Chapter 3 - The Crimson Thread
Vanessa Bellini didn't scream when she was brought into the study; she hissed.
She had discarded her designer heels, pacing the length of the Persian rug in bare feet, her red silk gown sweeping the floor like a trail of fresh blood. Her dark hair was slightly mussed, her diamond earrings swinging violently as she rounded on Luca.
"Have you completely lost your mind, Luca?" she demanded, her voice shrill with indignation. "Your ape of a bodyguard took my phone out of my hands! He dragged me out of my own dressing room! Half the city council is downstairs eating your dessert, and you're holding me hostage in your office like a common criminal!"
Luca sat behind his desk. He hadn't poured himself a drink. He hadn't unbuttoned his collar. He sat perfectly upright, hands resting flat on the mahogany, watching her with the detachment of an entomologist studying a beetle under glass.
I sat in the shadows near the tall bookshelves, keeping my injured arm pinned against my ribs.
When Vanessa’s eyes finally landed on me, her expression twisted into venomous disgust. "And why is she still here? I told you she fell in the carriage house! She’s an incompetent, thieving little maid who probably broke the lock on the back door herself!"
"Sit down, Vanessa," Luca said.
He didn't raise his voice, but the two words carried the weight of a guillotine blade dropping.
Vanessa stopped pacing. She looked at the two high-backed leather chairs in front of the desk, then at Daniel, who stood impassively against the door with his hands folded over his belt. Swallowing hard, she smoothed down her red silk and sat, crossing her legs with forced nonchalance.
"What is this about, darling?" she purred, trying to reconstruct her practiced society smile. "If you're upset about the portrait—"
"Which portrait, Vanessa?" Luca interrupted, leaning forward. "The monstrosity you rolled into my dining room to erase my parents’ wedding, or the original canvas you sold to an unregistered dealer on South Street for three hundred and fifty thousand dollars?"
Vanessa’s smile cracked. A tiny, imperceptible tremor ran through her throat.
"I didn't sell it," she lied, her eyes darting toward the window. "The frame was damaged. The varnish was yellowing. I sent it out for restoration so it would be ready before our ceremony on Saturday. I wanted to surprise you."
Luca picked up a white shipping manifest from the desk and slid it across the polished wood.
"The bill of lading lists the sale as an absolute forfeiture of title, executed under the power of attorney you filed using my digital signature yesterday afternoon," Luca said coldly. "The payment was routed through an offshore shell company in the Cayman Islands registered under your mother’s maiden name."
Vanessa’s lips parted. She stared at the paper as if it had caught fire.
"Luca, listen to me..." she began, her tone shifting from arrogant defiance to frantic pleading. "My family is in a cash bind. You know the construction unions on the South Side went on strike last week. My father needed liquidity to keep the concrete pouring at the riverfront project! I was going to buy the painting back the second the bank released our credit lines! It was a temporary loan!"
"My parents' wedding portrait," Luca whispered, his gray eyes darkening until they looked almost black. "My mother sat for that painting while she was carrying me. My father hung it over that hearth forty years ago and swore that as long as it remained in this house, the Moretti name would never bow to anyone."
He opened his hand, exposing the faded photograph resting on the center of the desk.
"And what about this, Vanessa?"
Vanessa looked down. The moment her gaze hit the photograph of the two women in the rose garden, every single drop of blood drained from her face. Her jaw went slack. The artificial golden glow of her salon tan looked suddenly grotesque against the chalky pallor of her skin.
"Where... where did you get that?" she choked out.
"It fell from behind the canvas when your buyers shoved Claire against the cabinet," Luca said.
Vanessa’s head snapped toward me, her eyes flaring with pure, unadulterated hatred. If looks could draw blood, I would have died on that leather chair.
"You," Vanessa whispered, her manicured nails digging into the arms of the chair. "You ruined everything. You pathetic little rat."
"Answer the question, Vanessa," Luca commanded, his voice vibrating with suppressed fury. "Who is the woman in the nurse's uniform?"
Vanessa didn't answer. She pulled her silk gown tighter around her knees, her breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps.
Luca stood up. He walked slowly around the desk until he was standing directly behind her chair, his tall silhouette blotting out the light from the desk lamp. He leaned down, placing both hands on the arms of her chair, trapping her between his shoulders.
"My mother died six years ago," Luca whispered into her ear. "She died believing she had buried every secret that could tear this city apart. But you knew about this photograph before tonight. You had your movers search the back of that frame specifically for this envelope. How did you know it was there, Vanessa?"
Vanessa closed her eyes, tears of terror and humiliation finally spilling through her mascara.
"Because my father has the other half of the letter," she wept softly.
Luca froze.
May you like
"What letter?"
"The adoption decree," Vanessa whispered, her voice cracking. "The one your father signed in nineteen-ninety-five. The one that proves Maria Moretti never gave birth to a son."
