Chapter 3 - THE CREST OF LIES
“That’s impossible,” I breathed, stepping back.
Luca’s dark eyes locked onto mine.
“My wife died in a hit-and-run six years ago. The police found a silver key just like this one at the scene. It belongs to a private vault at the Continental Bank.”
My chest tightened.
My father was a quiet mechanic. He died of a heart attack three years ago.
He couldn't be connected to a mafia boss’s tragedy.
“Mr. Moretti, are you sure?”
Luca didn't answer. He just stared at the key.
“Why would Vanessa have this?” he muttered.
“Maybe her father gave it to her?” I suggested.
Before Luca could respond, his head of security, Marco, walked into the dining room.
“Boss, the Bellinis have left the property. But we found something in Vanessa’s car.”
Marco held up a small, folded piece of paper.
Luca took it and unfolded it.
I saw the color leave his face again.
He handed it to me.
It was a printed receipt from a Chicago auto shop.
Dated seven months ago.
The exact day of Sofia’s car accident.
The receipt was for a brake line replacement.
“The brakes failed on my daughter's car,” Luca whispered. “The police said it was a mechanical defect.”
I looked at the name of the auto shop on the receipt.
Carter’s Auto Repair.
My father’s old shop. The one my mother still owned.
“Emily,” Luca said slowly. “Why is your family’s name on a receipt for the car that almost paralyzed my daughter?”
I shook my head, tears springing to my eyes.
“I don't know. My mom just owns the building now. She leases it out!”
Sofia tugged on Luca’s sleeve.
“Daddy, Emily didn't do it. She takes care of me.”
Luca looked down at his daughter, then back at me.
His expression was unreadable.
“Marco,” Luca ordered. “Put Emily in the guest room. Lock the door. Do not let her call anyone.”
“Wait!” I cried. “You can't think I had anything to do with this!”
“I don't know what to think anymore,” Luca said, his voice cold.
Marco grabbed my arm gently but firmly.
As he pulled me away, I looked back.
Sofia was crying, reaching out for me.
“Emily!”
They locked me in a dark bedroom on the second floor.
I paced the floor for hours.
Then, around midnight, I heard a soft scratch at the door.
A piece of paper slid under the crack.
I picked it up.
It was a child’s drawing of a butterfly. Sofia’s favorite.
May you like
But on the back, written in messy, hurried handwriting, were the words:
Don't trust Marco. He was driving the car.
