THE MAKEUP BENEATH THE LIES

The silence in the study was absolute.

Luca stared at the photographer, his dark eyes entirely devoid of warmth. “She said if I ever discovered what she’d done.”

David Vance nodded nervously, clutching his camera bag. “Yes, sir.”

“What has she done?” Luca asked, his voice dropping into a dangerous, quiet register.

“I don't know, Mr. Moretti!” David stammered, shrinking back into his leather chair. “I swear. She just hired me for the photos. She paid me ten thousand dollars cash to shoot them, edit them, and hold them until she gave the signal to send them to the press.”

I sat frozen on the sofa, cradling my arm in the sling. The throbbing in my shoulder was nothing compared to the sickening realization of what Vanessa had planned. She wasn't just marrying a mafia boss; she was building a failsafe to destroy him, framing him for brutal domestic violence if he ever turned on her.

And she had used me as a physical prop to practice her violence.

Luca stood up slowly. He didn't yell. He didn't throw anything. He walked around his massive mahogany desk and stopped in front of the trembling photographer.

“You will give me the memory card,” Luca said softly.

David didn't hesitate. He popped the SD card out of the camera and handed it over, his fingers shaking.

“And you will not say a word of this to Vanessa, or the journalist, or anyone else,” Luca continued. “If I read so much as a blind item in the tabloids about my fiancée, I will know it came from you.”

“Not a word, sir. I swear on my life,” David whispered.

“Daniel,” Luca said, not raising his voice.

The heavy study doors opened instantly. The head of security stepped inside.

“Escort Mr. Collins to his car,” Luca ordered. “Make sure he leaves the property.”

Once the doors closed behind the terrified photographer, Luca turned back to me. He looked at my sling, the exhaustion in his eyes cracking his ruthless facade for just a fraction of a second.

“I am sorry she hurt you, Anna,” Luca said gently.

“It’s not your fault, sir,” I replied, looking down.

“It is my fault. She is in my house.” He walked over to a small crystal decanter and poured a measure of scotch, taking a slow sip. “She’s building an insurance policy. A preemptive alibi. People don't do that unless they know they are guilty of something that would get them killed.”

He looked out the dark window toward the front gates.

“I need to know what she’s hiding.”

“How?” I asked softly.

“By looking where she doesn't expect me to look,” Luca said. He turned to me. “She thinks you are just a frightened maid. She thinks she intimidated you into silence this afternoon.”

“She did,” I admitted, my voice shaking. “I have a little sister to support, Mr. Moretti. I can’t afford to cross her.”

“You won't cross her,” Luca promised. “But I need a favor, Anna.”

I looked up.

“Tomorrow morning, Vanessa is going to a final dress fitting downtown,” Luca explained. “She’ll be gone for three hours. I need you to clean her suite while she’s out.”

“The other maids clean her suite, sir.”

“I know,” Luca said. “But I don't trust the other maids. Vanessa tips them very well. I only trust the woman she threw against a wardrobe.”

He walked over and handed me a small, sleek black keycard.

“This bypasses her private safe in the dressing room,” Luca said. “I need you to open it and bring me whatever is inside. I will double your salary, and I will personally guarantee your safety and your sister’s.”

I stared at the keycard. This wasn't housekeeping. This was espionage against a woman who had already proven she was willing to destroy lives to protect herself.

But I thought about the way Vanessa had looked at me in the dining room. The casual cruelty. The absolute certainty that I was nothing more than property she could break.

I took the keycard with my good hand.

“I’ll do it,” I said.

The next morning, at exactly 9:15, Vanessa’s black town car pulled out of the estate gates.

I waited ten minutes to be sure she hadn't forgotten anything. Then, carrying a basket of fresh towels to hide the keycard, I walked down the plush, silent hallway of the east wing and entered her suite.

The room smelled strongly of her expensive jasmine perfume.

I walked straight past the massive four-poster bed and into her walk-in dressing room. It was larger than my entire apartment. Racks of designer clothes lined the walls.

The safe was hidden behind a full-length mirror, exactly where Luca said it would be.

I slid the mirror aside. I took a deep breath, swiped the black keycard, and waited for the green light.

Click.

The heavy steel door popped open.

Inside the safe, there was no jewelry. No cash.

There were only three items.

A thick manila folder. A burner cell phone. And a small, antique silver music box.

I reached for the manila folder first. I opened it, my eyes scanning the documents. They were bank statements, but not from American banks. They were offshore accounts in the Cayman Islands.

The name on the accounts wasn't Vanessa Bellini.

It was Eleanor Cole.

I frowned. I had never heard that name.

I picked up the burner phone and pressed the power button. It was locked with a passcode.

I reached for the final item—the antique silver music box. It was heavy, intricately carved with small, dancing figures. It looked entirely out of place among the cold financial documents.

I turned the small key on the side.

A fragile, melancholy tune began to play. It sounded familiar, like a lullaby I had heard a long time ago.

But as the cylinder turned, I noticed a tiny, perfectly straight seam running along the bottom of the silver box. It wasn't just a music box. It had a false bottom.

I pressed my thumbnail into the seam and popped the thin silver plate open.

A small, folded piece of paper fell out.

I picked it up and unfolded it.

It was a birth certificate.

Name: Leo Cole.

Date of Birth: August 14th, 2018.

Mother: Vanessa Cole.

Father: Unknown.

My heart stopped beating.

Vanessa had a son. An eight-year-old child she had kept entirely secret from Luca, the press, and the world.

But that wasn't what made the blood freeze in my veins.

I looked at the top corner of the birth certificate, where a small, official stamp from the hospital had been placed.

The hospital wasn't in Chicago. It wasn't even in Illinois.

It was a small, private clinic in Palermo, Sicily.

I knew that clinic. Every maid in the house knew about that clinic. It was the exact same clinic where Luca’s older brother, Alessandro Moretti, had died in a violent car bombing exactly eight years ago.