Chapter 4 - THE PHOTOGRAPH ON THE MANTEL
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Luca knelt in the center of the narrow hallway, his eyes never leaving the boy’s face.
He reached out with a trembling hand, his calloused fingertips lightly brushing Leo’s dark curls away from his forehead.
Beneath the boy’s hairline, a faint white scar curved above his left eyebrow—the exact same scar Luca carried beneath his own brow.
“Leo,” Luca repeated, tasting the name on his tongue as if it were a prayer he had forgotten how to say.
“How long have you lived in this house, Leo?”
The little boy held up five small fingers, then added his thumb.
“Six birthdays,” Leo whispered, his hazel eyes wide and innocent.
“Mrs. Gable makes me strawberry cake, but I’m not allowed to play in the front yard.”
“Why aren't you allowed to play outside, buddy?”
“Because the bad men with the cameras might see me,” Leo said simply, looking down at his bare toes.
“Mommy said if anyone takes my picture, bad things will happen to her.”
Luca slowly turned his head toward the elderly nurse cowering against the wall.
His gray eyes were colder than the ice forming on the porch outside.
“Mrs. Gable,” Luca said, his voice flat, terrifying, and dangerously calm.
“Where are the boy’s birth records?”
Mrs. Gable began weeping hysterically, pointing a trembling finger toward the small front parlor.
“In the metal lockbox under the desk! The key is behind the grandfather clock!”
Sal didn't wait for an order; he walked into the parlor, his heavy boots creaking on the floorboards.
I stayed in the hallway, watching Luca gently take Leo’s cold hands into his large, warm palms.
He slipped the matching red mitten onto Leo’s right hand, smoothing down the frayed wool around his small wrist.
“It fits,” Leo beamed, a small, radiant smile breaking across his pale face.
“I thought I lost it in the big black car.”
“Sal found it for you, Leo,” Luca murmured, his voice thick with unshed tears.
“And Sal always takes care of the things that matter.”
From the parlor, Sal called out, his voice strained and heavy with shock.
“Luca. You need to come see this.”
Luca gently patted Leo’s shoulder, stood up from the floor, and gestured for me to follow.
“Stay with him, Emma,” Luca whispered to me.
I knelt down beside Leo, offering him a warm, reassuring smile as I gently tucked a stray curl behind his ear.
“Hi, Leo,” I said softly.
“I’m Emma.”
Leo looked at my black housekeeping dress and white apron, tilting his head with curious wonder.
“Are you an angel, Miss Emma?”
My heart shattered into a million pieces right there on the worn linoleum.
“No, sweetheart,” I choked out, fighting back tears.
“I’m just a friend who came with your dad.”
Inside the parlor, Luca stood before the dusty brick mantelpiece, holding a small silver picture frame Sal had retrieved from the lockbox.
The photograph inside was dated seven years ago.
It showed a twenty-nine-year-old Luca Moretti sitting on the stone terrace of his Lake Forest estate, laughing in the summer sun.
Beside him stood Vanessa Bellini, her arms wrapped around his neck, radiant and triumphant.
And on the table between them lay an official ultrasound photograph stamped with the seal of Northwestern Memorial Hospital.
Tucked behind the glass of the frame was a folded legal document yellowed at the edges.
Luca unfolded the parchment with shaking fingers, his eyes scanning the lines of formal legal text.
It was an official paternity affidavit and birth certificate registered in Cook County.
The mother’s name was listed as Vanessa Bellini.
The father’s name was listed as Luca Moretti.
And stapled to the back of the certificate was a copy of Don Roberto Moretti’s last will and testament.
Luca’s jaw set so hard that the veins along his throat pulsed like thick cords of steel.
“Read clause seven, Sal,” Luca whispered, handing the document to the old driver.
Sal adjusted his glasses, reading aloud in a gravelly, trembling voice:
“‘The primary inheritance of the Moretti syndicate holdings, the port authorities, and the family trust shall pass to my son Luca on the day he takes a lawful wife.’”
“‘However, should Luca have fathered a male heir prior to his marriage, fifty-one percent of all voting shares and executive assets shall transfer immediately to the custody of the child’s legal mother upon the signing of the marriage license.’”
The room fell into an icy, horrifying silence.
The truth struck like an artillery shell through the dark bungalow.
Vanessa had not hidden the boy out of shame or fear.
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She had hidden Luca’s own flesh and blood for six long years to ensure that the moment she married him, she would legally strip him of his entire empire.
She had kept a six-year-old boy in a cage so she could become the undisputed queen of Chicago.
