Chapter 2 - GHOSTS THROUGH THE DOOR
The heavy mahogany doors of the formal dining room seemed to stretch ten feet tall. For four years, I had polished their brass handles, ensuring they gleamed perfectly for the Moretti family’s elite guests.
Now, every single person in the room stared at those doors as if a monster were about to break them down.
“Open them,” Luca repeated, his voice cold, flat, and carrying an undeniable authority.
The security guard nodded, turning the brass handle.
My heart slammed against my ribs so violently I thought my chest might crack. My father? It was impossible. My father, Thomas Carter, had died in a hospital bed twenty-seven years ago, succumbing to smoke inhalation and severe burns. I had visited his grave every Sunday since I was old enough to walk. I had left fresh white roses on the granite headstone just yesterday.
The doors swung inward with a soft, ominous creak.
Vincent Bellini stepped into the light of the crystal chandeliers.
Vanessa’s father was a tall, broad-shouldered man in his late sixties. He wore a custom-tailored charcoal suit that probably cost more than I made in two years. His silver hair was slicked back, and his dark eyes swept over the thirty-four frozen dinner guests with a look of absolute, arrogant amusement.
“Luca, my boy,” Vincent said, his voice booming across the silent room. “Forgive the interruption. But my daughter texted me that there was a minor… misunderstanding regarding the wedding paperwork.”
Vincent didn’t look at Teresa. He didn’t look at his daughter, Vanessa, who had suddenly gone pale and rigid in her red silk dress.
And he didn’t look at me.
“There is no misunderstanding, Vincent,” Luca said slowly, remaining standing at the head of the table. “Your daughter tried to force my mother to sign away her voting rights to the family trust. She used a forged signature of my late father, and she used the name of a dead man as a witness.”
Vincent smiled. It was a terrifying, hollow expression.
“Now, Luca, that’s a very serious accusation. Especially since the witness in question is standing right outside in the hallway.”
A collective gasp rippled through the dinner guests.
Teresa clutched the pearls at her throat, her breathing growing ragged. “Vincent… what kind of sick game are you playing?”
“No game, Teresa,” Vincent purred.
He turned his head toward the dark hallway. “Bring him in.”
Two massive men in dark suits stepped into the dining room. Between them, they supported a third man.
I dropped the silver serving tray.
It hit the hardwood floor with a deafening CRASH, but I didn’t care. My knees weakened, and I had to grab the edge of the long dining table to keep from collapsing.
The man between the guards was stooped and fragile, leaning heavily on a wooden cane. He wore a faded brown tweed coat that looked two sizes too big for his gaunt frame. His hair was thin and snow-white.
But it was his face that made the breath freeze in my throat.
The left side of his face and neck was covered in thick, twisted, shiny scar tissue—the undeniable, horrifying aftermath of a massive fire. His right eye was kind, weary, and a bright, familiar shade of hazel.
The exact same shade of hazel as mine.
I had only ever seen his face in a single, faded Polaroid my mother had kept hidden in her underwear drawer. But the bone structure, the slope of his nose, the way his jaw set… it was him.
“Dad?” The word slipped from my lips as a pathetic, broken whisper.
The old man turned his head. When his gaze met mine, a tear slipped down the unscarred side of his face, disappearing into his white beard.
“My little bird,” he choked out, his voice raspy and damaged from smoke.
I took a step forward, the world spinning around me. For twenty-seven years, I had been an orphan. My mother died in a car crash when I was four, and my father was a disgraced ghost blamed for a crime. Now, here he was, flesh and blood, standing in the Moretti dining room.
“Don’t touch him!” Vanessa snapped, stepping in front of me. She turned to Luca, her confidence instantly returning. “You see, darling? I told you. Emily is a liar. Her father is alive, and he legally witnessed the document. The transfer is perfectly valid.”
Luca ignored his fiancée. He walked slowly around the enormous table, his dark eyes fixed on the old man in the tweed coat.
“Thomas,” Luca said quietly.
“Hello, Mr. Luca,” my father replied, bowing his head respectfully. “You’ve grown into a strong man.”
“You’ve been dead for nearly three decades, Thomas.”
“I’ve been… away, sir.”
