THE SECRET BENEATH THE SUITCASE

I stared at the shattered face of the silver watch, the metal cold against my palm.

A.M.

Alessandro Moretti.

“Your daddy gave this to you?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. I didn’t want to scare him, but the walls of the room felt like they were suddenly closing in on me.

Oliver nodded, kicking his feet nervously against the heavy wooden bedframe. “He told me to keep it hidden. He said it was a secret, just for us.”

My mind raced, struggling to piece together a reality that felt impossible. Alessandro Moretti had died three years ago. He was famously unmarried, a reckless bachelor who played fast and loose with the family business until a rival car bomb ended his life.

But if Alessandro was Oliver’s father, that meant the boy sitting on this bed wasn't just Vanessa Bellini’s hidden shame.

He was a Moretti.

He was Luca’s nephew. And by the old rules of the syndicate, he was the rightful heir to the entire empire.

“Oliver,” I said softly, setting the watch back into his small hands. “Did your mommy know your daddy gave this to you?”

The boy shook his head violently. “No! Daddy said never to tell her. He said Mommy didn't like his family. He only came to visit me at Grandma’s house when Mommy wasn't there.”

I felt sick. Vanessa hadn't just hidden her child from Luca. She had hidden the child of his dead brother. She had deliberately kept the heir to the Moretti family isolated in the country, planning to marry Luca and secure the empire for herself, while keeping the true bloodline locked away.

I stood up. My bruised wrist throbbed, but the adrenaline rushing through my veins drowned it out.

“Stay right here, sweetheart,” I told him, forcing a reassuring smile. “I’m going to go get you that macaroni and cheese.”

I rushed out of the room. Daniel looked at me questioningly, but I didn't stop to explain. I practically ran down the grand staircase, ignoring the confused stares of the remaining catering staff cleaning up the ruined engagement dinner.

I had to tell Luca.

I reached the study doors and pushed them open without knocking.

Luca wasn't alone.

He was standing by the desk, pouring two glasses of scotch. Sitting in the heavy leather armchair across from him was Marco, the family’s consigliere and Luca’s most trusted advisor. Marco was an older man with silver hair and sharp, assessing eyes.

“Emma,” Luca said, frowning slightly at my sudden entrance. “I told you to have your arm wrapped.”

“Sir, I need to speak with you,” I said, breathing heavily. “Right now. It’s about Oliver.”

Marco stood up slowly, adjusting his tailored suit jacket. “The boy is being handled, Emma. You can return to your duties.”

“I’m not talking to you, Marco,” I said, stepping further into the room. I looked directly at Luca. “Please. You need to see what he has in his suitcase.”

Luca set the scotch decanter down. He studied my face, seeing the sheer panic in my eyes.

“Marco, give us a minute,” Luca said.

The consigliere didn't move immediately. His eyes flicked to me, a flash of something dangerous crossing his expression before it was smoothed over by practiced calm.

“Of course, Boss,” Marco said smoothly. He walked toward the door, pausing just slightly as he passed me. “Don’t upset him, Emma. It’s been a long night.”

The heavy doors clicked shut behind him.

“What is it?” Luca asked, crossing the room to stand in front of me.

“Oliver has a pocket watch,” I said, the words tumbling out in a rush. “A silver one. The glass is broken. It has the initials A.M. engraved on the back.”

Luca went completely still. All the color drained from his face, leaving his skin ashen.

“Where did he get it?” Luca whispered.

“He said his daddy gave it to him,” I answered, tears welling in my eyes at the profound grief instantly breaking over Luca’s face. “Before the fire.”

Luca took a step back, hitting the edge of the mahogany desk. He gripped the wood so hard his knuckles turned white.

“Alessandro,” he breathed.

“He’s your nephew, Luca,” I said softly.

For a moment, the untouchable crime boss looked like he couldn't breathe. Three years of mourning a brother he thought had died childless, only to find the boy practically delivered to his front door by the woman he was supposed to marry.

Suddenly, Luca pushed past me, throwing the study doors open. He didn't run, but his long strides ate up the distance down the hallway toward the east wing. I followed closely behind him.

When we reached the guest suite, Daniel was lying unconscious on the floor.

“Daniel!” Luca shouted, dropping to his knees. The guard was breathing, but a nasty welt was rising on the back of his head.

Luca didn't wait. He threw the bedroom door open.

The room was empty.

The bed was unmade. The cardboard suitcase was gone. And the massive window leading out to the second-floor balcony was wide open, the curtains blowing wildly in the cold night wind.

“Oliver!” Luca roared, running to the balcony.

I looked down at the floor near the window. Lying on the Persian rug, abandoned in the struggle, was the blue crayon drawing.

But someone had stepped on it.

There was a fresh, muddy footprint directly over the picture of the little boy.

And it wasn't a woman’s shoe. It was a man’s heavy dress shoe.