Chapter 6
The name dropped into the dining room like a live grenade.
Falcone.
The Falcone family wasn’t just a rival syndicate; they were the absolute, blood-sworn enemies of the Moretti organization. A war between the two families a decade ago had left Luca’s father dead and half the city’s shipping ports in ashes.
“Falcone,” Luca repeated. The word tasted like poison in his mouth.
Vanessa’s back hit the velvet wallpaper. Her manicured hands pressed flat against the wall, seeking an escape that didn’t exist. The red silk dress that had looked so triumphant an hour ago now looked like blood.
“Where did you get that?” Vanessa hissed at me, her mask completely shattered. She looked feral. “You little thief!”
“I’m not a thief,” I said, my voice steadying. The fear of her blackmail had evaporated the moment I saw the terror in her eyes. “I’m a housekeeper. I clean up messes. And you left a very big mess in the trash.”
Luca snatched the silver baby rattle from my hand. He gripped it so tightly his knuckles cracked. He walked slowly toward Vanessa, trapping her between the heavy oak buffet table and the wall.
“You were pregnant with a Falcone baby,” Luca said, the lethal calm in his voice returning. It was the voice of the man who ran Chicago’s underworld. “Which one, Vanessa? Was it Marco? Or was it his psychotic younger brother, Leo?”
Vanessa swallowed hard, her eyes darting toward the exits. The guards stationed at the doors had already quietly locked them.
“It doesn’t matter,” Vanessa choked out. “The baby died, Luca! It was years ago!”
“It matters,” Luca said, slamming his hand onto the buffet table beside her head. The fine china rattled violently. Vanessa jumped, whimpering. “Because you tried to plant a Falcone heir into my family. You tried to trick my brother into raising enemy blood. And when Catherine found out, you panicked.”
Margaret Ellis nodded slowly, her hands folded in front of her gray cardigan. “Catherine threatened to tell you, Luca. But Michael begged her not to. He was so ashamed. He broke off the engagement, but Vanessa wouldn’t let it go.”
“She blackmailed him,” I realized aloud.
Luca turned slightly to look at me, but his body remained blocking Vanessa. “With what?”
“With the police,” Vanessa spat, suddenly laughing—a jagged, hysterical sound. “You think your brother was so innocent? Michael was moving illegal weapons through the shipyard! I had the ledgers. I told him if he didn’t marry me, I’d hand the ledgers to the FBI. He would have spent thirty years in federal prison!”
The room murmured in shock. Luca didn’t flinch. He already knew about his family’s business. He just hadn’t known Vanessa held the knife.
“So he agreed to run away,” Luca deduced, the pieces rapidly assembling in his mind. “He bought the train tickets to Canada. He was going to disappear to protect the family from your blackmail.”
“Yes!” Vanessa cried, sensing a twisted kind of victory. “He was leaving! But your saintly wife couldn’t let him go. Catherine followed him that night. She got into his car to stop him. And she caused the crash! She grabbed the steering wheel, Luca! Catherine killed Michael, not me!”
Vanessa pointed a shaking finger at Luca’s chest. “You want someone to blame for your brother burning alive in that car? Blame the woman you’ve been mourning for three years!”
The dining room descended into absolute chaos. Guests were shouting. The uncle was demanding answers. Sophie had buried her face entirely into my apron, crying softly.
Luca stood perfectly still amid the noise. He looked at the tarnished silver baby rattle in his hand. Then he looked at Vanessa.
“Hannah,” Luca said over the noise. He didn’t shout, but his voice carried. “Yesterday, when you cleaned the library, did you find the black leather logbook I asked you to locate?”
I blinked, surprised by the sudden shift. “Yes, Mr. Moretti. The driver’s logbook from four years ago. I left it on your desk.”
“Go get it,” Luca commanded.
I didn’t hesitate. I released Sophie gently, trusting Margaret to hold her hand, and ran out of the dining room. I sprinted down the long, carpeted hallway to Luca’s study. My breath burned in my lungs. I burst through the heavy oak doors, ran to the massive mahogany desk, and grabbed the worn, black leather book sitting squarely on the blotter.
When I returned to the dining room, the silence had fallen again. It was a heavy, expectant quiet.
I handed the book to Luca.
Luca didn’t open it. He held it up so Vanessa could see it.
“My family has employed the same private driving service for forty years,” Luca said softly. “Every car leaving this estate is logged. The driver, the passengers, the time of departure, and the destination.”
Vanessa’s eyes locked onto the black book. A fresh wave of panic washed over her face.
“Michael’s car crashed at 11:45 PM on October 14th,” Luca said. He slowly flipped open the book. “Let’s see who was logged into his vehicle when it left the gates at 11:15 PM.”
“No,” Vanessa whispered.
Luca ran his finger down the yellowed page. He stopped. He looked up.
“Driver: Michael Moretti,” Luca read aloud, his voice devoid of all mercy. “Passenger…”
Luca closed the book with a sharp, definitive snap.
“Passenger: Vanessa Bellini.”
Vanessa let out a strangled cry and lunged forward, trying to grab the book. Luca stepped aside effortlessly, letting her stumble in her heavy silk dress.
“Catherine wasn’t in the car, Vanessa,” Luca said, his eyes burning with a cold, terrifying fire. “You were.”
“I got out!” Vanessa screamed, spinning around, her hair flying wildly. “I got out before the bridge! We were arguing! He pulled over and kicked me out!”
“Did he?” I asked.
Once again, the words slipped out before my brain could stop them. I looked at the table. I looked at the timeline.
“If he kicked you out before the crash,” I said, my voice cutting through the heavy air. “Then how did you get his silver pocket watch? The police didn’t find it under the seat, did they? You took it from him.”
Vanessa stared at me, sheer murder in her eyes. “You shut your mouth.”
“And there’s something else,” a small voice chimed in.
Everyone looked down.
Sophie had stepped out from behind Margaret. She was wiping her tear-stained cheeks with the back of her pajama sleeve. Her brown eyes were no longer frightened. They were furious.
The nine-year-old girl walked directly toward Vanessa.
“That’s not the only thing she took,” Sophie said clearly.
May you like
Sophie pointed a tiny finger at Vanessa’s silver clutch purse, which was resting on the dining table.
“That’s the purse Auntie Vanessa brought to our house three years ago,” Sophie said, her voice ringing like a bell. “The day Mommy fell down the stairs.”
