Chapter 2 - The Truth About The Grandfather
"Vanessa... what did you tell my father about the granddaughter who spent four months building that bridge with him?"
Luca’s voice didn’t rise.
It didn’t need to.
The quiet, dangerous edge in his tone made the entire dining room freeze. The thirty-two wealthy guests stopped breathing. The waiters stood perfectly still against the silk-lined walls.
Vanessa’s red lips parted, but no sound came out.
She looked at the competition judge, Rebecca, and then back to the man she was supposed to marry.
"Luca, darling," Vanessa whispered, her voice trembling. "You have to understand. Your father is a wonderful man, but he doesn't belong in this society. I was protecting Clara."
"Protecting her?" Luca stepped closer.
The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.
"By telling him she didn't want him here?"
Vanessa swallowed hard. "I told him the truth. I told him that Clara is a Moretti. That she has a reputation to uphold. And that an old carpenter in a cheap suit would only make the other children laugh at her."
Clara gasped.
The little girl gripped my hand so tightly her knuckles turned white.
"I never said that!" Clara cried, tears spilling over her cheeks. "I wanted him here! He bought a new jacket!"
Luca’s jaw clenched.
He didn't yell. He didn't lose his temper.
He simply looked at the woman wearing his two-million-dollar diamond ring.
"Take it off."
Vanessa blinked. "What?"
"The ring, Vanessa. Take it off."
Her face went completely pale. "Luca, you can't be serious. We have three hundred guests arriving for the wedding next month. The press—"
"I don't care about the press," Luca said, his voice like ice. "I care about the man who broke his back for forty years so I could sit at this table. And I care about the daughter you just tried to destroy."
Vanessa’s eyes flashed with sudden, desperate anger.
She looked around the room, realizing the guests were witnessing her complete humiliation.
With trembling fingers, she slid the massive diamond from her finger and slammed it onto the white tablecloth. It hit Clara’s broken wooden bridge.
"You'll regret this," Vanessa hissed. "Both of you."
She turned and marched toward the grand foyer.
"Hannah," Luca said without looking away from the table. "Make sure Miss Bellini takes only what belongs to her."
My stomach flipped. "Yes, sir."
I followed Vanessa into the marble hallway.
She was furious, yanking her designer coat from the closet. As she pulled it down, her expensive leather handbag tipped over.
Several items spilled across the marble floor.
Lipstick. A compact mirror. And a heavy, worn velvet box.
The box popped open.
My breath caught in my throat.
Resting on the velvet was a tarnished silver pocket watch. The glass was cracked. The initials F.M. were engraved on the front.
It was Frank Moretti’s watch.
The one he had lost three weeks ago. The one Clara had spent hours crying over because it was his most prized possession.
"You stole it," I whispered.
Vanessa snatched the box from the floor, her eyes panicked.
"I didn't steal it, you stupid girl," she snapped. "My nephew Daniel took it when he was playing in the workshop. I was going to throw it away."
Before I could process the cruelty of her words, the heavy oak front doors suddenly swung open.
The wind howled from the Chicago streets.
Standing in the doorway, soaking wet from the rain, was a seventy-four-year-old man in a brand-new, poorly fitted suit jacket.
Frank Moretti.
But he wasn't looking at Vanessa.
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He was holding a crumpled piece of blue stationery in his shaking hands.
"Where is my son?" Frank rasped, staring directly at me. "And why did Clara write me a letter saying she wishes I was dead?"
