Chapter 10 - THE DEATH THAT STARTED EVERYTHING|
Luca's father had been named Giovanni Moretti.
To most people in Chicago, he was a wealthy businessman who owned warehouses, restaurants, and commercial properties.
To others, he had been the feared head of a criminal organization whose influence stretched far beyond the city.
Luca rarely spoke about him.
I knew only that Giovanni died seven years earlier after what the family called a sudden cardiac event.
Now Luca was staring at a message suggesting that death had been another carefully constructed lie.
Detective Bennett pulled out a chair.
“Tell me what happened to your father.”
Luca sat slowly.
“Officially, he died of a heart attack at home.”
“Unofficially?”
He hesitated.
“Some people believed he was poisoned.”
My stomach tightened.
“Why?” Bennett asked.
“Because he'd been planning to retire.”
Luca looked toward the window.
“He wanted to divide the legitimate businesses among his children and dissolve several old partnerships.”
“Dominic opposed him.”
The detective wrote something down.
“Did they argue?”
“Constantly.”
“About money?”
“About control.”
Luca rubbed his forehead.
“My father had started transferring properties away from the organization.”
“He wanted me to manage the legal companies.”
“Dominic believed the family would lose its power.”
I listened quietly.
The story sounded painfully familiar.
Elena had wanted Luca to leave the criminal world.
Giovanni had apparently wanted something similar before he died.
And both had been removed from the picture just as they threatened Dominic's influence.
“Was your father's death investigated?” Bennett asked.
“Briefly.”
“By whom?”
“A private physician and the county medical examiner.”
“Were any concerns raised?”
Luca's expression darkened.
“Dominic handled the arrangements.”
The detective closed her notebook.
“We'll request the records.”
Luca nodded.
Then he said something I hadn't expected.
“My father wasn't a good man.”
I looked at him.
“He did terrible things.”
“He built a life that rewarded fear.”
Luca's voice grew quieter.
“But toward the end, I think he understood what it was costing us.”
He stared at his tattooed hands.
“I didn't understand until Isabella looked at me tonight and asked whether I'd lock her in again.”
I could see that the question had broken something inside him.
Not his pride.
Something deeper.
The belief that his power could protect the people he loved.
Detective Bennett stood.
“We'll follow the evidence wherever it leads.”
A moment later, my phone rang.
It was a hospital number.
My heart jumped.
“Mom?”
“Emily?”
The sound of Margaret's voice nearly brought me to my knees.
“Mom!”
“Oh, honey.”
She began crying.
“I'm okay.”
I pressed the phone against my ear.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Where are you?”
“At the hospital.”
“Did they hurt you?”
“Not badly.”
I closed my eyes.
“They frightened me more than anything.”
“I'm coming.”
“Emily, listen.”
Her voice grew serious.
“That man told me you were in danger.”
“I know.”
“He said Luca Moretti had killed his wife.”
“I know.”
“I thought if I went with him, I could protect you.”
Tears filled my eyes.
“Mom, you don't have to protect me by putting yourself in danger.”
She gave a broken laugh.
“That's a difficult lesson for a mother.”
I wiped my cheeks.
“I love you.”
“I love you more.”
I could hear a nurse speaking nearby.
Then Margaret said, “There's something I need to tell you.”
My heart tightened.
“What?”
“Dominic kept asking me about your grandmother.”
I frowned.
“Nonna Rosa?”
“Yes.”
“What did he want?”
“He asked whether she'd ever worked for the Moretti family.”
I stared at Luca.
“Mom, did she?”
Margaret hesitated.
“A long time ago.”
My breath caught.
I had known that my grandmother spent part of her youth working in Chicago before returning to Naples.
But she'd never told me exactly whom she worked for.
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because Rosa didn't like talking about those years.”
“What did she do?”
“She worked as a cook for Giovanni Moretti's parents.”
I looked toward Luca.
His face changed as he heard the name.
Margaret continued.
“Your grandmother knew Giovanni when he was a boy.”
“She used to say he wasn't born cruel.”
“She said he learned it from people around him.”
My pulse quickened.
“Did she know Dominic?”
“Yes.”
Margaret's voice lowered.
“And she never trusted him.”
I swallowed.
“Why?”
“Because she caught him stealing money from his father.”
I stared at the floor.
“Mom, what does any of this have to do with us?”
“I don't know.”
She paused.
“But Dominic asked whether Rosa left me anything when she died.”
My chest tightened.
Grandmother Rosa had left me a small wooden recipe box, two rings, and a collection of handwritten letters.
Most were sentimental family keepsakes.
I had stored them in my bedroom closet.
Then I remembered a particular envelope.
It was sealed with dark blue wax.
Rosa had written my name across the front.
I had never opened it.
She'd left instructions that I should read it only when I felt ready to understand the family's past.
At eighteen, I had decided it was probably a letter about my grandfather.
Then college, work, and my mother's illness distracted me.
The envelope remained untouched.
“Mom,” I whispered, “did Dominic mention a blue envelope?”
There was silence.
Then Margaret said, “Emily, how did you know?”
My blood went cold.
“He asked me whether you'd ever opened it.”
I covered my mouth.
Suddenly, I understood why Dominic had paid attention to my family.
He hadn't discovered us because I worked at the mansion.
He might have helped arrange my employment because of something Rosa left behind.
I looked at Luca.
“Sir, I need to get something from my house.”
Detective Bennett immediately shook her head.
“Not alone.”
I told her about the envelope.
She listened carefully and agreed that officers could accompany me when the home was cleared for entry.
A few hours later, after Margaret's condition had been confirmed stable, I returned to our small house with two investigators.
The front door still bore marks from the forced entry.
The kitchen drawers stood open.
The living room had been searched.
Seeing our home violated made me furious.
My mother had worked for years to keep this place.
And now people with millions of dollars had treated it like something disposable.
I led the officers into my bedroom.
The closet door was open.
Clothes had been pulled from hangers.
Boxes lay scattered across the floor.
My heart sank.
“They've been here.”
One officer examined the closet.
“Don't touch anything yet.”
I pointed to a small cedar chest.
“That's where I kept Grandma's letters.”
The chest was empty.
I stared at it.
“No.”
Someone had taken everything.
I felt tears rise again.
Then I remembered Rosa's favorite saying.
People search where they think treasure belongs.
They rarely look where love keeps it.
When I was thirteen, she'd helped me repair an old bedside lamp.
She'd shown me how to unscrew its wooden base.
She said it was a good hiding place for birthday money.
After her death, I'd placed her most precious letter inside that hollow base.
Not the cedar chest.
I turned toward the lamp.
It still stood beside my bed.
I asked the officer to photograph it before I touched anything.
After he documented the lamp, he carefully removed the base.
Inside lay a yellowed envelope sealed with dark blue wax.
My name was written across the front.
Emily Carter.
I could barely breathe.
The officer documented the discovery and asked whether I wanted to open it in his presence.
I nodded.
He carefully broke the seal.
Inside were three handwritten pages.
The first began with words that made my eyes fill.
My dearest Emily,
If you're reading this, the past has finally found you.
My hands shook.
I continued reading.
There is something I never told your mother.
Something I promised Giovanni Moretti I would protect until the truth could be safely told.
My pulse hammered.
The next sentence changed everything.
“Seven years ago, Giovanni came to me because he believed his brother Dominic was planning to kill him.”
I looked up.
The officer remained silent.
I read the final lines of the first page.
“Giovanni gave me proof of the plot.”
“And he told me that if anything happened to him, I must find his son Luca.”
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At the bottom of the page was a date.
Exactly three days before Giovanni Moretti died.
