Chapter 8 - THE FEDERAL SEAL
The front security gate of the Moretti estate looked like a war zone.
Two black SUVs from the federal prosecutor's office were idling outside the wrought-iron bars, their red and blue hazard lights flashing silently in the midday sun.
Marco stood beside the call box, holding a heavy leather briefcase wrapped in clear plastic evidence sheeting.
Luca and I jogged down the long gravel driveway, our boots crunching against the crushed stone.
"What is this, Marco?" Luca asked, stopping at the gate and pointing at the plastic-wrapped briefcase.
"Federal courier dropped it off ten minutes ago," Marco explained, handing the briefcase to Luca. "They said it was recovered from Nathan's downtown safe deposit box during the execution of the search warrant this morning."
Luca used his pocketknife to slice through the heavy plastic sheeting.
He unlatched the brass clasps and lifted the lid.
Inside wasn't money or corporate ledgers.
It was a collection of personal items: an old silver pocket watch engraved with Antonio Moretti's initials, a stack of faded photographs of my mother as a little girl sitting on Frank Donnelly's shoulders... and a single, unmailed letter addressed to Elena Moretti, Post Office Box 412, Chicago, IL.
My breath caught in my throat.
I reached out with trembling fingers and lifted the envelope. The paper was old, yellowed, and water-stained at the edges, bearing a postal cancellation stamp from November 1995—the exact month my mother had left Chicago for good.
"Open it," Luca urged quietly, his hand resting supportively on my shoulder.
I slid my thumb beneath the dry wax seal and pulled out a single sheet of lined notebook paper.
Dear Elena,
If you're reading this, it means Nathan intercepted my previous letters and you never made it back to the house. Don't let them tell you you don't belong here. The south wing is yours. The family is yours.
Your father loved you more than the empire he built. Never let anyone make you feel like a servant in your own home.
— Antonio Moretti.
Tears blurred my vision, spilling over my lashes and dropping onto the faded ink of my grandfather's handwriting.
For sixteen months, I had believed the lie that I was just an outsider—a poor housemaid lucky to have a job cleaning up after people who looked down on my last name.
Now, holding the letter my grandfather had written thirty years ago, I realized the truth.
I wasn't an outsider. I was the keeper of the house.
Luca pulled me into a fierce, protective embrace, resting his chin against the top of my head.
"He knew," Luca whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "Our grandfather knew you'd come back someday."
Marco cleared his throat awkwardly, looking down the driveway toward the main house. "Uh, Boss? We have another visitor at the front entrance."
May you like
Luca pulled back, wiping a stray tear from his cheek before turning back into the cold, authoritative head of the family. "Who is it? More of Nathan's lawyers?"
"No," Marco said, a faint, rare smile touching his lips. "It's an old man with a battered red lunchbox and a peach pie."
