THE NOTE THAT BROKE THE ENGAGEMENT

The rain hammered against the roof of the SUV as Luca stared at me, the silver pocket watch heavy in his palm.

“Your father?” Luca repeated, the words tasting foreign on his tongue.

“Yes,” I insisted, clutching Sam’s arm in the backseat. “My mother told me my father died in a car accident before I was born. She said that watch was the only thing she had left of him.”

Luca looked down at the engraved initials on the back of the silver casing. A.M.

Antonio Moretti.

“Emily,” Luca said, his voice dropping to a harsh, pained whisper. “This isn't your father’s watch. And my father didn't die in a car accident.”

The implication hung in the damp air, terrifying and impossible. My mother hadn't just been his accountant. She had possessed the watch of a murdered mafia boss—a watch she claimed belonged to the man she loved.

“We can't stay here,” Luca decided, shoving the watch into his pocket. He turned to the bleeding thug on the ground. “Tell Vanessa that if she comes near this family again, I won't just cancel the wedding. I’ll burn her father’s empire to ash.”

Luca climbed into the driver’s seat and floored the accelerator. We left the alley behind, speeding toward the north side of the city.

“Where are we going?” Sam asked, his voice shaking. He was staring at Luca’s tactical vest and the gun resting on the center console.

“To a safe house,” Luca replied, his eyes checking the rearview mirror every few seconds. “A place the Bellinis don't know about.”

“Mr. Moretti,” I started, my mind spinning with the revelation of the watch.

“Luca,” he corrected softly, glancing at me. “You don't have to call me Mr. Moretti anymore, Emily.”

“Luca,” I swallowed hard. “If my mother lied about the watch, what else did she lie about?”

“That’s what we need to find out,” he said. “When your mother died, did she leave you anything else? Any boxes, documents, safety deposit keys?”

I thought desperately. “We were broke. We had nothing. Everything she owned fit into one closet. After she passed, I kept her necklace, the watch, and...”

I stopped.

“And what?” Luca pressed.

“Her old winter coat,” I remembered. “It’s a heavy, ugly wool coat. She never let me throw it away. She made me promise to keep it. It’s in the trunk of my Corolla, parked at the estate.”

Luca slammed his hand against the steering wheel. “We left it at the house. And the house is currently crawling with my uncle’s loyalists.”

“We have to go back for it,” I said firmly. “If there’s a clue in that coat, it’s the only way to prove what Frank and the Bellinis did.”

Luca looked at me, surprised by my sudden resolve. The scared maid was gone. I was fighting for my mother’s legacy now.

“It’s too dangerous,” Luca said. “Frank will have men watching the employee parking lot.”

“I know a blind spot,” I countered. “The security cameras near the kitchen loading dock have been broken for two weeks. I reported it to the maintenance staff, but they never fixed it. If we park a block away, I can slip in, pop the trunk, and get the coat before anyone sees me.”

Luca’s jaw tightened. “I’m not letting you walk back into a war zone alone.”

“I won't be alone,” I said, looking at him. “You’ll be right behind me.”

An hour later, we parked in a dark residential street a few blocks from the Moretti mansion. Sam was instructed to lock the doors and hide in the floorboards.

Luca and I moved through the shadows of the manicured hedges. The rain had stopped, leaving a heavy fog rolling over the estate grounds.

We slipped past the iron gates and approached the loading dock. True to my word, the area was unlit and unguarded. My faded blue Corolla sat exactly where I had parked it twelve hours ago.

I pulled my keys from my apron and unlocked the trunk as quietly as possible.

I pushed aside a pile of reusable grocery bags and grabbed the heavy, gray wool coat.

“I have it,” I whispered.

Luca stepped closer, pulling a small tactical flashlight from his vest. He shined the beam over the fabric.

“Feel the lining,” he instructed.

I ran my hands over the thick wool. The shoulders felt normal. The sleeves were empty. But as my fingers traced the bottom hem, I felt something hard and stiff sewn inside the fabric.

“There’s something here,” I gasped.

Luca handed me a small pocket knife. I carefully sliced the seam of the lining.

I reached inside and pulled out a small, flat, waterproof pouch.

Inside the pouch was a rusted brass safety deposit key, and a folded piece of paper.

I opened the paper under the beam of Luca’s flashlight.

It was a birth certificate.

But it wasn't mine.

It was a birth certificate for a boy, born thirty-four years ago. The father listed was Antonio Moretti. The mother listed was Margaret Carter.

I stopped breathing.

“Luca,” I whispered, looking up at the man standing beside me.

Luca stared at the paper. The pieces of the puzzle slammed together with devastating force.

My mother hadn't been Antonio’s mistress.