Chapter 10 - THE WATCH
Two months passed.
Winter arrived in Chicago, covering the estate in a thick blanket of white snow.
I didn’t wear a uniform anymore.
I was officially the estate manager, though everyone knew my role was much more than that.
Leo had the run of the house.
He would sit in Luca’s study after school, doing his homework while Luca managed his "business."
It was a strange, peaceful routine.
But in the Mafia, peace never lasts forever.
It was a Tuesday evening.
I was in the kitchen, checking the inventory, when Daniel walked in.
He had fully recovered from Arthur’s attack and was back to being Luca’s shadow.
But his face was pale.
“Where is he?” Daniel asked.
“In the library. Why?”
Daniel didn’t answer. He just walked past me.
I followed him.
When we entered the library, Luca was reading by the fire.
“Boss,” Daniel said.
Luca didn’t look up.
“What is it, Daniel?”
“We got a package delivered to the front gate.”
“Check it.”
“I did.”
Daniel hesitated.
“It’s a watch, Boss.”
Luca finally looked up.
He put his book down.
“Show me.”
Daniel placed a clear plastic evidence bag on the mahogany table.
Inside was a heavy, gold pocket watch.
It was cracked, stained with dried blood.
Luca stared at it.
His face drained of color.
“Where did this come from?” Luca’s voice was barely a whisper.
“A courier from New York.”
I stepped closer.
“Luca, what is it?”
He didn’t look at me.
“It’s my father’s watch. He was wearing it the night he disappeared twenty years ago.”
The room went completely silent.
Luca’s father hadn’t died. He had vanished.
And everyone assumed a rival family had taken him.
Luca slowly reached for the bag.
He opened it and pulled the heavy gold watch out.
He turned it over.
Engraved on the back were the initials: V.M.
Vincent Moretti.
But there was something else.
A small piece of paper folded and jammed into the broken hinge of the watch face.
Luca pulled it out.
He unfolded it.
He read it, and his hands began to shake.
“Luca,” I said, stepping next to him and touching his arm. “What does it say?”
He handed me the paper.
May you like
I read the messy, hurried handwriting.
He’s still alive. Come to New York.
