Chapter 2 - THE GIRL IN THE PHOTOGRAPH
The silence in the ballroom was absolute. Thirty-six elite guests stared at Vanessa, their champagne glasses suspended in mid-air.
Luca didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to. The deadly calm in his tone made the hairs on my arms stand up.
“Vanessa. Why are you in this picture?”
Vanessa’s flawless porcelain skin turned the color of ash. She let out a high, unnatural laugh, her fingers trembling as she adjusted the diamond strap of her gown.
“Luca, darling, this is absurd,” she stammered, pointing a manicured finger at Uncle Joe. “This old man is clearly senile. He’s brought some random photograph to scam you—”
“Don’t call him senile,” Luca interrupted. His dark eyes flicked from the photo to Vanessa’s face. “The woman in this photo was our housekeeper, Maria. She disappeared the night my mother died. The night the house burned down.” Luca took a slow step toward his fiancée. “You told me you grew up in Seattle. You said your parents were investment bankers.”
Vanessa backed up until her hips hit the edge of the dining table. “They were! Luca, you know my family—”
“I know the family that adopted you,” Luca corrected softly. He held the photo up. “But this little girl has the exact same birthmark on her collarbone that you do. The one you usually cover with makeup.”
My breath hitched. I hadn’t noticed it before, but in the harsh chandelier light, a faint, crescent-shaped mark was visible just above Vanessa’s neckline.
“Answer him,” Uncle Joe said quietly from his wheelchair. “Where did your mother get the earrings, Vanessa?”
Vanessa’s mask finally cracked. Her eyes darted toward the ballroom doors, as if calculating how fast she could run. But two of Luca’s men, wearing tailored black suits, had already stepped in front of the exit.
“Fine!” Vanessa spat, her voice losing its polished, aristocratic tilt. “Yes! My mother was Maria. She worked for your family. She barely made minimum wage while your mother paraded around in jewels worth more than our lives! But she didn’t start the fire, Luca. She died in it. She died trying to pull your mother out!”
A murmur rippled through the guests.
I watched Luca process this. A flicker of doubt crossed his face. If Vanessa’s mother had died a hero, it changed everything.
But Uncle Joe shook his head. He reached into his battered lunchbox with trembling fingers.
“No, she didn’t, sweetheart,” Joe whispered.
He pulled out a heavy, tarnished silver key. It was completely black on one side, as if it had been scorched by intense heat.
“I found this in the ashes of the master bedroom,” Joe said. “It didn’t belong to Anthony’s mother. It belonged to the servant’s quarters.”
Vanessa’s face went rigid.
“But that’s not the worst part,” Joe continued, turning to Luca. “Anthony, look closely at the key’s teeth.”
Luca took the heavy silver key. He ran his thumb over the jagged edges. Then, he froze.
“There’s melted wax in the grooves,” Luca murmured.
“Someone made a mold of the master bedroom key,” Joe said gently. “They locked your mother inside before the fire started.”
The guests gasped. I clamped a hand over my mouth.
Vanessa’s eyes went wild. “He’s lying! He planted that!”
Before Luca could respond, the heavy mahogany doors swung open. Marco, Luca’s terrifying right-hand man, walked into the ballroom. He ignored the guests, marching straight to Luca. In his massive hands, he held a delicate, vintage wooden music box.
“Boss,” Marco said, his voice a low rumble. “We were moving Miss Bellini’s luggage into the master suite like you asked. One of the bags dropped.”
Marco held out the music box. The top was slightly charred.
Luca stared at it, the color draining from his face. “That was on my mother’s nightstand the night she died.”
Marco nodded grimly. He popped the latch on the box.
But instead of a ballerina, a folded piece of yellowed paper sat in the velvet compartment.
Marco handed it to Luca. “You need to see this. It’s a pawn shop receipt from thirty-three years ago.”
Luca unfolded the paper. His dark eyes scanned the ink.
May you like
Then, slowly, he turned his head and looked directly at me.
“Emma,” Luca said, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper. “Why is your father’s name on this receipt?”
