Chapter 6 - THE LOCKED DRAWER IN THE DARK
The hallway leading to Lorenzo Moretti’s private study was cold.
The heavy velvet curtains were drawn tight against the storm, and the only light came from the occasional flash of lightning illuminating the antique portraits on the walls.
Teresa stayed behind in the parlor, too exhausted and terrified to walk down this hallway.
It was just Luca and me.
He held the silver key in his hand, his thumb rubbing the tarnished number 402.
“He never let anyone in here,” Luca muttered as we reached the heavy mahogany double doors at the end of the hall. “Not even my mother. This was his sanctuary.”
I stood a few feet behind him, still trying to process everything that had happened. My mother’s surgery was paid for. My job was secure. But the Moretti family was crumbling before my eyes, and somehow, I was standing in the middle of the rubble.
Luca inserted a brass key into the door and pushed it open.
The room smelled of old paper, leather, and stale cigar smoke.
It looked exactly as it had four years ago. Nobody had dared to clean it. A thick layer of dust coated the massive oak desk in the center of the room. Bookshelves lined the walls, filled with legal binders and old ledgers.
Luca walked slowly toward the desk.
He traced his fingers over the dusty leather blotter.
“I hated him for so long,” Luca whispered. “I spent fourteen years building my own life in New York because I thought he didn’t want me. And all this time, Michael was pulling the strings.”
“Your father never stopped loving you,” I said quietly.
Luca turned to look at me.
“How do you know that, Hannah?”
“Because of how your mother talks about him. A man who didn’t love his son wouldn’t ask his wife to keep a wooden box of letters safe for four years. Even if his brother forged them… your father’s grief was real. Your mother felt it.”
Luca swallowed hard.
He looked down at the locked bottom drawer of the desk.
He knelt down, taking a deep breath, and slid the silver key into the keyhole.
It turned with a loud, metallic click.
Luca pulled the heavy drawer open.
Inside, there was no money. There were no offshore bank statements.
There were only three items.
A worn wooden rosary.
A sealed manila envelope.
And a small, framed child’s drawing of a boat.
Luca stared at the drawing. His tough, hardened exterior completely broke. His hand trembled as he reached out and touched the faded crayon lines.
“I drew this for him when I was seven,” Luca choked out, a single tear escaping down his cheek. “We went fishing on Lake Michigan. It was the only time he ever took a day off work.”
He picked up the wooden rosary.
“He was holding this the day I left,” Luca whispered. “I yelled at him. I told him he was a monster for the things he did for the family. He just sat there, holding these beads, and let me walk out.”
I stepped closer, feeling an overwhelming wave of sadness for this powerful man who had lost so much time.
Then, Luca picked up the sealed manila envelope.
Written on the front in bold, black ink were two words.
MY WILL.
Luca stood up. He walked over to the brass desk lamp and clicked it on.
He ripped the envelope open and pulled out the thick stack of legal documents.
He read the first page.
Then the second.
His eyes scanned the dense legal jargon, his brow furrowing deeper and deeper with every paragraph.
“Michael lied,” Luca said, his voice laced with confusion.
“What does it say?” I asked.
“Michael said Uncle Vincent forged a new will to take over the family. But this isn’t forged. It’s notarized by our family lawyer. It’s completely authentic.”
Luca turned to the final page.
He stopped breathing.
“Mr. Moretti?” I asked, stepping closer. “What is it?”
Luca handed the paper to me.
I looked at the signature at the bottom. Lorenzo Moretti.
Then I read the paragraph above it.
To my son, Michael, I leave the sum of one million dollars and the residential properties in South Chicago.
To my brother, Vincent, I leave absolutely nothing. Should he ever return to this city, he is to be treated as an enemy of this family.
And to my eldest son, Luca, I leave the entirety of the Moretti Syndicate, all legitimate business holdings, and the responsibility of protecting his mother.
I looked up. “He left everything to you. The legitimate business, the properties, everything. So why was Michael so confident that Uncle Vincent owned it all?”
Luca snatched the paper back, his eyes darting across the lines again.
“Because Michael didn’t know this will existed,” Luca realized. “He thought Uncle Vincent’s forged will was the only one in play. He thought Dad died before he could sign a new one.”
Luca looked at the empty drawer.
Then he looked at the wooden rosary in his hand.
“Hannah,” Luca said, his voice dropping to a terrifying whisper. “My father didn’t die of a heart attack.”
My blood ran cold. “What do you mean?”
“The timeline,” Luca said, pacing the floor. “Dad booked a flight to Italy the day after he died. He hid his real will in this locked drawer. He was planning to fly to Sicily, find me, and hand me the empire legally.”
Luca stopped pacing.
“Michael found out. Michael confronted him that night. Vanessa was there.”
Luca’s eyes met mine, and the realization in them was horrifying.
“They didn’t just let him die. They killed him.”
Before I could process what he was saying, the lights in the study suddenly flickered.
Then, every light in the mansion went completely black.
The power was cut.
I gasped in the darkness, instinctively reaching out.
Luca grabbed my arm, pulling me behind the heavy oak desk.
“Stay down,” he whispered harshly.
From the hallway outside, we heard the unmistakable sound of breaking glass.
Someone had just kicked in the back door.
May you like
And then, heavy footsteps echoed on the hardwood floor, moving slowly toward the study.
“Well, Luca,” a deep, gravelly voice called out from the dark hallway. “Are you going to invite your Uncle Vincent in, or do I have to break down the door?”
