Chapter 3
The silence in the dining room became suffocating.
Sophie stood barefoot on the marble, extending the torn photograph toward her father. Luca didn’t take it immediately. He stared at his nine-year-old daughter, a muscle ticking violently in his jaw.
“Let me see that,” Vanessa demanded, her voice shrill. She took a step toward the child, her heels clicking aggressively on the floor.
Luca moved so fast it was a blur. He stood and stepped perfectly between Vanessa and his daughter, using his broad shoulders to completely shield Sophie from the woman in the red silk dress.
“Take one more step toward my child,” Luca said, his tone dead flat, “and you will never walk out of this house.”
Vanessa froze mid-stride, her mouth working but no sound coming out. The guests at the table were entirely motionless. Even the waitstaff had stopped breathing.
I rushed forward and wrapped my arms around Sophie’s small shoulders. The little girl leaned into my apron, shivering.
Luca gently took the photograph from Sophie’s trembling fingers.
He stared at it. The color seemed to drain from his olive skin.
It was a Polaroid, yellowed at the edges. It had been torn in half, right down the middle, so violently that the edges were jagged. The picture showed Michael Moretti—Luca’s younger brother, who had died in a fiery car crash four years ago. Michael was standing on the back patio of this very mansion, his face pale and angry.
And standing next to him, clearly visible despite the tear, was Vanessa.
She was younger, her hair styled differently, but there was no mistaking her face. Nor was there any mistaking what Michael was doing. He was holding up a diamond engagement ring on a gold chain, shoving it back toward Vanessa’s chest.
But that wasn’t what had caused the breath to leave Luca’s lungs.
Around Vanessa’s neck, resting against her collarbone in the photograph, was a heavy, unmistakable emerald pendant surrounded by crushed diamonds.
“The Visconti Emerald,” Luca whispered.
My stomach plummeted. I knew about that necklace. Everyone who worked in the mansion did. It was a Moretti family heirloom, given to Catherine on her wedding day. When Catherine died three years ago, the necklace had vanished. Luca had torn the house apart looking for it, believing it had been stolen by the paramedics or the police who responded to her fatal fall down the stairs.
“Vanessa,” Luca said, his eyes glued to the photo. “Why are you wearing my dead wife’s emerald?”
Vanessa was panting now, looking around the room like a trapped animal. “It’s a fake! It’s a costume piece I bought at a mall! It just looks like Catherine’s!”
“Catherine’s necklace had a flaw in the center stone,” Luca said, holding the photograph closer to the chandelier’s light. “A tiny carbon inclusion shaped like a crescent moon. I can see it in this picture.”
He slowly lowered the photo and looked at the woman he was supposed to marry in two weeks.
“You told me you never met Michael,” Luca repeated, the danger in his voice escalating. “But here you are, fighting with him. You told me you never met Catherine. But here you are, wearing the necklace she never took off.”
Vanessa crossed her arms, her chest heaving. “Fine! Fine, Luca! I met Michael! We dated for a few months. It was nothing serious! And Catherine let me try on her jewelry once. Is that a crime? I didn't tell you because I knew you’d be weird about it!”
It was an escalation, a desperate pivot. But it was sloppy.
“Nothing serious?” Margaret’s frail voice cut through the tension. The elderly seamstress stepped forward, refusing to be silenced. “He brought you to my shop to fit a wedding dress. And in this photograph, he’s handing back your ring.”
“People break up, you old bat!” Vanessa shrieked.
“They do,” Luca agreed softly. “But Michael didn’t just break up with you, Vanessa. He canceled the wedding, emptied his bank accounts, and drove his car off a bridge a week later. And a year after that, my wife fell down a flight of stairs and died while investigating his death.”
Vanessa backed away, hitting the edge of the dining table. Silverware clattered. “You think I had something to do with that? Catherine tripped! The police ruled it an accident!”
“I never told you Catherine was investigating Michael’s death,” Luca said smoothly.
Vanessa’s mouth clamped shut. Her eyes darted wildly. She had trapped herself.
I squeezed Sophie’s shoulders, wanting to pull her out of the room, but the little girl wouldn’t budge. She was staring at the back of the torn photograph in her father’s hand.
“Daddy,” Sophie whispered. “Turn the picture over.”
Luca frowned. He flipped the Polaroid.
Taped to the back of the photograph, folded neatly in half, was a small, faded piece of heavy paper.
Luca pulled it free. As he unfolded it, I recognized the distinct blue-and-white logo. It was a train ticket.
“Amtrak,” Luca read aloud, his brow furrowing. “Chicago to Montreal. Two passengers. One-way.”
He looked at the date stamped in red ink across the top of the ticket.
I saw his entire body go rigid. His shoulders locked. The photograph slipped from his fingers and fluttered to the marble floor.
“Mr. Moretti?” I asked softly.
Luca didn’t look at me. He stared directly at Vanessa, his eyes completely hollowed out by a sudden, devastating realization.
“This ticket,” Luca said, his voice dropping to a terrifying whisper, “is dated October 14th.”
Vanessa pressed her hands over her mouth.
I didn’t understand the significance of the date. But the guests at the table did. Several of them gasped. An older man at the end of the table—Luca’s uncle—stood up, knocking his chair backward.
“Luca,” the older man said hoarsely. “That’s the night Michael died.”
Luca stepped slowly toward Vanessa. “My brother wasn’t driving around aimlessly that night. He was going to the train station. He had two tickets to Canada. He was trying to run away.”
Luca stopped inches from Vanessa.
“Who was the second ticket for, Vanessa? Because it clearly wasn’t for you.”
Vanessa’s back was arched over the dining table, her red silk dress pooling around her. She was out of lies. She looked at Luca, then looked at me, her eyes settling on my face with absolute venom.
“You want to know who he was running away with?” Vanessa spat, her voice echoing off the high ceilings. “Fine. But before I tell you, you better look at what your precious housekeeper is hiding in her apron pocket.”
My blood ran cold.
Every eye in the room turned to me.
“Hannah?” Luca asked, confusion breaking through his anger.
Vanessa pointed a shaking finger at my waist. “Show him, Hannah! Show him what you stole from Catherine’s cedar chest before you brought this garbage down here!”
I felt sick. My hand hovered over my apron pocket. I hadn't stolen anything. I had kept one item hidden because it made no sense, because I didn't want to hurt Luca further.
But Vanessa had seen me looking at it yesterday.
Trembling, I reached into my pocket and pulled out a heavy, tarnished silver object. It caught the chandelier’s light.
“What is that?” Luca demanded.
I couldn’t speak. I just held it out.
It was an expensive, custom-engraved silver pocket watch. The glass face was cracked, the casing dented as if it had been in a terrible crash.
Luca walked over and took it from my hand. He flipped it over, reading the engraving on the back. He stumbled backward, as if he’d been physically struck.
“This is my watch,” Luca whispered. “The one I gave Catherine for our anniversary. The one she lost.”
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Vanessa let out a sharp, cruel bark of laughter.
“She didn’t lose it, Luca,” Vanessa sneered. “The police pulled it out of the wreckage of Michael’s car. Catherine was in the car with him that night. She’s the one who killed him.”
