Chapter 4 - THE CRACKED ROLEX
I didn't wait for Luca to come to us. I grabbed the valet ticket, tucked Sofia’s drawing under my arm, and locked the bedroom door securely behind me.
I found Luca in his private study, pacing behind his mahogany desk while his capos stood silently by the walls.
“Sir,” I interrupted, stepping into the room. I knew the rules. Maids didn't interrupt family business. But tonight, the rules were already broken.
Luca stopped pacing. “Emily. I told you to stay with Sofia.”
“She’s safe. But you need to see this.” I walked up to his desk and laid the yellow valet ticket and Sofia’s crayon drawing side by side.
Luca stared at the drawing of the red car hitting the black SUV. His jaw tightened.
“Sofia remembered the crash,” I explained quickly. “She said a red car hit them. I found this valet ticket in Vanessa’s coat pocket. It’s for a body shop, dated the night of the accident.”
One of Luca’s men, a massive enforcer named Marco, leaned over the desk. “Boss, Vanessa’s red Porsche was in the shop for two weeks after Elena died. She claimed she hit a deer upstate.”
“Go to that shop,” Luca ordered Marco, his voice dangerously low. “Wake up the owner. Bring me the repair logs. If he refuses, burn the building down.”
Marco nodded and sprinted out the door.
We waited in agonizing silence. Luca poured a glass of whiskey but didn't drink it. He stared at the drawing, tracing the crude crayon lines of his late wife’s car.
“I thought it was black ice,” Luca whispered. “The police said it was black ice.”
“They had a reason to lie,” I said quietly.
Luca looked at me, truly seeing me for the first time. Not as the girl who cleaned his floors, but as the woman who had stood between his daughter and a monster.
An hour later, Marco returned. He wasn't holding a repair log.
He walked into the study and dropped a small plastic evidence bag onto Luca’s desk.
“The mechanic kept this for blackmail,” Marco grunted. “He found it wedged beneath the passenger seat of Vanessa’s Porsche when he replaced the crushed front bumper.”
Luca picked up the bag. Inside was a heavy, expensive men’s watch. A Rolex.
The glass face was completely shattered, frozen at 11:42 PM—the exact time of Elena’s crash.
“That’s not Carlo’s watch,” Luca said, his brow furrowing.
May you like
I stared at the heavy gold band. I had seen that watch before. Just three hours ago, resting against the dining room table as its owner spoke in rapid Italian.
“Mr. Moretti,” I said, my heart pounding in my chest. “That watch belongs to Dr. Bianchi.”
