Chapter 2 - THE SIGNATURE IN THE PHOTOGRAPH
Luca’s dark eyes locked onto Vanessa.
The silence in the dining room was so heavy it felt hard to breathe. Thirty-two prominent New Orleans guests sat frozen, their wine glasses suspended in the air.
Vanessa’s pale skin turned ashen. She took another step back from the table, her red silk gown rustling against the Persian rug.
“Luca, this is absurd,” she stammered, her voice losing its usual venomous edge. “Your mother is confused. She’s sick. You know her mind has been slipping.”
“My mind is sharper than the knife you’re trying to put in my back,” Teresa Moretti said. Her voice didn't shake anymore.
Luca didn't look at his mother. He didn't look at me. He just kept staring at the photograph in his hand.
I dared to glance at it. It was a close-up of a legal document, transferring ownership of the Moretti family’s private shipping ports. At the bottom, Luca’s father’s signature—Antonio Moretti—was scrawled in bold black ink.
But Antonio Moretti had died in a car accident eight years ago. The date on the document was three years ago.
“Where did this come from?” Luca asked, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.
“I found it, Luca.”
The voice came from the arched doorway.
Every head in the room snapped around.
Standing there, leaning heavily on a wooden cane, was Margaret Sullivan. She wore a simple gray cardigan, her silver hair windblown, her chest heaving as if she’d run all the way up the driveway.
Vanessa let out a choked gasp and gripped the back of her chair.
“Margaret,” Luca said, immediately stepping forward to help the elderly woman.
“Don't let her touch me,” Margaret wheezed, pointing a trembling finger at Vanessa. “That woman paid my driver ten thousand dollars to take me to a private psychiatric facility in Baton Rouge tonight. If I hadn't noticed the road signs, I’d be locked in a padded room right now.”
The guests began to murmur frantically.
“Lies!” Vanessa shrieked. “She’s a disgruntled employee! Luca, she stole from your father!”
“I was your father’s accountant for forty years,” Margaret said, stepping into the light of the chandelier. “I hid that photograph because I knew what Vanessa was planning. The signature on that port transfer wasn't forged by a random criminal. It was traced.”
Luca’s jaw clenched. “Traced from what?”
Margaret reached into her gray cardigan and pulled out a heavy, tarnished silver pocket watch. It had belonged to Antonio.
“Open the back compartment, Luca,” Margaret said.
Luca took the watch. He pressed the small latch. The back popped open.
Inside was a folded piece of tracing paper. And stamped into the silver casing of the watch was a thumbprint. A woman’s thumbprint, preserved perfectly in a dried drop of wax.
“I had a private investigator lift that print three years ago,” Margaret said. “It doesn't belong to Vanessa.”
My heart stopped.
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Luca looked up from the watch, his eyes scanning the room before landing directly on me.
“It belongs to Claire,” Vanessa suddenly shouted, pointing her manicured finger right at my chest. “She’s the one who forged it!”
