Chapter 3 - THE RECIPE BOOK IN THE RAIN
The silence in the study was absolute.
I stared at the faded birth certificate in my hand, the sheer impossibility of it making my head spin.
“A brother?” I breathed. “But... how could your mother have a child with Lorenzo Rossi without anyone knowing?”
“She was a master of secrets, Hannah,” Luca said softly, leaning back in his leather chair. The anger had faded, replaced by a profound, hollow exhaustion. “The war with the Rossis ended thirty-five years ago when Lorenzo was assassinated. Or so we thought. But if this certificate is real, the war didn't end. My mother ended it.”
“By having his child?” I asked, struggling to understand the brutal logic of the mafia.
“By brokering a secret peace,” Luca deduced grimly. “Lorenzo Rossi didn't die. My mother faked his death to protect the families from mutually assured destruction. She hid him. And apparently, she loved him.”
He looked down at the silver evening bag on his desk.
“She kept this birth certificate hidden in this bag for a reason. She knew if the other families found out she had a child with a Rossi, they would have slaughtered her, me, and the baby.”
“So where is he?” I asked. “Where is Matteo?”
“That’s what I need to find out,” Luca said, standing up. “The man who took the recipe book from the auction house told Mrs. Hart he owned it before my mother did. If that man is Lorenzo Rossi... it means he’s still alive. And he has my mother’s book.”
Luca walked around the desk, stopping in front of me.
“I need you to come with me, Hannah.”
I blinked, surprised. “Me? Sir, I’m just a maid.”
“You are the only person in this house who saw the woman at the auction house. You know exactly what she told Vanessa,” Luca said, his dark eyes intense. “And frankly, you’re the only person I trust right now.”
The weight of his words hit me like a physical blow. The head of the Moretti syndicate trusted me more than his own guards.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“To find the man who bought my mother’s coat,” Luca said grimly.
An hour later, we were sitting in the back of an armored SUV, the rain lashing against the tinted windows as we drove into the heart of the city’s garment district.
Marco, Luca’s head of security, was driving. He parked outside a small, unassuming vintage clothing boutique.
Luca grabbed a large black umbrella and opened my door, shielding me from the rain as we hurried inside.
The boutique smelled of mothballs and old perfume. A frantic-looking woman with thick glasses rushed out from the back room as the bell jingled.
“We’re closed!” she snapped, before stopping dead in her tracks as she recognized Luca. The color drained from her face.
“Mr. Moretti,” she stammered, backing away.
“You bought two vintage coats from Hart & Wells auction house last month,” Luca said, his voice smooth and terrifyingly polite. “One of them was a dark green wool coat with a velvet collar.”
“I... I did,” the woman choked out. “But I already sold it! I swear, I didn't know it was stolen family property!”
“Who did you sell it to?” Luca demanded.
The woman scrambled to her register, pulling out a handwritten ledger. “An older gentleman. He paid cash. He came in the day after I bought it. He seemed desperate for it.”
“Did he give a name?”
“No. But he left an address for a tailoring adjustment. He said the cuffs needed to be taken in.”
She ripped a small piece of paper from a notepad and handed it to Luca with trembling fingers.
Luca looked at the address. His jaw tightened.
“Marco,” Luca said softly. “It’s the old Rossi tenement building on the South Side.”
Ten minutes later, the SUV pulled up to a decaying, five-story brick building in the worst part of the city. The windows were boarded up, graffiti covering the walls. It looked abandoned.
“Stay in the car, Hannah,” Luca ordered, drawing his weapon from his shoulder holster.
“No,” I said firmly, surprising myself. “You said you needed me.”
Luca looked at me, a flicker of genuine respect crossing his face. “Stay exactly behind Marco.”
We entered the building, the smell of damp rot and old garbage overwhelming us. We climbed the creaking wooden stairs to the fourth floor, stopping in front of a peeling green door marked 4B.
Luca didn't knock. He kicked the door open with a deafening crash, his gun raised.
The small apartment was dark, smelling of stale cigarette smoke and cheap coffee.
“Clear,” Marco called out, sweeping the room with his flashlight.
Luca walked into the center of the room and turned on the overhead light.
The apartment was sparse, holding only a narrow bed and a small kitchen table.
But sitting on the table, perfectly centered, was the dark green wool coat Luca’s mother had worn thirty years ago.
And resting on top of the coat was the handwritten recipe book.
Luca lowered his gun, walking slowly toward the table. He reached out with a trembling hand and touched the worn leather cover of the recipe book.
“He left it for us,” Luca whispered, opening the cover.
I stepped closer, looking over his shoulder.
Tucked inside the front cover was a faded, black-and-white Polaroid photograph.
It was a picture of Rosa Moretti, looking young and radiant, laughing in a sunlit park.
And standing next to her, holding a tiny baby wrapped in a blue blanket, was a man with dark hair and a sharp jawline.
Lorenzo Rossi.
But that wasn't the most shocking part of the photograph.
May you like
Written across the bottom of the Polaroid, in familiar, rusty brown ink, was a single sentence.
To Luca: The boy in the blue blanket is not your brother.
