannah her wages for the entire evening. Double it for the inconvenience. And have a driver take them home.”
“Mr. Moretti, you don't have to—” Ben started, but Luca cut him off.
“Go home, Ben. Eat your cheeseburgers. Celebrate your anniversary.” Luca looked at Vanessa with an expression of pure disgust. “This dinner is over.”
Within ten minutes, Ben and I were sitting in the back of a luxury town car, pulling away from the massive iron gates of the Moretti estate.
I leaned my head against Ben's shoulder, exhausted but incredibly relieved. He wrapped his arm around me, his thumb gently stroking the silver band on my finger.
“I'm sorry she said those awful things to you,” I whispered, staring out the window at the passing city lights.
“She didn't break us, Hannah,” Ben replied softly. “That's all that matters.”
The car pulled up to our small, second-floor apartment building. It wasn't much—just a brick walk-up in a working-class neighborhood—but it was ours.
We thanked the driver and walked upstairs hand-in-hand.
Ben unlocked the door and pushed it open.
I stepped inside and froze.
Something was wrong.
The apartment was freezing. The front window was wide open, the autumn wind blowing the cheap curtains sideways.
And the place was completely ransacked.
“Ben,” I gasped, grabbing his arm.
The couch cushions were slashed. The drawers in our small kitchen were pulled out, utensils scattered across the linoleum. The small television was smashed on the floor.
Ben immediately pushed me behind him, his protective instincts kicking in. “Stay by the door, Hannah. Don't move.”
He cautiously walked through the living room, grabbing a heavy metal flashlight from the hall table. He checked the bedroom and the bathroom.
“Clear,” Ben called out, though his voice was tight with fear. “Whoever did this is gone.”
I walked further into the room, tears of pure violation springing to my eyes. We had nothing. We were barely scraping by. Who would rob us?
“They didn't take the TV,” Ben noted, kicking a piece of shattered plastic. “They didn't take my tools from the corner, either.”
“Then what were they looking for?” I asked, my voice trembling.
Ben walked over to our small dining table.
It had been flipped over. But sitting perfectly in the center of the overturned wood, intentionally placed where we would find it, was a single object.
It was a small, ornate silver lighter. The kind that required expensive fluid and polished care.
Neither of us smoked.
Ben picked it up cautiously. He flipped the heavy lid open.
Engraved on the inside of the lid, in sharp, elegant lettering, was a name.
Vanessa Bellini.
I stared at the lighter, my blood running completely cold.
“Why would Vanessa’s lighter be in our apartment?” Ben asked, his brow furrowed in confusion.
I didn't answer right away. I remembered seeing Vanessa flicking that exact lighter two days ago on the estate patio.
But Vanessa had been at the engagement dinner all evening. She couldn't have trashed our apartment.
Which meant she had sent someone to do it for her.
“Ben,” I whispered, a horrifying realization dawning on me. “Look at the bedroom.”
Ben turned.
The bedroom wasn't just trashed. Our small closet had been emptied. But not my clothes.
Only Ben's.
Every shirt, every pair of jeans, every pair of work boots—gone.
“They didn't come to rob us, Ben,” I said, panic rising in my chest.
I walked over to the open window and looked down into the alleyway.
Sitting in the shadows, parked near the dumpsters, was a sleek black SUV with tinted windows. The engine was idling.
“They came to send a message,” I breathed, stepping back from the glass.
Before Ben could ask what I meant, his cell phone rang loudly in his pocket.
The caller ID was blocked.
He answered it, putting it on speaker.
“Hello?”
“Did you find my lighter, Ben?” Vanessa’s voice purred through the speaker, dripping with malice.
May you like
“You broke into my home?” Ben yelled, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the phone.
“I didn't break in, sweetheart. I own the building,” Vanessa replied smoothly. “I bought it yesterday afternoon. And as your new landlord, I’m formally evicting you for property damage. You have ten minutes to get out before I call the police and have you arrested for trespassing.”
