Chapter 2 - THE CHILD’S DRAWING
The heavy oak doors of the dining room clicked shut, the sound echoing like a gunshot through the sudden, suffocating silence.
Thirty wealthy guests, dressed in designer gowns and tailored suits, sat perfectly still. The waitstaff stopped breathing. Even the string quartet in the corner lowered their instruments.
Luca Moretti stood at the head of the long mahogany table, the missing-wheel red toy car still gripped tightly in his massive hand. He didn't look at the armed security guards blocking the exits. He didn't look at me, the housekeeper who had just detonated his engagement dinner.
He looked only at the woman in the champagne-colored dress.
“I’m going to ask you one more time,” Luca said, his voice dropping to a terrifying, deadly calm. “Why did Margaret call you Victoria?”
Vanessa—or Victoria—swallowed hard. Her perfectly manicured hands gripped the edge of the table so tightly her knuckles turned white. “Luca, please. You’re scaring people. Let’s go into your study.”
“No.” Luca took a slow step toward her. “For three years, you told me your family was from Milan. You told me you moved to Chicago in your twenties. But this woman just said you used to visit my house. When I was a little boy.”
He stopped inches from her.
“Who are you?” he whispered.
Vanessa’s eyes darted toward the far end of the table, specifically toward a man in a charcoal suit. Carlo Moretti. Luca’s uncle, his consigliere, and the man who had raised him since his father supposedly died in a car crash thirty years ago. Carlo was swirling a glass of scotch, his face an unreadable mask.
“She’s a liar,” Vanessa finally choked out, pointing a trembling finger at Margaret. “She’s just a crazy old woman trying to extort you!”
I couldn't stay quiet. My heart was hammering against my ribs, but my voice came out remarkably steady. “She didn't ask for money, Miss Bellini. She brought a homemade vanilla cake.”
Vanessa spun toward me, her eyes flashing with pure venom. “Shut your mouth, Emma! You’re a useless little maid, and you’re fired! Get out of this house!”
“Nobody moves,” Luca commanded, not taking his eyes off his fiancée. He reached out and grabbed her wrist, not hard enough to bruise, but firm enough to trap her. “Prove it, Victoria.”
Vanessa flinched at the name. “Prove what?”
“Prove she’s lying,” Luca said. “Tell me the name of the street I grew up on.”
Vanessa opened her mouth, but nothing came out.
Margaret Ellis stepped forward, her worn brown coat rustling in the quiet room. She looked small amidst the opulence of the Chicago mansion, but she carried an undeniable, grounded dignity.
“You can't lie your way out of this, Victoria,” Margaret said softly. “Not anymore.”
Margaret reached into her frayed leather purse. The guests leaned in, some looking terrified, others captivated by the implosion of the city’s most feared family.
Instead of a weapon or a document, Margaret pulled out a piece of folded, yellowed construction paper. She handed it to me.
“Emma,” Margaret said, her voice shaking with unshed tears. “Would you please open that and show it to him?”
I took the paper. It felt fragile, brittle with age. I carefully unfolded it and held it up under the crystal chandelier.
It was a child’s drawing, done in heavy, waxy crayons. It showed a yellow house with a bright green lawn. In the front yard stood two stick figures. A little boy with black hair, and a slightly taller girl with blonde hair.
But it was the clumsy handwriting at the bottom that made the breath catch in my throat.
To Anthony. From your best friend, Victoria.
I turned the drawing so Luca could see it.
The color drained entirely from the mafia boss’s face. He let go of Vanessa’s wrist and took a stumbling step backward. He stared at the drawing, a memory violently clawing its way to the surface of his mind.
“We used to play in the sprinkler,” Luca whispered, staring at the paper. “You had a pink bathing suit.”
Vanessa broke down. Tears ruined her immaculate makeup as she sank into her dining chair, burying her face in her hands.
The first discovery hit me like a physical blow. Vanessa hadn't just met Luca three years ago at a charity gala. She had known him his entire life. Their entire romance, their engagement, the wedding we had spent six months planning—it was all a carefully constructed theater.
“Why?” Luca asked, his voice breaking. The feared syndicate leader suddenly sounded like a lost six-year-old boy. “If we were friends... if you knew who I was... why did you pretend to meet me as a stranger?”
Vanessa looked up, her mascara streaking her cheeks. “Because my mother didn't just know you, Luca. She didn't just visit.”
She took a shuddering breath, looking over at Carlo, who had finally stopped swirling his scotch.
“My mother is the one who paid Carlo to take you away.”
The room erupted into gasps. Luca’s head snapped toward his uncle.
But Margaret wasn't finished. She reached into her pocket again, pulling out a heavy, tarnished silver pocket watch.
May you like
“Your mother didn't pay to have him taken, Victoria,” Margaret said, her voice cutting through the chaos. She held the watch out to Luca. “She paid to have his real father killed. And the man who pulled the trigger dropped this in my kitchen.”
Luca slowly opened the silver watch. Inside, staring back at him, was a photograph of Carlo Moretti.