“And yet, last Tuesday, you supposedly sat down with Vanessa’s attorney and witnessed my dead father’s signature on an irrevocable trust transfer?”
My father closed his eyes. He gripped the handle of his wooden cane so hard his knuckles turned white. He didn’t look at me. He didn’t look at Teresa.
“Yes, sir,” my father whispered. “I signed it. The document is real.”
The dining room erupted into frantic whispers.
My heart shattered. “No,” I cried, stepping around Vanessa. “Dad, no! Tell them the truth! You didn’t sign that! Why are you lying for them?”
Vincent Bellini let out a cruel chuckle. “Listen to the maid, trying to rewrite the law. She’s hysterical. Luca, have your guards remove this girl before she ruins Vanessa’s special night any further.”
“Nobody touches Emily,” Teresa’s voice cracked like a whip across the room.
The elderly woman stood up. Despite her seventy-eight years, she possessed the commanding presence of a mafia queen who had survived wars, assassinations, and betrayals. She walked toward my father, her eyes narrowed.
“Look at me, Thomas,” Teresa commanded.
My father slowly lifted his head.
“Twenty-seven years ago,” Teresa said, “you came to me in the dead of night. You handed me a black leather notebook. You told me that if anything happened to you, I needed to keep it safe until the time was right. Is that true?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And you told me that my husband was a good man, but he was surrounded by snakes.”
Vincent stepped forward, his jaw tightening. “Teresa, this ancient history is boring our guests—”
“Shut your mouth, Vincent!” Teresa snapped, not breaking eye contact with my father. “Thomas, why did you sign that paper last week?”
My father’s lower lip trembled. He looked at Vincent, then at the two massive guards flanking him. Finally, he looked at me. The absolute terror in his eyes told me everything I needed to know. He was a hostage. He had been a hostage for my entire life.
“I signed it of my own free will, Mrs. Moretti,” my father recited, sounding like a robot.
Vanessa sighed dramatically. “Well, there we have it. A complete overreaction caused by a jealous, uneducated housemaid. Luca, darling, please tell your mother to sign the final page so we can cut the engagement cake. I’m exhausted.”
Luca didn’t move. He stared at my father’s hands, which were trembling uncontrollably on the head of the wooden cane.
“Emily,” Luca said softly, never taking his eyes off my father. “When your father supposedly died in that hospital bed… did you see the body?”
I swallowed hard. “No, sir. I was a baby. My mother had a closed-casket funeral. She said his burns were too severe for anyone to see.”
Luca nodded slowly. He took a step closer to my father.
“Thomas,” Luca said. “If you really signed that document last Tuesday… which hand did you use?”
My father blinked, confused by the question. “My right hand, sir. I’m right-handed.”
“Are you sure about that?”
Vincent’s smug smile began to fade. “What kind of ridiculous question is that, Luca? Let’s wrap this up.”
“I’m right-handed,” my father repeated nervously.
Luca reached into his tailored tuxedo jacket. He pulled out the black leather notebook Teresa had produced earlier. He opened it to the very first page and held it up for the entire room to see.
“That’s fascinating,” Luca said, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper. “Because the handwriting in this notebook, which you left with my mother twenty-seven years ago, slants heavily to the left. The ink smears exactly the way a left-handed person’s writing smears.”
The room went dead silent.
Luca turned his gaze to Vincent Bellini.
“This man didn’t write the notebook,” Luca stated. “And he didn’t witness that document.”
Vanessa gasped, stepping backward. “Luca, you’re crazy!”
But my father—the man claiming to be my father—suddenly released his grip on the wooden cane. He reached into the deep pocket of his oversized tweed coat.
“I’m sorry, Emily,” the old man whispered.
He pulled out a heavy, tarnished silver pocket watch. The moment the chandelier light hit the engraved surface, Teresa screamed.
“Oh, my God!” Teresa shrieked, pointing at the watch. “That’s my husband’s watch! The watch he was wearing the night he was murdered!”
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The old man looked at Luca, his hazel eyes completely devoid of hope.
“I’m not Thomas Carter,” the man said, his voice trembling. “Thomas Carter died in that fire. My name is Arthur Bellini. I’m Vincent’s younger brother. And I’m the one who killed your father.”
