Chapter 3 - THE TIN BOX OF SECRETS
“Show me.”
Vincent’s command echoed in the dead silence of the dining room.
I pressed my back harder against the cold marble wall, terrified. The twenty wealthy guests were leaning forward in their chairs, their dinners completely forgotten.
“Mr. Moretti, please,” I whispered, my voice trembling. “I’m just a maid.”
“You are not a maid if you are my blood,” he said, taking a slow step toward me. “Show me your shoulder, Hannah.”
“Vincent, stop this madness immediately!” Vanessa stormed forward, her red gown swishing violently. She grabbed his arm. “She’s playing you! Anyone could have read that letter and faked a birthmark. You’re letting a scrubwoman humiliate us in front of the governor!”
Vincent didn't even look at his fiancée.
With a single, terrifyingly calm motion, he shrugged off Vanessa’s hand.
“If you interrupt me again, Vanessa, the engagement is off tonight.”
Vanessa gasped, shrinking back as if she had been slapped. The wealthy guests exchanged shocked glances. No one spoke to Vanessa Hastings like that. Her family was almost as powerful as his.
Vincent returned his focus to me. His dark eyes lost their harsh edge, replaced by a desperate, silent plea.
With trembling fingers, I reached for the top button of my maid’s uniform.
I unfastened it. Then the next. I pulled the fabric down just enough to expose my left shoulder.
Under the glowing light of the crystal chandelier, the small, pale birthmark shaped exactly like a crescent moon was clearly visible.
Vincent stopped breathing.
He stared at the mark, the color completely draining from his face. For a man who controlled half the city, who never showed weakness, he suddenly looked like a little boy.
“Emily,” he whispered.
Margaret let out a quiet sob of relief, clutching her wet coat.
“No. No, this is impossible,” Vanessa muttered, her eyes darting frantically. She marched toward me. “She stole it! She must have stolen the matching ribbon from this house years ago! She’s a thief!”
I quickly pulled my uniform back up, my cheeks burning with humiliation. “I’ve never stolen anything in my life! I’ve had that ribbon since I was a child. I keep it in a tin box in my room.”
Vincent turned to me sharply. “Show me the box.”
“Vincent, you can’t go into the servants' quarters!” Vanessa protested.
But Vincent was already moving.
He gestured for me to lead the way. Margaret followed closely behind, and, unwilling to be left out, Vanessa trailed after us, her heels clicking furiously against the hardwood floors.
We left the stunned guests behind and descended into the narrow, dimly lit hallways of the staff quarters.
My room was tiny, barely big enough for a single bed and a small dresser.
I knelt beside the bed and pulled out a battered metal tin from underneath. I placed it on the mattress and opened the lid.
Inside were my only treasures: a few cheap trinkets, a child’s drawing of a house, and, resting on top, the faded pink hair ribbon.
Vincent carefully picked up the ribbon. He compared it to the one Margaret had brought.
They were identical. Down to the frayed edges.
“See?” Vanessa sneered, leaning against the doorframe. “She hoarded it. She’s been planning this con for years.”
But Vincent wasn't looking at the ribbon anymore.
He was looking at the child’s drawing I had kept. It was a crude crayon sketch of a house with a yellow sun.
But in the corner of the drawing, there was a specific symbol—a stylized letter 'M' with a small star above it.
Vincent picked up the drawing, his hands shaking.
“My mother used to draw this exact symbol on my lunch bags when I was a child,” he said, his voice thick. He looked at me. “Where did you get this?”
“My adoptive parents gave it to me,” I explained, crying now. “They said my real mother drew it for me before she gave me away.”
“Lies!” Vanessa screamed, lunging forward. She grabbed the tin box and tipped it upside down. “Let’s see what else the little con artist is hiding!”
My meager belongings scattered across the blanket.
But among the items, a folded piece of heavy, official-looking paper fluttered to the floor.
I frowned. I had never seen that paper before in my life.
Vincent bent down and picked it up. He unfolded it.
His face instantly darkened. The vulnerability vanished, replaced by the terrifying aura of the mafia boss I had feared for six years.
“What is this, Hannah?” he asked, his voice dropping an octave.
“I don't know,” I cried. “I swear, I’ve never seen it before!”
Vincent turned the paper around so I could see it.
It was a bank statement. A joint account in the names of my adoptive parents.
And listed on the ledger were monthly deposits of ten thousand dollars.
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Every single deposit was signed by one man.
V. Moretti. His father.
