Chapter 2 - THE GIRL AT THE PRIVATE TERMINAL
The silence in the nurse’s office was deafening.
Luca Moretti stared at his phone, his dark eyes wide, his jaw tight. For a man who controlled half the real estate in Chicago, a man who never showed fear, he suddenly looked completely shattered.
"A daughter?" he whispered.
"Yes, Boss," Daniel’s voice came through the speaker. "She looks to be about seven years old. And your mother… she looks terrified."
"Where are they?"
"Terminal 4. The private aviation wing. But Michael Bellini is pacing near the exit. He’s making phone calls."
Luca didn’t ask another question. He ended the call.
He didn't look at the letter his father had written. He didn't look at the door.
He looked at me.
"Emma."
My hand throbbed beneath the fresh bandage, but I stood up straighter. "Yes, sir."
"Do you know how to drive a stick shift?"
The question caught me off guard. "Yes. My father’s old truck was a manual."
He reached into his tailored pocket, pulled out a heavy set of keys, and tossed them to me. I caught them with my good hand.
"Daniel is bringing my car around to the service entrance," Luca said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous command. "We are leaving through the kitchen. You are driving."
"Me?" My heart hammered against my ribs. "Mr. Moretti, your engagement dinner—"
"My engagement is over," he interrupted.
The words hung in the air, heavy and absolute.
"Vanessa lied about my mother," he said, stepping closer to me. The scent of his expensive cologne mixed with the sharp smell of antiseptic in the small room. "If Michael is at the airport with my mother, it means the Bellini family has been hiding her. And if my security team drives me, Vanessa will know exactly where I am going within three minutes."
He looked down at my injured hand.
"I know you are in pain," he said softly. "But right now, you are the only person in this house I know for a fact does not work for Vanessa."
A lump formed in my throat.
I thought about my mother, sitting in her small chair across town, depending on my paycheck. I thought about Vanessa’s cruel smile in the dining room, the way she had easily lied about my blood on her antique plates.
I gripped the keys tightly.
"I’ll drive."
Three minutes later, we were in the underground garage.
The black Aston Martin was waiting. Luca climbed into the passenger seat, immediately opening a hidden compartment in the dashboard and pulling out a matte-black firearm. He checked the magazine with cold, practiced efficiency.
I slid into the driver's seat. My injured right hand screamed in pain as I gripped the leather gear shift, but I gritted my teeth and started the engine.
The roar of the sports car echoed off the concrete walls.
"Go," Luca ordered.
We tore out of the service tunnel and onto the rainy Chicago streets. The city lights blurred as I pushed the car faster, weaving through late-night traffic.
Inside the cabin, the tension was suffocating.
Luca stared out the window, his grip tight on the weapon resting in his lap.
"Twelve years," he whispered, almost to himself. "I buried an empty casket. I stood in the rain and listened to Vanessa's father tell me she had run away with another man. I believed him."
I kept my eyes on the road. "Why would they lie?"
"Control," Luca answered bitterly. "My mother owned fifty percent of the Moretti holdings. When she 'disappeared,' her shares transferred to a trust managed by the Bellinis. They used her ghost to build their empire."
My stomach turned.
"And the little girl?" I asked softly.
Luca closed his eyes. "I don't know."
We reached the airport in twenty minutes. I bypassed the main terminals and drove straight toward the private aviation hangars, hiding the Aston Martin behind a row of cargo crates.
"Stay close to me," Luca said as we got out.
The rain was coming down harder now. We moved quietly toward the glass doors of Terminal 4. Inside, the waiting area was mostly empty, save for a few exhausted travelers.
But in the far corner, near the private boarding gates, I saw them.
An older woman sat on a leather bench. Her hair was completely white, her posture fragile, but she had Luca’s sharp cheekbones. She was clutching a worn canvas bag to her chest like a shield.
Beside her sat a little girl.
She wore a bright red coat that was clearly two sizes too big for her. Her dark hair fell in messy waves, and her small hands were gripping a half-eaten granola bar.
And standing ten feet away, pacing frantically with a cell phone pressed to his ear, was Michael Bellini.
Luca didn't hesitate.
He pushed through the glass doors. He didn't walk; he stalked across the marble floor like a predator.
Michael turned, saw Luca, and dropped his phone.
"Luca," Michael stammered, raising his hands. "Listen to me—"
Before Michael could finish his sentence, Luca grabbed him by the throat, slamming him violently against the glass wall.
"Give me one reason why I shouldn't kill you right now," Luca snarled.
The older woman on the bench gasped.
"Luca!" she cried. Her voice was cracked, broken by years of silence. "Luca, stop! Let him go!"
Luca froze. He turned his head slowly.
He let go of Michael. The man collapsed to the floor, gasping for air.
Luca walked toward the bench. His hands were shaking. The ruthless boss of the Chicago syndicate fell to his knees in front of the fragile woman.
"Mom?" he whispered.
Tears spilled down her wrinkled cheeks. She reached out with a trembling hand, tracing his jawline. "My beautiful boy. You grew up."
Luca buried his face in her hands, a choked sob escaping his throat.
I stood a few feet away, tears burning my own eyes.
Then, the little girl in the red coat stood up.
She walked over to Luca. She didn't look afraid. She reached out and touched his shoulder.
Luca lifted his head. He stared at the little girl, taking in her dark eyes, her small nose.
"Are you my daddy?" she asked, her voice high and sweet.
Luca’s breath hitched. "I… I don't know, sweetheart. Who is your mother?"
The little girl didn't answer with words.
Instead, she reached into the deep pocket of her red coat. She pulled out an old, slightly crumpled photograph and handed it to Luca.
"Mommy told me to give this to you," she said.
Luca took the photo. I stepped closer, looking over his shoulder.
My blood ran completely cold.
Because the woman in the photograph wasn't a stranger. It wasn't an ex-girlfriend.
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It was Vanessa.
TITLE: THE SECRET IN THE PHOTOGRAPH
