Chapter 3 - The Teardrop Locket
“It was my mother’s,” I said, my voice shaking. I unclasped the teardrop locket from my neck, my hands fumbling with the cold silver. I held it out to Luca. He didn’t take it. He just stared at the small sapphire, then down at the photograph in his other hand. The woman in the picture—the one whose face had been violently scratched out—wore the exact same necklace. Vanessa let out a sharp, mocking laugh from the doorway. “Oh, please,” she sneered. “A cheap maid trying to claim she’s connected to the Moretti family? You probably bought a knock-off at a pawn shop.” “Vanessa. Shut up.” Luca’s voice wasn’t loud, but it held a lethal edge that made her snap her mouth closed. He finally looked at me. His dark eyes were searching my face, looking for pieces of a puzzle he didn’t know he was trying to solve. “Emma,” he said softly. “What was your mother’s name?” “Clara,” I swallowed hard. “Clara Sullivan. But she died when I was six. I was raised in foster care.” Mr. Ferraro took a slow, painful step into the room. He stopped beside the crib, his old eyes fixed on the teardrop locket in my palm. “Clara,” the tailor repeated. The name sounded heavy on his tongue. Like a prayer he hadn’t spoken in decades. He looked up at Luca. “Your father bought that locket in Florence,” Mr. Ferraro said. “I was with him. He had the sapphire custom-set. He told me it was for the only woman who ever saw him as a man, and not a monster.” The silence in the nursery was suffocating. I looked around the room. The wooden trains. The little rocking horse. This room was built for a child. “Wait,” I said, my heart pounding in my ears. “If my mother was the woman in the photograph… then who is the boy?” I looked at the little boy with dark hair holding the wooden train. He looked to be about four or five years old in the picture. If my mother had a son before I was born, she never told me. I grew up believing I was entirely alone. “She had a son,” Mr. Ferraro said quietly. “Antonio’s son.” Luca went completely still. “My brother,” he whispered. “Yes,” the tailor nodded. “He was born five years before you, Luciano. His name was Julian.” Vanessa’s face turned gray. “Julian?” she gasped. We all looked at her. “What?” Luca demanded. Vanessa shook her head, backing away toward the hallway. “No. No, that’s impossible. Julian is dead.” Luca crossed the room in three strides. He grabbed Vanessa’s arm, pulling her back inside the blue room. “How do you know that name?” “Everyone knows that name!” Vanessa cried, her pristine facade completely crumbling. “Julian was the name of the boy who died in the fire at the old orphanage. The one your father’s syndicate was accused of burning down!” My stomach dropped to the floor. I remembered the stories. Long before I worked here, Chicago newspapers ran specials on it. Thirty years ago, a fire destroyed St. Jude’s Home for Boys. Twelve children died. It was the darkest stain on the Moretti family legacy. Luca released her arm, stepping back as if he had been burned. He looked at the tailor. “Ferraro. Tell me the truth.” The old man leaned heavily on his cane. “Antonio didn’t burn the orphanage down, Luciano. He was trying to save it.” Mr. Ferraro pointed a trembling finger at the photograph. “When the family syndicate found out Antonio had a child with a woman outside the bloodline, they demanded the boy be taken. They threatened Clara’s life. Antonio had to make a choice.” I covered my mouth, tears springing to my eyes. “He hid them,” I whispered. “He tried,” Mr. Ferraro said. “He put Clara in hiding. And he placed Julian at St. Jude’s under a false name, where he paid the priests to protect him until he could secure a safe passage out of the country.” “But the syndicate found out,” Luca realized, horror dawning in his eyes. “Yes. They set the fire to destroy Antonio’s secret.” I stared at the little boy in the picture. My brother. He burned in that fire because of this family. I felt sick. The walls of the blue room started spinning. I turned and ran toward the door, desperate for fresh air. “Emma!” Luca called out, reaching for me. But I didn’t stop. I ran past Marco in the hallway, pushing through the grand double doors of the dining room where the engagement guests were still seated, waiting for the dinner to begin. I ignored their stares. I kept running until I reached the massive mahogany front doors. I pulled them open and ran out into the cold October night. I made it to the edge of the driveway before my knees gave out. I collapsed onto the manicured lawn, the teardrop locket clutched tightly in my fist. My mother had lived her whole life in terror. She lost her son. She raised me in poverty, always looking over her shoulder, until her heart gave out. And I had been cleaning the floors of the men who destroyed her. Footsteps crunched on the gravel behind me. I didn’t look up. A warm, heavy coat was draped over my shoulders. Luca sat down on the grass beside me. The billionaire mafia boss, sitting in his expensive tuxedo on the cold ground. “I am so sorry,” Luca said. His voice was raw. Stripped of all the power and control he usually wielded. “Your family killed my brother,” I choked out, tears spilling down my cheeks. “The syndicate killed him,” Luca corrected gently. “My father loved him. He built that blue room for him. He kept it perfect for thirty years because he couldn’t let go.” I looked at Luca. He wasn’t defending the monsters. He was grieving with me. “Vanessa knew,” I said softly. “She took her brother Marcus into that room to steal the birth certificate. Why?” Luca’s jaw tightened. “Because under the old syndicate laws, the firstborn son inherits the entire empire. Even if he’s illegitimate.” “But Julian is dead.” “Yes,” Luca said. “Which means the inheritance passes to his next of kin.” He looked at me. “His sister.” I stopped breathing. “Me?” “You are the legal heir to half of the Moretti empire, Emma.” Suddenly, the massive iron gates at the bottom of the driveway violently crashed open. A pair of black SUVs tore up the gravel road, their headlights blinding us. They skidded to a halt. The doors flew open, and six armed men stepped out. Leading them was Marcus Bellini. Vanessa’s brother. And in his hand, he held a thick, yellowed piece of paper. The birth certificate. “Hello, Luca,” Marcus smiled. He cocked his gun. “I think it’s time we renegotiated the engagement terms.”
