Chapter 3 - THE CHILD'S DRAWING
The silver watch sat on the leather desk blotter like an unexploded bomb.
I didn’t know much about the mafia.
I just cleaned their floors.
But even I knew that the New York Commission was the ultimate authority. They were the ones who kept the peace between the families.
If the murdered Don’s watch was found in Luca Moretti’s private safe, it wouldn’t just mean war.
It would mean an execution.
“They are framing you,” I said, my voice barely audible.
“Not they,” Luca corrected softly. He stared at the bloody watch, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle twitched in his cheek. “My brother.”
“Matteo?”
Luca nodded slowly. “Matteo was supposed to be in New York this week. Securing a real estate deal. Instead, he murdered the most powerful man on the East Coast, took a trophy, and had my fiancée plant it in my safe.”
The betrayal in the room was suffocating.
Vanessa. The woman wearing his ring.
Matteo. The brother who shared his blood.
They were working together to bury him.
“Why?” I asked.
“Because if I die, Matteo inherits the Chicago family,” Luca said, his voice turning to ice. “And Vanessa becomes the wife of the new Don. They are setting a trap. They planted the watch. The next step is tipping off the New York capos to search this estate.”
He looked at the grandfather clock.
11:15 P.M.
“If the New York crew is coming, they are already on their way,” Luca said.
He reached for the watch, wrapping it back in the black velvet.
Before he could put it in his pocket, a sharp, urgent knock rattled the study door.
Luca’s hand hovered over his desk drawer, where I knew he kept a weapon.
“Yes?”
The door opened.
Marcus, the massive, broad-shouldered head of security, stepped inside.
He looked tense.
“Sorry to interrupt, boss,” Marcus said, his eyes briefly flicking toward me before returning to Luca. “But you have a visitor.”
Luca frowned. “The party is over, Marcus. Send them away.”
“I can’t,” Marcus said, shifting his weight. “It’s your brother.”
The blood drained from my face.
Matteo was here.
He wasn’t in New York. He wasn’t hiding. He had walked right through the front door.
“He’s in the main foyer,” Marcus added. “He says he wanted to surprise you for the engagement.”
Luca’s expression instantly smoothed out.
The panic, the anger, the betrayal—all of it vanished, replaced by a terrifying, blank mask of control.
“Send him in.”
Marcus nodded and stepped back into the hall.
Luca looked at me.
“Emma. Do not speak. Do not look away. You are just a maid waiting for a reprimand.”
I nodded, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
I pressed my injured wrist tightly against my stomach.
A moment later, Matteo Moretti walked into the room.
He looked incredibly like Luca. Same dark hair, same sharp jawline.
But where Luca was quiet and restrained, Matteo moved with a loose, arrogant energy. He wore a tailored navy suit and a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
“Luca!” Matteo beamed, opening his arms. “Look at you. Almost a married man.”
Luca didn’t smile. He didn’t step out from behind the desk.
“Matteo. You’re supposed to be in Manhattan.”
“Finished the deal early,” Matteo lied smoothly, dropping his arms. He walked further into the room, his eyes scanning the space. He noted the open safe behind the painting.
His smile widened just a fraction.
He knew the watch was inside.
Then, Matteo’s gaze shifted to me.
He stopped.
He looked me up and down. The grey sweater. The jeans. The bandaged wrist.
“Well, well,” Matteo said softly. “I don’t believe we’ve formally met. I know all of Luca’s staff, but you must be new.”
“This is Emma,” Luca said coldly. “She had an accident in the kitchen. We were just discussing her severance.”
Matteo ignored his brother.
He walked slowly toward my chair.
Every step he took felt like a predator circling a cage.
He stopped right in front of me.
He reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket.
For a second, I thought he was pulling a gun.
I braced myself.
Instead, he pulled out a folded piece of paper.
He held it out to me.
My hands were shaking as I took it.
I unfolded it.
It was a piece of construction paper.
Colored with bright blue and red crayons.
A clumsy drawing of a house. A tree. And a little boy holding his mother’s hand.
In the top right corner, in messy, oversized letters, it read:
For Mommy. Love, Leo.
All the air rushed out of my lungs.
The room began to spin.
Leo. My six-year-old son.
I kept this drawing pinned to the corkboard inside my locker in the staff breakroom.
May you like
Matteo leaned down, his face inches from mine. He smelled of expensive cologne and cigarette smoke.
“Your son Leo is quite the artist, Emma,” Matteo whispered, his voice sending a chill straight down my spine. “He drew the house so perfectly. It would be a shame if anything happened to it tonight.”
