Chapter 2 - THE FORGED DEPOSIT
The leather chair was still warm.
I sat rigidly at the edge of the mahogany table, my hands folded tightly in my lap, staring at the polished wood. Thirty-two elite guests, dressed in designer silk and tailored velvet, watched a housekeeper take a seat of honor at a billionaire’s engagement dinner.
Nobody touched their wine.
Nobody whispered.
The silence in Luca Moretti’s dining room was absolute, thick with the kind of tension that preceded a violent storm.
Luca didn’t look at me again. He kept his dark eyes locked entirely on his fiancée.
Vanessa Bellini stood frozen in her crimson evening gown. Her manicured fingers gripped the back of her empty chair so tightly her knuckles were white. The arrogant, condescending smile she had worn just ten minutes ago had completely vanished.
“Luca, please,” Vanessa whispered, her voice trembling just enough to sound vulnerable. “You are embarrassing me in front of our friends.”
“You embarrassed yourself, Vanessa.”
His voice was terrifyingly calm. It didn't echo. It didn't shake.
“You stood in my home, drank my wine, and tried to destroy a man who helped me build everything I own. You did it to cover a mistake. Now, we are going to see exactly how expensive that mistake really was.”
Heavy footsteps sounded in the marble hallway.
Marco Santori walked back into the dining room.
The restaurant manager’s face was flushed, but he wasn't looking at the floor anymore. He walked with his shoulders back. He carried a thick, black leather folder.
He stopped next to Luca and placed the folder on the table.
“The original catering agreement, Mr. Moretti,” Marco said.
Luca opened it.
I watched his eyes scan the first page. Then the second.
The room held its collective breath. I could hear the faint ticking of the antique grandfather clock in the foyer.
“Marco,” Luca said quietly, his eyes never leaving the paper.
“Yes, sir.”
“The original caterer required a ten percent deposit to hold the date. Two thousand dollars.”
“That is correct, sir. I authorized it three months ago.”
Luca turned to the third page.
“Then why,” Luca asked, finally looking up, “does the invoice from Vanessa’s cousin’s company show a non-refundable upfront wire transfer of fifty thousand dollars?”
The collective gasp from the guests was immediate.
Fifty thousand dollars.
My stomach plummeted. Vanessa hadn't just tried to cover up a nine-thousand-dollar mistake over a guest count. She had authorized a massive, fraudulent payout to her own family.
Answer one. She wanted the cousin's company to get the contract because of the deposit.
But it opened two new questions: How did she authorize a wire transfer from Luca’s business accounts without his signature? And where did the fifty thousand dollars actually go?
Vanessa took a step backward. Her face was completely drained of color.
“That’s… that’s standard for short-notice luxury catering,” Vanessa stammered. “They had to procure rare ingredients. Wagyu beef. White truffles. The deposit was necessary.”
Marco shook his head violently.
“I never authorized a fifty-thousand-dollar transfer,” Marco said, his voice ringing with absolute certainty. “My spending limit without your direct signature is five thousand. I couldn't have authorized that even if I wanted to.”
Luca looked at the final page of the contract.
“I know you didn't, Marco,” Luca said.
He turned the folder around so it faced the center of the table.
“Because the authorization signature on this wire transfer belongs to me.”
Vanessa let out a small, sharp breath.
I leaned forward slightly, looking at the document. There, at the bottom of the bank authorization form, was Luca Moretti’s bold, looping signature.
“I never signed this,” Luca stated, his voice dropping an octave.
Vanessa’s eyes darted toward the door. She looked like a trapped animal.
“Marco handles the paperwork!” Vanessa practically screamed, pointing a trembling finger at the manager. “He must have forged it! He’s trying to steal from you, Luca! He’s framing me to cover his own embezzlement!”
Marco stepped forward, his fists clenched. “I have never stolen a single dime from this family!”
“Enough.”
Luca’s voice cracked like a whip. Everyone froze.
He looked at the forged signature. He looked at Marco. Then, slowly, he turned his head and looked at me.
“Emma,” Luca said.
I swallowed hard. “Yes, Mr. Moretti?”
“You said you found the guest count schedule in the kitchen.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you see anything else on the counter where you found it?”
I closed my eyes, visualizing the stainless-steel prep island where I had picked up the paper. The flour dusting. The chopped basil.
And something else.
A small, silver object.
“Yes,” I said, opening my eyes. “There was a silver fountain pen. The heavy one from your home office. It was sitting on top of a stack of blank catering invoices.”
Vanessa’s hand instinctively flew to her clutch purse resting on the table.
Luca saw the movement.
“Open the purse, Vanessa,” Luca commanded.
“No!” She grabbed the small velvet bag, holding it to her chest. “This is a violation! You are listening to a maid over your future wife!”
“Open it. Or I will have security open it for you.”
Vanessa’s hands shook uncontrollably. Slowly, she unclasped the gold latch.
She reached inside and pulled out the heavy, silver fountain pen.
A drop of fresh black ink stained her thumb.
The reversal hit the room like a physical blow. Vanessa hadn't just changed the guest count. She had personally forged the signature of a mafia boss to steal fifty thousand dollars.
But as I stared at the catering invoice lying on the table, something else caught my eye.
The letterhead of the cousin’s company.
Bellini Fine Dining.
Beneath the logo was an address.
1402 West Halsted Street.
My blood turned to ice.
“Mr. Moretti,” I whispered, my voice cutting through the heavy silence.
Luca looked at me. “What is it, Emma?”
I pointed at the invoice.
“That address,” I said, my heart hammering against my ribs. “1402 West Halsted Street.”
Vanessa’s eyes widened in sheer terror.
“Emma, shut your mouth!” Vanessa hissed, completely dropping her refined persona.
I didn't look at her. I looked directly into Luca’s dark, calculating eyes.
“My mother’s restaurant is at 1404 West Halsted,” I said, my voice steadying. “I’ve walked past 1402 every day of my life.”
Luca leaned forward. “And what is at 1402?”
I looked at the forged signature. Then at the fifty-thousand-dollar total.
“Nothing,” I said. “It’s an abandoned warehouse. It’s been boarded up for ten years. There is no catering company.”
May you like
I reached across the table and picked up a heavy, embossed business card that had been stapled to the back of the contract.
“And whoever cooked this food tonight,” I said, dropping the card onto Luca’s plate, “is not Vanessa’s cousin.”
