Chapter 3 - THE BRASS KEY ON THE SILVER TRAY
The word Dowry hung in the air, heavy and loaded with implications none of us understood.
Vanessa stared at the brass key in Marco’s palm as if it were a venomous snake. The color completely drained from her face, leaving her looking stark and terrified against the backdrop of her expensive red gown.
“A dowry?” Luca asked, his voice low and dangerous. He looked at Vanessa. “Did you ask your mother for money to marry me, Vanessa?”
“No!” Vanessa cried, scrambling out of her chair, her hands waving frantically. “Luca, I swear to God! I haven't spoken to her in six months! I would never ask her for a dowry! You’re a billionaire, why would I need her money?”
“That is an excellent question,” Luca said coldly. He took the brass key from Marco and held it up to the chandelier light. The metal was old, heavily scratched, clearly well-used.
He turned the small tag over. On the back, written in the same neat handwriting, was an address.
First National Bank. Vault 402.
“Marco,” Luca ordered, pocketing the key. “Get the car. We are going to the bank.”
“Sir, it’s past nine o'clock,” Marco reminded him gently. “The bank is closed.”
“The bank manager is a friend of the family,” Luca said, his eyes hard and unyielding. “Wake him up. Tell him I need access to Vault 402 immediately.”
“Yes, boss.” Marco nodded and quickly left the room.
Vanessa grabbed Luca’s arm, her perfectly manicured nails digging into his suit jacket. “Luca, please, don't do this. It’s just some pathetic gesture. She probably saved up to buy us silverware or something. Don't make a scene.”
Luca looked down at her hand, then up to her desperate, tear-streaked face.
“A forty-two-thousand-dollar withdrawal three days ago is not silverware, Vanessa,” Luca said, pulling his arm free. “And a woman who mends the cuffs of her own coat does not throw that kind of money away on a gesture.”
He turned to me. I was still holding the glass baking dish with the peach pie, trying desperately to blend into the wallpaper.
“Grace,” Luca said softly, the harsh edge leaving his voice completely. “Put the pie in the refrigerator. Then grab your coat. You’re coming with us.”
I blinked, completely stunned. “Me? Sir, I’m just a maid. I shouldn't—”
“You are the only person in this room who treated that woman with an ounce of respect tonight,” Luca interrupted, his dark eyes locking onto mine with a fierce, quiet intensity. “You are coming.”
I didn't argue. I hurried to the kitchen, carefully wrapped the pie in foil, placed it on the top shelf of the refrigerator, and grabbed my worn wool coat from the staff locker room.
Ten minutes later, I was sitting in the back of an armored SUV, sandwiched between a terrified Vanessa and a dangerously quiet Luca Moretti.
The rain lashed against the bulletproof windows as we sped through the dark city streets toward the financial district. The silence in the car was suffocating. Vanessa kept twisting her diamond engagement ring around her finger, staring blankly out the window, occasionally letting out a shaky, terrified breath.
When we pulled up to the imposing marble columns of the First National Bank, a nervous-looking man in a rumpled suit was waiting under an umbrella by the side entrance.
“Mr. Moretti,” the bank manager stammered, unlocking the heavy steel door as we approached. “I apologize for the wait. The vault requires a dual-key override after hours.”
“Just open it, Arthur,” Luca commanded, stepping into the dimly lit lobby.
We followed the manager down a long flight of marble stairs into the subterranean vault. The air was cool and smelled of polished metal and old paper. The manager used his master key, while Luca inserted Mary’s brass key into the small door marked 402.
With a heavy click, the long metal box slid out of the wall.
Luca carried it to a private viewing table in the center of the room. He didn't open it immediately. He looked at Vanessa.
“Whatever is in here, Vanessa,” Luca warned, his voice low, “it is going to explain why your mother stood in my dining room tonight and allowed you to humiliate her.”
Vanessa squeezed her eyes shut and looked away.
Luca flipped the latch and lifted the lid.
I leaned in slightly, my heart hammering in my chest, expecting to see stacks of cash or bonds.
But the box was completely empty of money.
Instead, resting on the velvet bottom, was a thick stack of folded legal documents, heavily yellowed with age.
And sitting on top of the documents was a heavy, ornate gold pocket watch.
Luca froze.
He stared at the pocket watch, the color completely draining from his face. His breath hitched audibly in the quiet vault.
“Luca?” Vanessa whispered, opening her eyes. “What is it?”
Luca didn't answer her. He reached into the box with a trembling hand and picked up the gold pocket watch. He ran his thumb over the intricate engraving on the front casing—a roaring lion holding a sword.
“This is my father’s crest,” Luca breathed, his voice barely a whisper.
He pressed the latch on the side. The watch popped open.
Inside, tucked behind the glass face, was a tiny, faded photograph of a young Luca sitting on his father’s shoulders.
I gasped, pressing my hand over my mouth.
“Where did your mother get this?” Luca demanded, turning to Vanessa, his eyes burning with a sudden, terrifying fury. “My father was wearing this watch the night he was murdered twenty years ago! It was stolen off his body!”
Vanessa backed away from the table, shaking her head frantically. “I don't know! I swear, I have never seen that watch in my life!”
“Liar!” Luca roared, the sound echoing violently off the steel walls of the vault.
He slammed his hand down on the table, making Vanessa flinch violently. Luca grabbed the stack of yellowed legal documents from the box and thrust them toward her.
“Then explain this!” Luca shouted.
He threw the documents onto the table. They fanned out across the velvet.
They weren't bank statements or property deeds.
They were adoption papers.
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The name at the top of the first page was printed in bold, black ink.
Vanessa Rossi.
