THE PHOTOGRAPH IN THE VELVET CLUTCH

Three months later.

The foundation was thriving. I had moved out of my cramped apartment in Little Village and into a beautiful, sunlit suite in the west wing of the Moretti estate.

My brother Sam’s nursing school tuition was fully paid for, and he visited every Sunday for dinner.

Life had become a beautiful, peaceful routine.

I sat at the mahogany desk in my new office, reviewing the final blueprints for the new wing of the foster agency.

The door clicked open, and Luca walked in.

Every time I saw him, my heart still did a familiar little flutter. Our relationship had grown slowly, carefully, built on a foundation of profound mutual respect and an undeniable, magnetic pull. We hadn't rushed into anything formal, but the way he looked at me, the way he touched my hand when we passed in the halls—it was a promise.

“You’re working late,” Luca said, leaning against the doorframe, looking devastatingly handsome in his open-collared black shirt.

“Just finishing the budget for the new playground,” I smiled, closing the file folder.

Luca walked over and sat on the edge of my desk. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, flat jeweler's envelope.

“I got you something,” he said quietly.

I looked at the envelope. “Luca, you already gave me the job of a lifetime. You don't have to keep buying me things.”

“This isn't a gift,” he said, his expression turning serious. “I found this in the Bellini family lockbox after the Commission seized Carlo’s assets last week. It was inside an envelope with your mother’s name on it.”

My smile vanished entirely.

“My mother?” I repeated, my voice dropping to a whisper.

My mother had died of a sudden illness when I was ten years old. She had been a hardworking, quiet woman who cleaned offices downtown. She had absolutely no connection to the mafia.

I reached out with trembling hands and opened the envelope.

Inside was a delicate, vintage gold necklace with a small locket.

And tucked behind the necklace was a single, folded piece of paper. A birth certificate.

I unfolded the paper.

My name was at the top. Emily Parker.

But down at the bottom, listed under the father’s name, was a signature I had seen on dozens of old documents in the estate archives.

I stopped breathing.

“Luca,” I whispered, looking up at him in sheer terror.

Luca’s face was unreadable. He placed his hand gently over mine.