Chapter 4 - THE GHOST IN THE EAST WING
The east wing of the Moretti mansion smelled of old cedar, polished mahogany, and twenty years of undisturbed history.
When Luca flung open the door to the guest dressing suite where Vanessa had been staying during the wedding preparations, the room was empty.
A half-packed designer suitcase lay open across the king-sized bed, surrounded by discarded evening gowns, expensive cosmetics, and tissue paper. But the closet was half-empty, and the heavy brass hangers were swinging gently from side to side.
"She’s gone," Marcus, the head of security, said, stepping into the room with a master key ring clinking at his belt. "Front gate reports her car left ten minutes ago before the lockdown order reached them."
Luca walked over to the dressing table.
His eyes scanned the marble surface, passing over diamond earrings, perfume bottles, and gold-plated hairbrushes.
Then he stopped.
Right in the center of the table, resting on a white linen napkin, was a small, round object that caught the dim light of the wall sconce.
It was a silver pocket watch.
The casing was deeply engraved with interlocking initials—A.M.—and a faded date from 1952. Arthur Moretti’s watch.
"She left it," Luca murmured, picking up the heavy timepiece. His thumb brushed the engraved initials. "Why would she leave my father's watch if she was trying to steal everything of value?"
Marcus stepped closer. "Maybe she panicked when Mrs. Carter brought the ledger down, Mr. Moretti. She realized we knew about the trust funds."
"No," Luca said, shaking his head slowly. He turned the watch over in his palm, pressing the release clasp.
The silver lid popped open with a crisp click.
Inside, where the delicate clockwork gears should have been ticking away behind a glass face, there was nothing. The inner compartment was completely empty.
Instead of gears, a folded piece of heavy parchment paper was wedged tightly into the back casing.
Luca used the tip of his car key to pry the paper loose. Unfolding it carefully under the warm light of the desk lamp, he stared at the words written inside.
It wasn't a financial document. It wasn't a bank routing number.
It was a handwritten birth certificate from a Chicago hospital dated November 14, 1989—six years before Luca was born—bearing the name Moretti.
Luca’s breath hitched. I stood quietly in the doorway behind him, having followed Marcus up the grand staircase just minutes earlier, unable to shake the heavy feeling in my chest.
"Mr. Moretti?" Marcus asked, noticing the sudden stiffness in Luca's posture. "What is that?"
Luca didn't answer immediately. His eyes raced across the faded ink of the hospital document, tracing the signature of the attending physician—a signature Luca recognized from old family archives in his father's private safe.
"My father," Luca whispered, his voice barely audible. "He never mentioned... he never said there was another child."
"Another child?" Marcus frowned. "Whose birth certificate is that?"
Before Luca could read the name at the bottom of the page, a sharp, metallic sound echoed from the far corner of the dressing room.
Clink.
All three of us froze.
The sound had come from inside the walk-in closet, near the towering rows of shoe racks where Vanessa’s dozens of designer heels and boots were stored.
Luca slowly handed the document to Marcus, his hand dropping to the heavy silver-plated candle holder sitting on the nearby desk.
"Marcus. Stay by the door."
"Mr. Moretti, let me check it—"
"Stay," Luca commanded softly.
He walked across the plush carpet toward the walk-in closet, his footsteps entirely silent. The closet door stood ajar by three inches, letting a narrow slice of golden light cut across the dark floorboards.
Luca raised the heavy candle holder, took a deep breath, and shoved the closet door wide open with his left hand.
Inside, crouching beside a row of empty garment bags, wasn't Vanessa.
May you like
It was a young man in his late twenties, dressed in a plain black hoodie, with dark hair plastered to his forehead and wide, terrified eyes that looked up directly into Luca's face.
In his trembling hands, the young man was clutching a small, leather-bound photo album—and on the cover, stamped in gold leaf, was the exact same Moretti family crest that hung above the mansion's main fireplace.
