Chapter 3 - The Woman Who Never Reached Boston|
Luca didn't shout.
Somehow, that made the moment more frightening.
He simply looked at Vanessa and asked, “Where did your father's driver take my sister?”
Vanessa opened her mouth.
Nothing came out.
Richard stepped forward.
“Luca, this is a misunderstanding.”
“Then clear it up.”
Richard's expression hardened.
“Isabella asked for privacy.”
Luca stared.
“Privacy from whom?”
“From you.”
That answer struck him.
I saw it.
For several seconds, Luca looked less like Chicago's most feared businessman and more like a brother who had just discovered his sister might not trust him.
Then he shook his head.
“Isabella would tell me herself.”
Vanessa laughed bitterly.
“You always think everyone in this family owes you an explanation.”
Luca turned toward her.
“No. But I expect people arranging transportation for my sister to know where they took her.”
Richard adjusted his jacket.
“Your sister is thirty-two, Luca. She's perfectly capable of deciding where to go.”
“Then why are you speaking for her?”
Silence.
I stood beside the piano, watching them.
The dinner guests had gone.
Only a few household employees remained near the doorway.
The chandeliers still glittered.
The untouched desserts still sat on gold-rimmed plates.
And the beautiful engagement celebration had become something entirely different.
Luca turned toward Marco.
“Ask the transportation company for the route records. Contact the authorities if we can't establish she's safe.”
Marco nodded.
Then Luca looked at Vanessa.
“You'll remain available to investigators.”
Her eyes widened.
“You cannot be serious.”
“Very.”
She glanced toward Richard.
He gave her a nearly invisible shake of his head.
I noticed.
And something about it made my stomach tighten.
Richard wasn't trying to protect Vanessa.
He was telling her to remain quiet.
Luca looked toward the piano.
Then toward the note.
“Emma.”
“Yes, sir?”
“You said my mother might have meant a real key.”
I nodded.
“Your mother drew a seven-petaled flower.”
Luca examined it.
Then frowned.
“She used to paint that flower on everything.”
“Everything?”
He smiled faintly.
“Music boxes. Birthday cards. Even my school lunch bags.”
My expression softened.
“She must have loved it.”
“She said seven was a lucky number.”
His smile disappeared.
“She used to call Isabella her seventh miracle.”
I looked up.
“Why?”
“Because Mom had six pregnancies that didn't continue before Isabella was born.”
His voice softened.
“Isabella was the baby she thought she'd never have.”
My throat tightened.
Then I looked toward the child's bench.
The inscription.
FOR ISABELLA — LOVE, MOM.
A woman who had waited years for a daughter.
A piano she'd loved.
A hidden compartment.
And a note warning Luca to believe his sister.
None of it felt accidental.
“Mr. Moretti,” I said slowly, “may I examine the bench?”
He nodded.
I knelt beside it.
The damaged panel had been forced open.
A narrow cavity ran beneath the seat.
But something about the construction looked unusual.
My mother had taught me how old piano benches were assembled.
Sometimes the lower frame concealed a second compartment.
I ran my fingers along the inside edge.
Then noticed a tiny brass pin.
I pressed it.
Nothing happened.
I tried again.
A faint click.
Luca crouched beside me.
“What was that?”
“I think there's another section.”
He helped me turn the bench carefully.
Beneath the damaged panel was a thin wooden drawer.
We slid it open.
Inside sat a small blue velvet ribbon.
And attached to the ribbon was a tiny brass key.
Luca stopped breathing.
“My mother.”
He took it carefully.
The key was no longer than my little finger.
A seven-petaled flower had been engraved near its head.
Then Vanessa made a sound behind us.
A sharp breath.
Luca looked up.
“You recognize this?”
She shook her head.
But her face betrayed her.
Richard suddenly reached for his phone.
Marco stepped closer.
“Mr. Bellini, investigators may need to speak with you before you leave.”
Richard glared.
“You have no authority to detain me.”
Marco remained calm.
“Then you're free to speak with the officers when they arrive.”
Luca ignored the exchange.
He was examining the key.
Then he looked toward the west hallway.
“The music cabinet.”
I frowned.
“What cabinet?”
“My mother kept her compositions in a locked cabinet beside the old music room.”
My heart quickened.
“Does it have a small lock?”
“Yes.”
He stood.
“Come with me.”
We walked toward the west wing.
The mansion seemed strangely quiet.
Every footstep echoed across marble.
Luca stopped outside a narrow sitting room filled with books and old photographs.
He crossed to a walnut cabinet.
Inserted the tiny key.
And turned it.
The lock opened.
Inside were handwritten music sheets, old photographs, and a small leather notebook.
Luca picked up the notebook.
His expression changed.
“What is it?” I asked.
He opened the first page.
Across the top, in Elena Moretti's handwriting, were four words.
ISABELLA'S FUTURE — PRIVATE RECORDS.
Luca stared.
Then turned another page.
His face went pale.
“Emma.”
I looked up.
He held the notebook toward me.
A name appeared repeatedly.
Richard Bellini.
Beside it were dates, bank transfers, and the addresses of properties belonging to the Moretti family.
May you like
Then Luca whispered:
“My mother knew Richard was stealing from us seventeen years ago.”
