THE DEAD WOMAN’S SECRET

I stared at the faded photograph inside the silver lid.

It was my grandmother, Rose Ellis. She looked exactly as she did in the old polaroids she kept in a shoebox under her bed—young, vibrant, her hair pulled back in a ribbon.

"I... I don't know," I stammered, stepping back until my shoulders hit the cold stone wall. "I swear to you, Mr. De Luca, I don't know why he has this."

Luca stood up, his towering frame casting a long shadow across the wine racks. His gray eyes were intense, searching my face for any sign of deception. He had just been betrayed by the man who raised him and the woman he was about to marry. Trust was a luxury he couldn't afford.

"My father ordered your grandmother killed twenty-five years ago," Luca said, his tone perfectly level, which only made it more terrifying. "My uncle Victor saved her. And kept her picture next to his heart. Why?"

"Luca, stop interrogating the girl," his mother, Elena, intervened gently. She stood up, smoothing her dark coat. "Rose wasn't just a maid in our house. She was my confidante. When Victor's men came to take me that night, Rose found out. She hid me in the laundry truck. She bought me time. But Victor caught us at the docks."

Elena looked at the watch in Luca's hand, her expression hardening.

"Victor didn't save Rose out of mercy," Elena said softly. "He saved her because Rose took something from his office that night. Something he desperately needed. He kept her alive, watching her from the shadows, waiting for her to reveal where she hid it."

My mind raced, piecing together the fragments of my childhood.

My grandmother was a quiet, paranoid woman. She made us move every three years. She kept the curtains drawn tight. She insisted I learn how to shoot a hunting rifle by the time I was twelve. I thought she was just eccentric, scarred by poverty.

She had been running from the mafia my entire life.

Heavy footsteps pounded against the floorboards above us. The cellar door rattled as someone tried the handle.

"They're bringing a blowtorch for the hinges," a muffled voice yelled. It was Daniel. The security chief had survived Luca’s blow.

"We can't stay here," Luca said, snapping the pocket watch shut and shoving it into his suit pocket. "There's a freight elevator at the back of this cellar. It leads up to the loading dock in the alley."

He grabbed my arm, his touch gentler this time, and guided us through the labyrinth of wine racks. We reached the heavy metal cage of the freight elevator. Luca pried the doors open, ushering his mother and me inside.

He pulled the lever. The old gears groaned, slowly lifting us toward the street level.

"Emma," Luca said, not looking at me, his eyes trained on the ceiling. "Where is your grandmother right now?"

"At home," I said, my voice shaking. "In our apartment in Logan Square. She's recovering from pneumonia."

"If Victor has decided tonight is the night to tie up all loose ends," Luca said grimly, "he won't just kill me and my mother. He'll send men for Rose. If she has what he wants, her usefulness ends the moment he takes my throne."

The elevator jolted to a halt. We were in the loading bay. The cold Chicago night air rushed in through a cracked window, smelling of rain and garbage.

Luca kicked the alley door open, leading with his weapon. The alley was clear.

We hurried toward the street, but as we rounded the dumpster, a figure stepped out from the shadows.

It was Isabella.

She was shivering, her red silk dress stained with the ruined food. But her hands were steady as she aimed a small, pearl-handled revolver directly at Luca’s chest.

"Don't take another step," Isabella said, tears streaming down her flawless face.

Luca didn't raise his gun. He just looked at her with profound exhaustion.

"You were going to marry me, Isabella," Luca said quietly. "You shared my bed. And you poisoned my dinner."

"It was supposed to be painless!" she cried, her hands shaking. "Victor swore to me. He said you would just fall asleep. He said if I didn't do it, he would torture you. I was trying to save you from him!"

"By killing me?" Luca asked coldly.

"Because he's my father, Luca!" Isabella screamed, the truth finally tearing from her throat.

I gasped. Luca’s mother stopped dead in her tracks.

Isabella Romano wasn't the daughter of the rival family boss, as everyone had been told. She was Victor’s illegitimate child, planted in Luca’s life to ensure Victor’s bloodline eventually absorbed the entire empire.

"He told me I was the rightful heir," Isabella wept, lowering the gun slightly. "He told me your father stole the family from him. But when the shooting started tonight... he left me in that room. He locked the doors with me inside."

Luca took a slow, deliberate step toward her.

"He doesn't care about you, Isabella," Luca said softly. "He cares about the crown. Put the gun down."

Isabella looked at Luca, then at the older woman standing behind him. She realized, in that moment, that she was just another pawn on Victor’s bloody chessboard.

She dropped the revolver. It clattered against the wet pavement.

Luca didn't shoot her. He simply picked up the gun, tucked it into his waistband, and walked past her toward the street.

"Mr. De Luca," I whispered as we reached the sidewalk. "Look."

I pointed to the wet asphalt near where Isabella had been standing. When she dropped the gun, a piece of paper had fluttered out of her clutch purse.

I picked it up.

It was a printed boarding pass. First class. Flight to Geneva, departing at midnight.

But the name on the ticket wasn't Isabella's. It wasn't Victor's.

The name printed in bold black letters was Rose Ellis.