Chapter 7 - THE WILL IN THE FLOORBOARDS
The restoration of the south wing began on a crisp Tuesday morning.
Contractors in heavy denim work trousers and tool belts arrived in three white vans, carrying rolls of heavy plastic sheeting, sanders, and restoration brushes.
I stood on the second-floor landing watching a carpenter gently pry away a section of water-damaged oak baseboard near the doorway of what used to be my mother's bedroom.
"Be careful with that lath and plaster," I called out to the worker. "The wall behind it is original 1920s timber."
"Got it, Miss Moretti," the carpenter replied, tipping his cap respectfully.
Hearing my actual last name spoken by the staff and contractors still felt strange—like wearing a pair of shoes that were slightly too large, waiting to be broken in.
Luca walked up the curved staircase, holding a mug of black coffee in one hand and a clipboard in the other. He stopped beside me, watching the dust motes dance in the shaft of sunlight pouring through the tall casement window.
"How's the progress?" Luca asked, taking a sip of his coffee.
"Fast," I said. "The crew found original wallpaper behind the closet drywall yesterday. Pale blue with little silver stars. My mother mentioned it in one of her letters."
Luca smiled, a quiet, nostalgic expression that made him look less like a syndicate boss and more like the boy Frank Donnelly had taught to change tires behind a South Side garage.
"My father always said this house had too many secrets," Luca murmured. "Every time you open a wall, you find fifty years of history staring back at you."
As if on cue, the carpenter working near the baseboard let out a sharp whistle.
"Uh, Boss? Miss Moretti? You might want to come look at this."
Luca and I exchanged glances and walked quickly down the hallway to the doorway of the south bedroom.
The worker was kneeling beside a gap in the subfloor where the oak planks had warped over decades of humidity. Beneath the floorboards, nestled into the dark cavity between the ceiling joists of the floor below, sat a small, leather-bound ledger wrapped in oilcloth.
"Is that another lockbox?" I asked, kneeling beside the carpenter.
"No," Luca said, reaching down with long, steady fingers to lift the oilcloth bundle. "It's a journal."
He unwrapped the cracked leather cover.
On the first page, written in bold, slashing ink that hadn't faded in forty years, was a name neither of us expected to see:
DOMINIC MORETTI — 1988.
Luca went completely still.
"Dominic?" I whispered, reading over his shoulder. "I thought your uncle Dominic died in Europe back in the nineties."
"That's what we were told," Luca said, his voice dropping into a cold, dangerous register. "That's what Nathan told me when I took over the estate."
He flipped open the journal.
Page after page was filled with intricate financial diagrams, property deeds, and handwritten notes detailing a massive, multi-million-dollar real estate conspiracy linking Nathan Moretti, Harrison the lawyer, and a shell company registered in the Cayman Islands under Vanessa Bellini's family name.
It wasn't just a journal. It was an insurance policy Dominic had hidden away thirty-five years ago—before Nathan allegedly pushed him out of the family business and drove him into exile.
"Nathan didn't just steal the widow's fund," Luca said, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the leather binding. "He didn't just forge the 2012 will. He drove our uncle out of the country to seize control of the South Side docks."
Before I could answer, my phone buzzed in the pocket of my apron.
It was an incoming call from Marco.
I tapped the screen and pressed it to my ear. "Marco? What's wrong?"
"Hannah, you and the boss need to get down to the front security gate immediately," Marco's voice barked through the speaker, tight and laced with adrenaline.
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"Why? What happened?"
"Nathan's bail hearing was denied an hour ago," Marco said grimly. "And someone just dropped an unaddressed package at the gate. It's a briefcase with a federal marshal's seal... and it has your name on it."
