Chapter 2 - THE COURTHOUSE PHOTOGRAPH
Luca’s study became so quiet I could hear the antique grandfather clock ticking in the corner.
He didn't yell. He didn't throw his phone.
He simply stared at me, his dark eyes entirely unreadable.
“A marriage license office,” he repeated, his voice barely a whisper.
“Yes, sir.”
I clutched my hands together in my lap, my knuckles turning white. My left knee throbbed with a dull, sickening heat, but I barely felt it anymore. The fear of what I had just unleashed overshadowed physical pain.
“Hannah,” Luca said slowly. “Do you still have this photograph?”
I swallowed hard. “Yes.”
“Where is it?”
I reached into the deep pocket of my black housekeeping apron. My fingers trembled as I pulled out the crumpled white envelope. I had hidden it there the moment Vanessa pushed me on the stairs, terrified she would realize I had seen its contents.
I placed it on the heavy mahogany desk.
Luca didn't hesitate. He reached across the polished wood and slid the photograph out.
I watched his face. I expected rage. I expected the legendary temper of the Chicago syndicate’s most feared man.
Instead, all the color drained from his skin.
He stared at the glossy image. Then, he sank back into his leather chair, his chest rising and falling in sharp, jagged breaths.
“Mr. Moretti?” I whispered.
He didn't look at me. He just slid the photograph across the desk so it was facing me.
“Look closer, Hannah.”
I leaned forward. I had only glanced at the photo for a second before Vanessa had attacked me. Now, under the bright glow of the desk lamp, I saw the details I had missed.
Vanessa was walking down the courthouse steps. Michael Dawson, Luca’s best friend, was walking beside her.
But they weren't holding each other's hands.
Michael was holding the hand of a little girl.
She looked about seven years old, wearing a yellow sundress. She was staring at the ground, looking terrified.
“Who is that?” I asked, my heart skipping a beat.
“That,” Luca said, his voice dropping to a dangerous octave, “is my niece. Lily.”
The room spun.
“Your sister Rebecca’s daughter?”
Luca nodded, his jaw clenched so tightly a muscle ticked beneath his skin.
“Rebecca told me six months ago she was taking Lily to Europe to get away from the family business,” Luca said flatly. “She cut all contact. I thought she was finally safe. I thought she was in Paris.”
I stared at the little girl in the photo.
“Answer one question, open two,” Luca muttered to himself, rubbing his temples.
He had figured out Vanessa and Michael were working together. But now, a massive, horrifying question had replaced the first: Why did Michael have Luca’s niece at a courthouse in Chicago last Thursday?
And where was Rebecca?
Luca picked up his phone. He didn't call his security chief. He opened his private contacts and dialed the number he hadn't been able to reach in six months.
His sister’s number.
He put it on speaker.
The line rang. Once. Twice.
My breath caught in my throat.
“Hello?”
It wasn't a woman's voice.
It was a man’s voice. Familiar. Smooth. But edged with panic.
Luca froze. “Michael.”
A heavy silence fell over the line.
“Luca,” Michael Dawson finally said. “I can explain.”
“You have my sister's phone,” Luca said, his tone devoid of all emotion. “And you have my niece.”
“Luca, you have to listen to me. Whatever Vanessa told you, it’s a lie. She’s completely out of control.”
“Where is Rebecca?”
“She’s safe,” Michael insisted, though his voice shook. “But you have to call off the engagement. Tonight. If you marry Vanessa tomorrow, you’ll never see your sister or Lily again.”
Luca stood up, bracing his hands on the desk.
“If you touch one hair on that little girl's head, Michael, I will burn your entire life to the ground.”
“I’m trying to protect them from her!” Michael shouted. “Vanessa doesn't want your ring, Luca. She wants—”
The sound of glass shattering echoed through the speaker.
Michael cursed. A scuffle broke out on the other end of the line.
“Michael?!” Luca barked.
I heard a heavy thud, followed by the sound of a door being kicked open.
Then, a new voice came through the speaker.
A cold, dead voice.
May you like
“Stop digging, Mr. Moretti. Or the little girl pays the price.”
The line went dead.
