Chapter 10 - THE EMPTY HOUSE
Two weeks passed.
The engagement ring on my finger was no longer a prop; it was a promise.
The transition from housekeeper to the Lady of the Moretti estate was jarring.
Mrs. Carter, who used to scold me for missing a spot of dust, now asked me to approve the weekly menus. The security guards, who used to ignore me, now opened doors and addressed me as "Ma'am."
But the biggest change was Luca.
Without the looming threat of Victor Rossi and Vanessa’s toxic presence, the ruthless mafia boss softened.
He spent his evenings in the library with Leo, teaching him how to play chess. He made sure my favorite flowers were on the nightstand every morning.
We were happy.
But in the mafia world, peace is usually just a deep breath before a plunge.
It was a Tuesday evening.
Luca was late returning from a meeting downtown.
I was sitting in the cedar room.
I had taken it upon myself to clean up the mess Vanessa had made when she broke the green trunk.
I had carefully placed the old letters and pressed flowers into a new, beautiful oak chest.
I was holding Luca’s mother’s lace veil, folding it delicately, when I noticed something stitched into the hem.
It was thick. Stiff.
I ran my fingers over the antique lace.
There was a small slit in the fabric.
Curiosity got the better of me. I slipped two fingers inside the hem and pulled.
A small, folded piece of parchment paper came out.
It was old, yellowed with age.
I unfolded it.
It was a letter. Written in Italian.
I recognized Luca’s mother’s handwriting immediately.
I didn't speak fluent Italian, but working in the Moretti household, I had picked up enough to translate the basic words.
I read the first few lines, translating them in my head.
To my dearest son, Luca.
If you are reading this, I am gone. And I must confess my greatest sin.
My heart began to race.
I read the next line.
Your father did not die of a heart attack.
I stopped breathing.
The official story—the story the entire Chicago syndicate believed for twenty years—was that Don Moretti had died peacefully in his sleep, leaving his young son to inherit the throne.
I stared at the faded ink, struggling to translate the next sentence.
I poisoned him, Luca. Because I discovered what he did to your sister.
The paper slipped from my trembling hands.
Luca’s sister, Sofia, had died in a tragic drowning accident when she was twelve. Luca never spoke of her. The grief was still too raw, even decades later.
Answer one: The mother’s ledger wasn't her only secret. She had murdered the Don.
Open two: What did Don Moretti do to his own daughter? And if the Commission found this letter, what would they do to Luca’s legacy?
Before I could pick the letter up from the floor, the door to the cedar room opened.
Luca stood there.
He looked exhausted. His suit jacket was slung over his shoulder, his tie loosened.
He smiled when he saw me.
“There you are,” he said softly, walking into the room.
Then his eyes fell on the yellowed parchment resting on the floor near my feet.
He stopped.
May you like
His smile vanished.
“Hannah,” Luca said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, unrecognizable whisper. “Where did you find that?”
