THE MAFIA'S HEIR AND THE MAID WHO KNEW TOO MUCH

I stared at the red wax seal, my blood running cold. Elena Moretti had died of aggressive stomach cancer five years ago. I had seen her portraits around the house; she had the same kind, trusting eyes as Isabella.

“Where did you get this, Isabella?” I asked softly, holding the heavy envelope up.

Isabella looked at it and frowned. “I didn't put that there. I’ve never seen it before.”

Someone had slipped this under her mattress recently. Today. While the house was distracted by the engagement party preparations.

I told Isabella to go to sleep and locked her bedroom door from the outside, standing guard in the hallway. I broke the red wax seal with trembling fingers. Inside was a stack of handwritten letters and a faded photograph.

The letters were dated five years ago, chronicling Elena’s declining health. I read the top page, written in elegant Italian script.

My dearest Luca, If you are reading this, the doctors were wrong. It isn't cancer. I am being poisoned. I found traces of white powder in my tea. The Bellini family has been trying to force an alliance for years, and I fear Don Bellini has compromised our staff. I cannot trust anyone. The only person who sees the truth is my loyal maid. She sees everything. She is going to hide this letter until it is safe.

I felt sick. Elena hadn't died of a natural illness. The Bellinis had assassinated her to clear the path for Vanessa, playing the long game for half a decade.

I flipped to the faded photograph. It showed Elena smiling in the estate gardens. Standing slightly behind her, holding a silver tray, was a young maid in a black and white uniform.

I dropped the letters. The hallway spun around me.

The maid in the photograph was my Aunt Maria.

Ten years ago, Aunt Maria had vanished without a trace. The police told my family she had likely run off with a boyfriend. My mother had spent her life savings hiring private investigators, tearing our family apart financially, trying to find her sister.

Aunt Maria hadn't run away. She had worked for the Morettis. She had known about Elena's murder. And she had paid for that knowledge with her life.

I sprinted down the hallway, taking the grand staircase two steps at a time, clutching the letters to my chest. I burst into Luca’s private study without knocking.

Luca was pouring a glass of scotch. He looked up, startled by my intrusion.

“Mr. Moretti, your wife didn't die of cancer,” I blurted out, slamming the letters onto his mahogany desk. “She was murdered. And my aunt was the maid who tried to protect her.”

Luca stared at the handwriting. The glass of scotch slipped from his fingers, shattering against the hardwood floor. He read the first paragraph, his face turning an ashen, terrifying gray. He looked at the photograph of Elena and my aunt.

Then he looked at me. “Maria was your aunt? Emily... who hired you to work in this house?”

“The agency,” I stammered, confused. “I submitted my resume online.”

Luca pulled open his desk drawer and slammed a file onto the desk. “No, you didn't. Your file was flagged by a private referral. Someone specifically requested you be placed in this house.”

Before I could process the shock, the heavy oak doors of the study flew open. One of Luca’s basement guards stumbled into the room, bleeding heavily from a deep gash on his forehead.

“Boss,” the guard gasped, clutching the doorframe. “Vanessa’s father... he had a hidden blade in his boot. They broke out of the holding cell.”