Chapter 5 - THE COAT FROM THE WINTER OF EXILE
The words hit me like a physical blow.
Marcus Bellini says Emma is his daughter.
"That's impossible," I stammered, stumbling backward until my spine hit the edge of a bookshelf. "My father was a mechanic. He died of a heart attack when I was a baby. My mother raised me alone."
Luca didn't look at me. He looked at Daniel.
"Secure the perimeter. Nobody gets inside the house. If Bellini's men draw a weapon, put them down."
"Yes, sir," Daniel said, turning on his heel and sprinting down the hallway.
Luca turned to me. His eyes were scanning my face, looking at my features in a way he never had before.
"Emma," Luca said softly. "How old are you?"
"Twenty-eight," I whispered.
Exactly the age of the child on the birth certificate we had just found.
Luca pulled the antique watch from his pocket. He stared at the yellowed paper, then at me.
"Maria Moretti," Luca said, piecing it together with terrifying speed. "My aunt fell in love with a rival. My father banished her."
He stepped closer to me.
"Marcus Bellini is the rival," Luca breathed. "Maria fell in love with Marcus before he became the head of his family. She got pregnant. My father forced her into exile to prevent the child from uniting the two syndicates. He told everyone she died."
My head was spinning. The room tilted.
"No," I cried, shaking my head violently. "My mother is Sarah Sullivan. She's a retired nurse. She has asthma. She likes crossword puzzles. She is not a mafia princess."
"Are you sure?" Luca asked gently.
He walked over to a heavy oak wardrobe in the corner of the study. He unlocked it with a brass key from his desk.
Inside hung several expensive suits, but pushed to the far end was a heavy, moth-eaten wool coat. It was a woman’s coat. Deep burgundy, vintage, and incredibly small.
Luca pulled it out and laid it over the leather armchair.
"When my father died," Luca explained, his voice thick with emotion, "I went through his private safe. This coat was the only thing inside. He kept it hidden for thirty years. He told me it belonged to the sister he lost."
I stared at the coat.
"Check the left pocket, Emma."
My hands were trembling so violently I could barely lift my arm. I reached into the deep, velvet-lined pocket of the burgundy wool.
My fingers brushed against something hard.
I pulled it out.
It was a small, silver rosary.
But it wasn't just any rosary. The crucifix was missing the left arm of the cross.
I stopped breathing.
When I was seven years old, I had fallen out of an apple tree and broken my arm. I spent three days in the hospital. Every single night, my mother had sat beside my bed, holding my good hand, praying with a silver rosary that was missing the left arm of the cross. She told me it was a reminder that even broken things could hold faith.
"She still has it," I whispered, tears suddenly spilling over my cheeks. "She keeps it in her nightstand."
Luca let out a long, heavy breath.
"Sarah Sullivan is Maria Moretti," Luca said softly. "Which means you aren't just my housekeeper, Emma. You are my cousin. You are a Moretti."
I collapsed into the armchair, burying my face in my hands. My entire life had been a lie. Our poverty, our isolation, my mother's constant fear of the police—it wasn't because we were poor. It was because she was hiding me from the most dangerous men in Chicago.
Suddenly, a gunshot echoed from the front lawn.
The glass of the study window shattered, sending crystal shards raining across the Persian rug.
Luca grabbed me by the shoulders and dragged me to the floor behind his heavy desk.
"They aren't here to negotiate," Luca growled, pulling a heavy Glock from a hidden holster under his desk.
"Why does Marcus want me?" I sobbed, pressing my hands over my ears. "If I'm his daughter, why is he shooting at us?"
"Because," a voice sneered from the doorway.
We looked up.
Vanessa stood there. She held a small, silver pistol in her manicured hands, pointing it directly at Luca’s chest. Her mascara was smeared, and her designer dress was torn, but her eyes were cold and perfectly clear.
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"Because, Emma," Vanessa smiled, stepping into the room over the shattered glass. "My father doesn't want a long-lost daughter. He wants the Moretti bloodline wiped out completely. And you're the last loose end."
TITLE: THE PHOTOGRAPH IN THE FIREPLACE
