Chapter 3 - THE SILVER POCKET WATCH
The room spun.
I couldn't tear my eyes away from the photograph inside the silver watch.
My father.
The gentle man who packed Ben’s lunches.
The man who worked double shifts at the lumber yard.
Standing beside the former head of the Chicago mafia, holding a weapon.
"That's a lie," I whispered, my voice shaking. "My dad was a foreman."
Vanessa crossed her arms, her red silk gown rustling.
"Your father was a cleaner, Sarah," she said smoothly. "For the Moretti family. He cleaned up their messes for twenty years. And last December, he cleaned up a mess he wasn't supposed to."
Luca stared at the watch.
He slowly knelt and picked it up.
"Where did you get this, Vanessa?"
"From my father," she answered. "He found it on Thomas's body."
My breath hitched.
"On his body?" I asked. "The hospital said he collapsed at work."
Vanessa smiled a terrible, pitying smile.
"He didn't collapse at work, sweetheart. He was shot in an alley behind the shipyards. Your precious Luca's family paid the doctors to change the death certificate."
I looked at Luca.
His face was completely pale.
"Is it true?" I asked him, tears welling in my eyes.
Luca looked at the engraving on the watch.
"I didn't know, Sarah," he said, his voice rough. "I swear to God, I didn't know my father was still using him."
He turned to Vanessa.
"If my father covered it up, why do you have the watch?"
"Because your father didn't kill him," Vanessa said. "My family did."
The silence in the lounge was deafening.
Ben squeezed my hand so tightly it hurt.
Vanessa stepped closer to Luca.
"Thomas Mitchell saw a shipment he shouldn't have seen. My father eliminated him. But before he died, Thomas managed to hide the ledger."
Luca's eyes narrowed.
"The shipping ledger?"
Vanessa nodded.
"The one that proves my family has been stealing from the Morettis for five years. The one that could put my entire family in federal prison."
She looked directly at me.
"We searched Thomas's apartment. We searched his locker. We found nothing."
Then she looked down at Ben.
"But Thomas didn't live alone, did he?"
My stomach dropped.
Vanessa pointed at my eight-year-old brother.
"We know Thomas gave something to the boy before he died. That's why I arranged the boarding school transfer. Once he was in my custody, I was going to make him tell me where it is."
I stepped in front of Ben.
"You're a monster."
Vanessa rolled her eyes.
"I'm a survivor. And Luca, if you want this engagement to proceed, you will let me take the boy."
Luca looked at her.
He didn't yell.
He didn't threaten her.
He simply reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone, and dialed a number.
"Marco," Luca said quietly into the receiver. "Bring the car around to the back entrance. And tell the guests the engagement is permanently canceled."
Vanessa froze.
"You can't do that," she hissed. "My family will destroy you."
"Let them try," Luca said.
He hung up the phone.
He looked at me.
"Gather Ben’s things, Sarah. You're not going back to your apartment tonight. It isn't safe."
I was too stunned to argue.
I grabbed Ben’s backpack and his little blanket.
Vanessa watched us, her face twisting with rage.
"You're making a mistake, Luca," she warned.
Luca ignored her.
He walked us down the back hallway, shielding Ben with his own body.
We stepped out into the freezing Chicago night.
A black SUV was waiting.
Marco, Luca’s head of security, opened the door.
We climbed into the backseat.
Luca got in beside us.
As the car sped away from the mansion, I held Ben tightly against my chest.
He was shaking.
"Sarah?" he whispered.
"I'm here, baby."
He reached into the pocket of his jeans.
"The lady said Dad hid something."
I looked down.
"What is it, Ben?"
He pulled out a crumpled, folded piece of paper.
"Dad gave me this in the hospital," Ben whispered. "He told me not to show anyone until I was older."
Luca turned on the overhead reading light.
He carefully took the paper from Ben’s trembling hands.
He unfolded it.
It wasn't a ledger.
It wasn't a list of numbers or bank accounts.
It was a child’s drawing in blue crayon.
A drawing of a black car crashing into a tree.
And written at the bottom, in my father's messy handwriting, was a license plate number.
Luca stared at the drawing.
His face drained of all color.
"Mr. Moretti?" I asked. "What is it?"
May you like
Luca looked up at me, his eyes filled with a sudden, terrifying realization.
"This isn't about Vanessa's family," he whispered. "This is the license plate of the car that killed my mother ten years ago."
