Chapter 2 - THE LETTER THAT SURVIVED THE FIRE|
For several seconds, nobody in the Moretti kitchen moved.
The fireplace crackled behind me, and the smell of burned leather filled the air as Luca stared at the letter his mother had hidden nearly two years earlier.
Vanessa stood beside the marble counter, her crimson gown shimmering beneath the chandelier, but the confidence she had carried into the room was disappearing.
"That's impossible," she whispered.
Luca slowly lifted his eyes.
"Which part is impossible, Vanessa?"
She swallowed.
"Your mother was sick, Luca, and everyone knew she wasn't thinking clearly during those final weeks."
I felt something twist inside my chest.
Mrs. Elena had been many things during her final weeks, including frightened, exhausted, and desperately lonely.
But she had never been confused.
Three days before her death, she had remembered that I liked cinnamon in my coffee and had asked whether my younger brother had found a better job.
A woman who remembered such ordinary details had not forgotten the difference between kindness and cruelty.
Luca looked down at the letter again.
"My mother wrote that she became ill after drinking the tea you brought during your visits."
Vanessa's mouth opened, but no words came out.
"She wrote that she felt better whenever you were away from the house."
"Luca, that's ridiculous."
"She also wrote that you were working with my uncle Dominic to remove money from her charitable foundation."
At the mention of Dominic Moretti, Vanessa's eyes darted toward the doorway.
I noticed.
And so did Luca.
Dominic was Luca's father's younger brother, a silver-haired businessman who attended church every Sunday and entertained politicians every Friday.
He also handled enough of the Moretti family's finances that even Luca rarely questioned him.
I had never liked the way Dominic watched the household staff.
He smiled at wealthy guests, but when he looked at employees, his expression suggested he was calculating how easily we could be replaced.
Vanessa took another step toward Luca.
"Darling, please give me that letter."
He folded it carefully.
"No."
"You don't understand what you're reading."
"Then explain it."
She looked directly at me.
"Not in front of the maid."
The words struck me harder than I expected.
Even now, with the accusation of murder hanging between them, Vanessa was more offended by my presence than by what Luca's mother had written.
Luca turned toward the guards waiting outside.
"Gabriel, nobody leaves this property until the police arrive."
Vanessa laughed sharply.
"The police?"
"Yes."
"You're Luca Moretti, for God's sake!"
"I know exactly who I am."
His voice remained controlled, but something had changed in his eyes.
"For once, I'm going to find out who everyone else is."
Gabriel Russo, Luca's longtime head of security, nodded and stepped into the hallway.
Vanessa reached for her phone.
Luca didn't stop her.
Instead, he looked at the book again, studying the singed pages as though they contained the last conversation he would ever have with his mother.
I pressed my burned fingers into my apron.
"Mr. Moretti," I said quietly, "your mother used to write notes in different places when she didn't want anyone to see them."
His head lifted.
"What do you mean?"
"She wrote recipes in ink, but sometimes she wrote personal reminders in pencil along the inside margins."
I remembered watching Mrs. Elena prepare Sunday sauce in that enormous kitchen.
She would smile whenever I asked why she bothered writing down measurements she already knew by heart.
"Because one day," she had told me, "someone else will need to find their way home."
Luca carefully turned to the page marked Sunday Gravy.
The corner was burned, but the handwriting along the inside edge had survived.
He held it closer to the chandelier.
There, beneath a list of ingredients, was a message written in tiny letters.
If the first letter is found, follow the place where bread was given away.
Luca frowned.
"What place?"
I knew immediately.
"The Open Table kitchen."
His expression changed.
The Open Table was a community meal program in Chicago's Pilsen neighborhood.
Mrs. Elena had founded it years earlier to feed struggling families, elderly residents, and anyone who needed somewhere warm to sit.
She visited every Thursday.
Sometimes, she took me with her.
"She kept an office there," I said.
Luca looked toward the fire.
"My uncle told me the foundation closed after she died."
"It didn't close, sir."
I hesitated.
"At least, not immediately."
Vanessa suddenly stepped forward.
"Enough!"
Her voice cracked so violently that I flinched.
"You're allowing a servant to fill your head with fantasies because she dragged a filthy book out of the fireplace!"
Luca watched her without speaking.
Then he asked a question that made the entire room feel smaller.
"How did you know the book was in my locked office?"
Vanessa froze.
"The renovation crew found it."
"The renovation crew hasn't been given access to that office."
She looked toward the doorway again.
And that was when her phone rang.
The name illuminated the screen before she could hide it.
Dominic Moretti.
Luca held out his hand.
"Answer it."
Vanessa stared at him.
"Put it on speaker."
Her fingers trembled as she accepted the call.
Dominic's familiar voice came through immediately.
"Vanessa, tell me the book is gone."
Nobody breathed.
Then he added the words that would change everything.
"Because if Elena's letter survived, we're both finished."
Vanessa ended the call.
But it was already too late.
Luca had heard every word.
May you like
And for the first time since I had entered the Moretti mansion, I saw something more frightening than his anger.
I saw the moment he understood that the two people he had trusted with his home had known something about his mother's death all along.
