Chapter 3 - THE TRAIN TICKET INSIDE THE LOCKET
I couldn't breathe.
The walls of the luxurious office seemed to close in around me, the smell of expensive leather and polished wood suddenly suffocating.
“Mara?” Luca’s voice broke through the rushing sound in my ears. He stepped closer, reaching out to steady me as my grip on the sofa faltered. “Mara, look at me. Who is this man?”
A choked sob tore from my throat. I couldn't tear my eyes away from the tiny photograph. It was the only picture we had ever taken of David holding Leo on the day we brought him home from the hospital.
“That’s my husband,” I whispered, the words scraping against my throat. “That’s David.”
Luca’s dark eyes widened just a fraction. He looked down at the locket, then back at my pale, terrified face.
“Your husband,” Luca repeated, his voice dropping into a dangerous, icy register. “The one who died two years ago?”
I nodded frantically, tears finally spilling over my lashes. “He was killed by a drunk driver. A hit-and-run on the highway. The police handed me his clothes in a plastic bag, but his necklace was missing. They said it must have been lost in the wreckage.”
I reached out with a trembling hand, lightly touching the cold silver casing of the locket.
“He never took this off, Mr. Moretti. Never. Why does your fiancée have a necklace stripped from my dead husband’s body?”
The question hung in the air, heavy and venomous.
Luca didn't answer immediately. He stared at the broken chain, his mind working with the terrifying speed of a man who had spent his life surviving betrayals.
He didn't hand the locket back to me. Instead, he walked over to the bright brass reading lamp on his desk and clicked it on.
He held the open locket directly under the harsh yellow light.
“Because she didn't just find it, Mara,” Luca said quietly. He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a silver letter opener. “There is a gap behind the photograph. The backing is loose.”
I stepped closer, my heart hammering in my throat as I watched the mafia boss slide the razor-thin edge of the letter opener behind the tiny picture of my husband.
With a soft pop, the metal backing came free.
The photograph fluttered onto the mahogany desk.
Behind it, folded into an impossibly small square, was a piece of faded yellow paper.
Luca used the tip of the blade to unfold it carefully, flattening it against the dark wood of the desk.
I leaned in, my breath catching.
It wasn't a note. It wasn't a letter.
It was a train ticket.
The ink was faded, but the bold black letters were still perfectly legible.
New York City to Boston.
Date: October 14th.
My blood ran cold.
October 14th was the night David died.
But David hadn't been in New York. He had gone out to buy groceries at a market three blocks from our apartment in New Jersey. The police told me he was walking along the shoulder of the road when a speeding car jumped the curb.
“This is a one-way ticket,” Luca said, his voice terrifyingly calm. He traced the date with his finger. “Purchased with cash. For a train leaving at midnight. Two hours after your husband supposedly died.”
I stared at the yellow slip of paper, the entire foundation of my grief shattering into a thousand pieces.
“He didn't die on that road,” I whispered, the horrifying realization washing over me. “He was trying to run away. He was trying to get on a train to Boston.”
Luca looked up at me, his eyes dark with a violent, protective fury.
“He was running from the Bellini family,” Luca said. “Vanessa’s family. And they caught him before he could board the train.”
The room spun. My husband hadn't been the victim of a random, tragic accident. He had been murdered. And the woman who ordered it—or executed it—was sleeping in the master suite down the hall.
“Why?” I cried out, the tears flowing freely now. “David was a mechanic! He fixed transmissions at a local garage. We could barely afford rent! Why would a mafia family care about a mechanic from New Jersey?”
Before Luca could answer, the heavy wooden doors of the office suddenly swung open.
Vanessa stood in the doorway.
She had changed out of her red silk gown and was wearing a plush white robe. Her blonde hair was perfectly brushed, falling over her shoulders. She looked the picture of aristocratic innocence.
But her eyes immediately fell to the desk.
She saw the silver locket. She saw the folded train ticket.
For a fraction of a second, the mask slipped. Pure, unadulterated panic flashed across her beautiful face.
But she recovered instantly, forcing a patronizing smile.
“Luca, darling,” Vanessa said smoothly, stepping into the room as if she owned it. “I was wondering where you were. And why the maid is crying in your office at midnight.”
Luca didn't move. He stood perfectly still, his hands resting on the edge of the desk.
“She’s upset, Vanessa,” Luca said, his voice as smooth as glass. “She just found something she lost.”
Vanessa’s eyes darted to the locket again. “Really? How wonderful for her. Now, Mara, isn't it time you went home to your little boy? Leo, isn't it?”
My heart stopped.
I had never mentioned my son’s name to Vanessa. I had specifically kept my family a secret from the employers in this house to protect him.
May you like
Vanessa smiled at me, a cold, dead smile that didn't reach her eyes.
“It would be a terrible shame,” Vanessa whispered, “if you were late picking him up tonight.”
