Chapter 2 - THE PHOTOGRAPH AND THE POCKET WATCH
The silence in the dining room was so heavy it felt like it might shatter the crystal wine glasses.
Luca’s eyes stayed fixed on the faded photograph. The little girl with the gap-toothed smile. The young man with dirt on his collar.
He didn’t look at Vanessa right away. When he finally did, the betrayal in his eyes made my own chest ache.
“You told me your father died,” Luca said, his voice dangerously quiet. “You told me you laid him to rest when you were ten years old in a cemetery in Chicago.”
Vanessa’s hands gripped the edge of the mahogany table. The red silk of her evening gown suddenly looked less like a symbol of power and more like a target.
“Luca, please,” she choked out. “I can explain.”
“Explain what?” Luca asked, dropping the photo onto his empty plate. “That you’ve been letting my driver—your own father—open your car door for the last six months? That you just tried to banish him to the kitchen like a stray dog?”
Frank stood up. He looked smaller now, his broad shoulders slumped beneath the charcoal suit I had helped him brush clean just hours ago.
“Don’t be angry with her, Mr. Moretti,” Frank said, his voice trembling. “It was my idea. I told her to pretend she didn’t know me.”
I stared at Frank. That was a lie. I had seen the heartbreak in his eyes every time Vanessa walked past him without a glance.
Vanessa whipped her head toward her father. “Stop it, Dad. Don’t protect me.”
The word Dad seemed to echo in the cavernous room. Several of the mafia associates shifted uncomfortably in their seats.
At the head of the table, Luca’s Uncle Carmine leaned back in his chair. He was a ruthless man, his face scarred from the old days of the family business. He steepled his fingers, watching the drama unfold with a cold, amused smirk.
“Well, this is quite the soap opera,” Carmine rasped. “But I suppose it explains why Vanessa was so eager to get her hands on the estate’s financial records last week.”
Vanessa froze. “That had nothing to do with this.”
“Didn’t it?” Carmine asked. He reached into his suit jacket. “Because I found it very interesting that our future bride has been transferring small sums of money to a private account every month since she moved in.”
Luca turned to his uncle. “What are you talking about?”
Carmine tossed a small, heavy object onto the table. It slid across the polished wood and stopped right in front of my hands.
It was a gold pocket watch. The casing was dented, and dried, dark rust stained the chain.
Frank let out a strangled gasp. He reached for the edge of the table to steady himself.
“Answer one question, Vanessa,” Carmine said, his voice dripping with venom. “Were you stealing from my nephew to pay off your father’s debts? Or were you paying him to keep quiet about where he got this watch?”
I looked down at the watch. The initials A.M. were engraved on the front.
May you like
Antonio Moretti. Luca’s father.
Luca stared at the watch, all the color draining from his face. “My father was wearing that when he was murdered.” He looked at Frank, his voice breaking. “Why does Carmine have my father’s watch, Frank? And why did he say you gave it to him?”
