Chapter 2 - THE SILVER EVENING BAG
The cedar room felt colder than usual.
Luca Moretti stared at me, his dark eyes burning with a sudden, frantic intensity. The calm, composed mafia boss had vanished, replaced by a man staring into a chasm he thought had been sealed forty years ago.
“Repeat what she said, Hannah,” Luca commanded. His voice wasn’t loud, but the terrifying quiet in it made the hairs on my arms stand up. “Exactly as she said it.”
I swallowed hard, wincing as the movement pulled at my wrapped ribs.
“Mrs. Hart said the older gentleman came to the auction house. She said, ‘He told me the book belonged to him before it ever belonged to your mother—and he said Luca would know exactly who he was.’”
Luca didn't move. He stood perfectly still, his eyes locked on the empty cedar chest.
“And Vanessa?” Luca asked. “What was her reaction?”
“She went completely pale, sir,” I said, remembering the absolute shock on Vanessa’s face before she realized I was standing there. “She whispered, ‘That’s impossible. He’s been dead for thirty years.’”
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Luca’s mother, Rosa Moretti, had died when Luca was ten. She was a legend in the family—a fierce, fiercely protective woman who had supposedly brought an end to a brutal mafia war through sheer, unrelenting negotiation.
“My father died before I was born,” Luca said softly, almost to himself. “My mother raised me alone.”
He looked up at me, the confusion bleeding into a cold, lethal anger.
“Did Vanessa say anything else to Mrs. Hart?”
“She told her to keep quiet about it,” I admitted, my voice shaking. “She said if anyone found out the book was gone, the deal for the dress was off. That’s when she saw me.”
Luca nodded slowly. He didn't thank me. He didn't need to. The gravity of the moment eclipsed everything else.
“Go to your room, Hannah,” Luca said. “Lock the door. Do not speak to Vanessa tonight.”
“Yes, sir.”
I turned and practically fled down the hallway, terrified of the storm about to break in the mansion.
I didn't see what happened next, but the entire house heard it.
Twenty minutes later, the heavy oak doors of the master suite slammed shut with a concussive boom that rattled the crystal sconces on the second floor.
I sat on the edge of my narrow bed in the staff quarters, clutching a pillow to my bruised ribs, listening to the muffled, frantic shouting coming from the East Wing.
It was Vanessa. She was screaming.
Luca’s voice never rose above a low, terrifying rumble, but its effect was undeniable. Within ten minutes, the screaming stopped, replaced by the sound of expensive luggage being thrown down the grand staircase.
I peeked out of my door just in time to see Marco, the head of security, dragging Vanessa’s designer suitcases out the front door. Vanessa followed closely behind, her red gown torn at the hem, her face smeared with mascara, sobbing hysterically as Marco shoved her into a waiting black SUV.
The engagement was over.
But the nightmare had just begun.
The next morning, the mansion was eerily quiet. The engagement decorations had been torn down and thrown away.
I was in the kitchen, carefully sipping coffee, when Mrs. Carter walked in. She looked exhausted, her usually pristine uniform slightly rumpled.
“Mr. Moretti wants to see you in his office, Hannah,” Mrs. Carter said softly.
My heart hammered in my chest.
I walked down the long corridor to the study and knocked softly.
“Enter,” Luca’s voice called out.
I opened the door. Luca was sitting behind his massive mahogany desk, looking incredibly tired. He hadn't slept. His tie was gone, the top buttons of his shirt undone.
Sitting on the desk in front of him was a small, tarnished silver evening bag.
I recognized it immediately from old photographs. It was his mother’s.
“Mrs. Hart returned this via courier an hour ago,” Luca said, his voice flat. “Vanessa sold it to them two months ago.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” I murmured, unsure of what else to say.
“She didn't just sell my mother’s things for money, Hannah,” Luca said, his dark eyes locking onto mine. “Vanessa comes from a wealthy family. She didn't need the cash.”
I frowned, confused. “Then why sell them?”
“Spite,” Luca stated coldly. “And control. She hated that I kept this room locked. She hated that I still honored a woman she never met. She was slowly erasing my mother from this house, piece by piece, to make room for herself.”
It was monstrous. A petty, calculated destruction of a man’s history.
“But that’s not why I called you here,” Luca continued. He picked up the silver evening bag.
“When Mrs. Hart returned the bag,” Luca said, “she told me she hadn't opened it. The clasp was rusted shut. But I broke it open.”
He reached inside the small bag and pulled out a faded, folded piece of paper.
He slid it across the desk toward me.
“Read it.”
I hesitated, then picked up the paper. It was thick, yellowed with age, the ink faded to a rusty brown.
It was a birth certificate.
But it wasn't Luca’s.
The name on the certificate was Matteo Moretti. Date of birth: thirty-two years ago. Two years before Rosa Moretti supposedly died.
But what made my blood run cold was the father’s name listed on the document.
It wasn't left blank.
It clearly stated: Lorenzo Rossi.
The head of the rival syndicate. The man who had waged war against the Morettis.
“I don't understand,” I whispered, looking up at Luca.
“My mother had a second child,” Luca said, his voice dropping to a terrifying whisper. “A son. With the man who was supposed to be our family’s greatest enemy.”
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He pointed to the certificate in my hand.
“And according to this,” Luca said, his eyes burning with a dark, dangerous fire, “my brother is still alive. And he’s the one who took the recipe book.”
