Chapter 3 - THE PHOTOGRAPH IN THE CLUTCH
My breath caught in my throat. The chaotic noise of the dining room faded into a dull, rushing roar in my ears. I stared at the photograph. Isabella wasn’t living happily with another man. She wasn’t vacationing in Europe or hiding out of shame. She was a hostage. And Vanessa had the proof sitting in her evening bag while she drank champagne and celebrated her engagement to Isabella’s husband. “Mr. Moretti!” I shouted. I didn't care about my job anymore. I didn't care about Vanessa’s threats. Luca spun around, his dark eyes locking onto me. The lethal fury in his expression was momentarily paused by the absolute panic in my voice. “Look,” I said, stepping forward and handing him the glossy photograph. Luca took the picture. I watched his world shatter. The rigid, controlled posture of the mafia boss broke. His shoulders dropped, and a jagged, agonizing breath escaped his chest. He touched the image of his bruised ex-wife, his thumb brushing over the date written at the bottom. Today. “Where did you get this?” Luca demanded, his voice cracking. “It was in Vanessa’s purse,” Teresa answered for me. Her voice was steady, completely devoid of the confusion Vanessa constantly accused her of having. Luca slowly lifted his eyes from the photograph. He looked at the woman he was supposed to marry next month. Vanessa backed away from the table, her face drained of all color. She hit the wall, her red gown twisting around her ankles. “Luca, let me explain,” Vanessa pleaded, holding her hands up defensively. “It’s not what it looks like. I didn't do this to her. My brothers did.” The room fell dead silent again. The security guards had already ushered the remaining guests out into the foyer, leaving only the family, Marcus, Vanessa, and me. “Your brothers,” Luca repeated. “They wanted your territory on the south side,” Vanessa sobbed, the tears ruining her heavy makeup. “They knew you’d never hand it over. But they knew you’d do anything for Isabella. So they took her.” The reversal hit Luca like a physical blow. Isabella hadn't betrayed him. She hadn't broken their family. “If they took her for leverage,” Luca said, stepping methodically toward Vanessa, “why didn't they demand a ransom? Why did Isabella leave a letter saying she was leaving me for another man?” Marcus spoke up from his chair. He was sweating profusely, realizing there was no way out of the room. “Because Vanessa intervened,” Marcus confessed, his voice shaking. “Vanessa convinced her brothers that a ransom would only provoke a war they couldn't win. She told them a better plan was to force Isabella to write a confession of infidelity, isolating you, breaking your spirit.” “And then?” Luca asked, his voice dropping into a terrifyingly calm register. “And then Vanessa would step in to comfort the grieving husband,” Marcus finished. “She would marry you. She would become your wife, gain access to your accounts, and legally transfer the south side properties to the Bellini family. All without firing a single shot.” Luca stopped inches from Vanessa. He didn't yell. He didn't touch her. He simply held up the photograph. “Where is she, Vanessa?” Vanessa squeezed her eyes shut. “I don't know! I swear to God, Luca, my brothers handle the safe houses! They just send me proof of life every month so I know she hasn't talked!” “Liar,” Teresa spat. Everyone turned to the elderly woman. Teresa slowly stood up, leaning heavily on her wooden cane. She walked toward Vanessa, her dark eyes burning with the fierce, protective fire of a mother. “She knows exactly where Isabella is,” Teresa said, pointing a frail finger at the red gown. “Because I heard her on the phone in the conservatory this morning. She was arguing with her brother.” Vanessa panicked. “She’s crazy, Luca! You know she has dementia! She doesn't know what she hears!” “I remember perfectly,” Teresa fired back, her voice ringing clear and strong. “You told your brother that the wedding was secure. You told him he needed to move 'the package' tonight because Daniel might come looking for answers. You said to put her on the midnight freight out of the railyard.” Luca’s head snapped toward the grandfather clock in the corner of the dining room. It was 10:15 PM. If Isabella was put on a freight train controlled by the Bellini family, she would disappear forever. They wouldn't keep her alive once Vanessa was legally married to Luca. “Lock the doors,” Luca ordered his security men. “Nobody leaves this house. Put Marcus in the basement. Put Vanessa in the study.” “Luca, please!” Vanessa screamed as two massive men grabbed her arms, dragging her away. Luca ignored her. He turned to me. “Hannah.” I straightened my posture. “Yes, sir.” “Take my mother and my son upstairs to the safe room. Lock the steel door from the inside. Do not open it for anyone but me.” “I will,” I promised. I reached for Daniel’s hand. The twelve-year-old was shaking violently, clutching his blue backpack against his chest. I put a protective arm around his shoulders. But as I turned to guide him out of the room, Daniel stopped. He looked down at Vanessa’s discarded red evening clutch on the table. “Dad,” Daniel whispered. Luca stopped halfway to the door. “What is it, Ben?” Daniel reached into the open purse. He pushed aside the lipstick and a compact mirror. He pulled out a heavy, platinum necklace with a diamond pendant shaped like a teardrop. “This is Mom’s,” Daniel said, his voice cracking. “I bought it for her with my allowance three years ago. She promised she would never take it off.” Luca stared at the necklace. The last remnant of doubt vanished from his eyes, replaced by a lethal, unyielding determination. “Keep it safe for her, buddy,” Luca said softly. “I’m bringing her home tonight.” Luca turned and sprinted out the front doors into the rain, shouting orders to his men. I hurried Daniel and Teresa up the grand staircase. But as we reached the second floor landing, Teresa suddenly stopped. She clutched her chest, her breathing turning shallow and ragged. “Mrs. Moretti!” I gasped, wrapping my arm around her waist to support her. She leaned heavily against the mahogany banister. Her face was pale, covered in a sheen of cold sweat. “Hannah,” Teresa wheezed, her hand gripping my uniform collar. “I’m here. I’m going to get you to the safe room, and then I’ll call the doctor.” “No,” Teresa gasped, shaking her head. “Look in my pocket. My left pocket.” I carefully reached into the pocket of her wool cardigan. My fingers brushed against a piece of stiff, folded paper. I pulled it out. It was a train ticket. Printed for the midnight freight leaving the south railyard. But the name printed on the passenger manifest wasn’t Isabella’s. It was Vanessa Bellini’s.
