Chapter 5 - THE WINTER COAT
The text message sat on the screen, glaring in the dim bedroom light. We have the boy. We are parked outside the mansion's service gates. Vanessa let out a breathless, triumphant laugh. The fear vanished from her eyes, replaced by the cold, calculating cruelty of a woman who had just regained the upper hand. “Well,” Vanessa said, smoothing the front of her red gown. “It seems we have a new negotiation, Luca.” Luca stared at her, his jaw locked so tightly I thought his teeth would shatter. “If your men harm one hair on his head—” “They won't touch him,” Vanessa interrupted smoothly. “As long as you walk down to that dining room, announce that the wedding is proceeding immediately tonight, and sign the trust transfer papers my father brought in his briefcase. You give the Bellini family total control of your shipping ports, and I will kindly allow you to raise your bastard son in quiet exile.” Luca pulled his handgun from his shoulder holster. The metallic click of the safety disengaging echoed loudly. “I don't sign deals with dead women,” Luca whispered. “Shoot me,” Vanessa sneered, stepping right up to the barrel. “Shoot me, and my men outside will put a bullet in your five-year-old son's head before my body hits the floor.” Luca’s hand shook. The most powerful man in the city was completely paralyzed. He couldn't risk ordering his men to storm the gates if Matteo was sitting in the back of an SUV. Teresa let out a quiet sob from her wheelchair. I stood by the cedar chest, my mind racing. The service gates. My hand went to my uniform pocket, fingers brushing against the crumpled grocery list I had been carrying all day. Wait. The service gates had been jammed since this morning. The heavy iron track was rusted. The delivery drivers hadn't been able to park outside the gates—they had been forced to pull their trucks all the way into the inner loading dock, directly attached to the kitchen pantry. If Vanessa’s men were parked at the "service gates," they weren't outside the estate wall. They were inside the inner courtyard, right against the kitchen doors. “Mr. Moretti,” I whispered urgently. Luca didn't look away from Vanessa. “Not now, Hannah.” “Sir, listen to me,” I stepped closer, keeping my voice so low Vanessa couldn't hear. “The outer gates are broken. The only place they can park is the inner loading dock. I can slip down the servant’s staircase right now. I know the blind spots in the kitchen cameras. I can get out there before they know what’s happening.” Luca finally looked at me. His dark eyes searched my face. I was a twenty-five-year-old maid holding a feather duster an hour ago, offering to walk into a hostage situation with mafia hitmen. “It’s suicide, Hannah,” Luca breathed. “If you go down there with guns, they’ll panic and shoot him,” I replied. “They aren't looking for a housekeeper.” Before Luca could stop me, I slipped out the side door of Teresa’s bedroom and bolted down the narrow, dimly lit servant’s staircase. My heart pounded in my ears as I reached the ground floor. The kitchen was massive, stainless steel gleaming in the dark. The catering staff had been cleared out for the dinner speeches. It was completely silent. I crept toward the heavy metal double doors that led to the loading dock. But as I passed the large walk-in pantry, I stopped dead in my tracks. There, draped carelessly over a flour sack just inside the pantry door, was a child’s winter coat. It was navy blue, thick, and covered in fresh mud. Why would a child's muddy coat be sitting inside the pantry if Vanessa's men were still waiting in the car? I held my breath and stepped into the pantry. The smell of dried herbs and flour was overwhelming. “Hello?” I whispered into the darkness. A sudden rustle came from behind a stack of bulk rice bags in the far corner. I slowly walked around the bags. Crouched in the corner, shivering violently, was a little boy. He had wild, dark hair and Luca’s exact deep brown eyes. He was clutching a small, crumpled piece of paper to his chest, looking up at me in absolute terror. He wasn't in the SUV. He had managed to slip away from his captors when they parked the car. “Matteo?” I breathed. The little boy didn't speak. He just held up the crumpled piece of paper like a shield. I slowly knelt down and looked at the paper. It was a child’s crayon drawing of a blue blanket. But when I gently turned the drawing over, I saw a message scrawled on the back in elegant, faded handwriting. Catherine’s handwriting. If you are ever frightened, run. And trust only the woman who sits with Grandma.
