Chapter 8 - The Shadow in the Snow
For two months, the Gold Coast estate was a paradise.
Our relationship was no longer a secret. The staff celebrated it; Mrs. Carter wept with joy when Luca officially announced that I would be moving into the master suite, and Chef Antoine prepared a seven-course banquet that rivaled any state dinner.
Even the city’s underworld seemed to accept the new reality. With the Bellini empire effectively dismantled and absorbed into Luca’s operations, Chicago entered a period of unprecedented stability.
Luca took me to the opera, to private dinners at the top of the Willis Tower, holding my hand openly beneath the flashing cameras of the society reporters who were desperate to understand the mysterious, graceful woman who had captured the heart of the city's most elusive bachelor.
I wore his mother’s sapphire brooch every single day, pinned over my heart.
Bruno’s health had even improved. With state-of-the-art physical therapy and the constant warmth of the estate, the old retriever was walking with ease, following me from room to room like a shaggy, golden shadow.
Spring was beginning to tease the edges of the city in late March. The snow was melting into gray slush along Lake Shore Drive, and the first green shoots were breaking through the frozen earth in the conservatory gardens.
It was on a Tuesday afternoon that the crack appeared in our sanctuary.
Luca was downtown at the federal courthouse, attending a regulatory deposition regarding his legitimate maritime holdings. I was in the estate office, finalizing the guest list for an upcoming charity gala, when Daniel knocked sharply on the glass door.
He didn't wait for an answer. He walked in, his face tighter than I had seen it in months.
"Emma. We have a delivery."
I looked up, surprised by the tension in his voice. "From whom? The florist?"
"No," Daniel said, closing the door behind him. "It was left at the front gate ten minutes ago by a courier service out of Montreal. Addressed specifically to you. Not to Luca. To Emma Collins."
He placed a flat, rectangular package wrapped in brown butcher paper on the desk.
It was bound with rough hemp twine. There was no return address. Just my name, written in elegant, flowing black calligraphy that looked chillingly familiar.
My stomach sank. "Vanessa?"
"Vanessa is under house arrest at her family's compound in Palermo," Daniel said, shaking his head. "We have two men watching the perimeter. She hasn't left the villa in eight weeks."
"Then who sent this?"
"I ran it through the bomb scanner and the chemical sniffer," Daniel said. "It's clean. No explosives, no toxins. Just paper."
With cold fingers, I picked up a pair of brass letter openers and cut the twine.
Inside the paper was a vintage manila folder, yellowed with age, its edges brittle. Stamped across the front in faded red ink were the words: DEPARTMENT OF PUBLIC HEALTH - COOK COUNTY - CONFIDENTIAL ARCHIVE - 1998.
My brow furrowed. "Why would someone send me public health records from twenty-eight years ago?"
"Open it," Daniel advised, stepping closer, his hand instinctively resting on his service weapon.
I opened the folder.
Inside was a single birth certificate.
The child’s name listed on the line was Emma Rose Moretti.
Date of birth: October 14, 1998.
Father: Antonio Moretti.
Mother: Elena Vance-Moretti.
My breath stopped entirely. The room seemed to tilt sideways, the walls closing in on me like a collapsing tunnel.
"This... this is a mistake," I whispered, my voice trembling so violently the paper rattled in my hands. "My name is Emma Collins. My father was Arthur Collins. He worked as a mechanic in Bridgeport for forty years..."
"Turn the page," Daniel said, his voice unusually hollow.
Beneath the birth certificate was a hospital adoption surrender record.
Attached was a yellowed newspaper clipping from the Chicago Tribune, dated November 2, 1998.
The headline read: INFANT DAUGHTER OF SLAYN MOB BOSS ANTONIO MORETTI PRESUMED DEAD IN HOSPITAL FIRE; SUSPECTED RETALIATION HIT.
Beneath the article was a handwritten note, penned in sharp, jagged black ink:
The boy thinks he found his soulmate. But Antonio never let a bastard child inherit the empire. Check your mother's bank records from November 1998, little sister. Ask her how much Arthur Collins was paid to raise the girl who was supposed to burn.
A choked, strangled sound escaped my throat. The paper slipped from my numb fingers, scattering across the dark mahogany desk.
Antonio Moretti had been Luca’s father.
If this document was real... if this wasn't some sick, twisted forgery engineered to destroy us...
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Luca wasn't just my lover.
He was my half-brother.
