**THE MAFIA BOSS WATCHED ME SERVE HIS ENGAGEMENT DINNER WITH MY UNIFORM COLLAR TORN AND A RED MARK ACROSS MY NECK—THEN HIS FIANCÉE SAID, “SHE SNAGGED HER HUSBAND'S WEDDING RING ON A SHELF IN THE LINEN ROOM,” BEFORE HE EVEN ASKED WHY MY NECK WAS HURT.**

I stared at the Bellini crest on the heavy iron key.

"Mrs. Carter," I whispered, the realization hitting me like a physical blow. "She slipped this into my pocket when she hugged me at the apartment."

Luca stepped closer, his eyes locked on the key. "Why would my head housekeeper have a Bellini vault key?"

"Because Daniel threatened her grandchildren," I said, my mind racing. "He forced her to search my apartment for the rosary. But what if she found this key instead, and she knew Daniel would kill her if he got it?"

Luca’s expression darkened. "If this is a vault key, it means Vanessa didn't just want the rosary. There’s something else she was desperately trying to find. Something she thought Matthew had hidden."

The safety I had felt just moments ago evaporated. The Bellini family was broken, but their secrets were still surfacing.

"We need to ask her," I said, turning toward the door.

We found Mrs. Carter sitting in the grand kitchen, wrapped in a blanket, sipping tea while paramedics checked her blood pressure. She looked exhausted, but when she saw me holding the iron key, a profound relief washed over her face.

"You found it," she breathed, waving the paramedics away.

"Mrs. Carter, where did this come from?" I asked gently, kneeling beside her chair.

"It was taped to the bottom of the cardboard box Matthew mailed you," she explained, her voice trembling. "When Daniel forced his way into my apartment, I managed to peel the key off and hide it in my sleeve before he saw the box. I slipped it to you because I knew Daniel was going to kill us all once he had the rosary."

"Did Matthew leave a note with it?" Luca asked.

Mrs. Carter nodded slowly. "Just a small scrap of paper. It said: First National, Box 402. For Abby’s future."

My heart skipped a beat. A bank lockbox.

Two hours later, as the sun began to rise over the Chicago skyline, Luca and I stood in the quiet, marble-floored vault of the First National Bank downtown. Because of Luca’s immense influence, the bank manager had opened the vault early just for us.

I slid the heavy iron key into box 402.

Click.

I pulled the long metal drawer out and carried it to a private viewing table.

My hands were shaking. I expected to find more evidence. More ledgers. More proof of the mafia war that had consumed my husband.

I opened the lid.

There were no ledgers inside.

There was only a thick stack of faded, handwritten letters tied with a piece of twine. And resting on top of the letters was a small, worn leather journal.

I picked up the journal. It was Matthew’s. I recognized his messy, grease-smudged handwriting immediately.

I opened to the first page.

Abby, the entry began. If you are reading this, I didn't come home. I’m so sorry. I lied to you. But I lied to keep you safe.

Tears immediately blurred my vision. Luca stepped back, giving me privacy, but I shook my head.

"No," I said, my voice thick. "Stay. Please."

Luca moved to my side, his presence a quiet, grounding anchor.

I continued reading Matthew’s final words.

The Bellini family brought their car to my shop. I found their hidden compartment, just like I was supposed to. I found the rosary with the offshore accounts. But I didn't stumble onto it by accident, Abby. I was looking for it.

I frowned, wiping a tear away. "What does he mean, he was looking for it?"

I turned the page.

I wasn't just a mechanic, Abby. Before I met you, before I moved to Chicago, my name wasn't Matthew Foster. It was Matteo Moretti.

The journal slipped from my hands, hitting the metal table with a dull thud.

I couldn't breathe. I stared at the words, my mind violently rejecting what I was seeing.

I looked up at Luca.

Luca was staring at the journal, his face completely pale. He reached out with a trembling hand and traced the name Matteo Moretti on the page.

"Matteo," Luca whispered, his voice cracking. "My father's youngest brother. He vanished twenty years ago. The family assumed he was dead."

I looked back at the box. I picked up the stack of letters tied with twine.

They were letters from Luca’s father, sent to Matthew over the years. Letters begging him to come home. Letters promising to protect him from the violent life he had run away from.