The sterile white walls of the psychiatric room seemed to close in on me.
I couldn't breathe.
"Witness protection?" I repeated, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. "My mother told me he died in a car accident before my first birthday."
"She lied to keep you safe," Mrs. Moretti said, her voice trembling as she gripped the armrests of her wheelchair. "Your father's name was Arthur Vance. He was the chief accountant for the Chicago syndicate. When he realized my husband was planning to frame him for embezzlement, Arthur went to the FBI. He turned state’s evidence."
I stared at the frail woman, my mind violently rejecting the information.
I was a housemaid. I grew up in a tiny apartment on the South Side. I clipped coupons and took the bus. I had no connection to the mafia.
But Luca Moretti was looking at me now. And the expression in his dark eyes had shifted. The protective employer was gone. The boss of the Chicago family was evaluating a potential threat.
"If Arthur Vance is her father," Luca said softly, his eyes locked on mine, "why did Vanessa bring her into my house?"
"Because of the photograph," Mrs. Moretti wept.
She reached into the pocket of her blue cardigan. Her hands were shaking so badly she could barely grasp the object inside.
She pulled out a small, folded, creased photograph and held it out to Luca.
Luca took it. He unfolded it.
I stepped closer, my heart hammering against my ribs, and looked over his shoulder.
It was an old, faded Polaroid.
It showed two young men standing in front of a Chicago diner. One was Vincenzo Moretti, Luca’s late father, looking sharp and arrogant.
The other man was younger, wearing glasses and a nervous smile.
Arthur Vance. My father.
But it wasn't the men that made the air leave the room.
It was what Vincenzo Moretti was holding.
In Vincenzo’s hand was a small, ornate silver box. The family vault keybox.
And Arthur Vance was holding the only key.
"Arthur was the only man Vincenzo trusted with the physical key to the ledger vault," Mrs. Moretti explained, her voice cracking. "When Arthur fled into witness protection, he didn't give the key to the FBI. He knew if he did, Vincenzo would hunt him to the ends of the earth. So, he hid it."
She looked up at me, her eyes filled with profound sorrow.
"He hid it with his family. He hid it with you, Sophie."
I shook my head frantically. "No. I don't have a key. I don't have anything of his. We had nothing!"
"Vanessa believes you do," Luca said, his voice dangerously low. He didn't look at the photo anymore. He was staring at my injured arm. "That’s why she hired you. She’s been keeping you close. Watching you. Waiting to see if you would lead her to it."
"But why now?" I asked, desperation clawing at my throat. "I've worked here for two years. Why did she move against your mother today?"
"Because of the engagement," Mrs. Moretti cried. "Vanessa doesn't want to marry you, Luca. She wants the empire. She needs the ledgers to blackmail the capos into making her the head of the family. If she has the ledgers, she controls Chicago. But she couldn't find the vault. So she came into my room last night."
The old woman shuddered, a tear tracking through her wrinkles.
"She held a pillow over my face. She told me if I didn't tell her where Vincenzo built the vault, she would smother me. I was so scared, Luca. I told her."
Luca’s jaw clenched with such force I thought his teeth would shatter.
"You told her where the vault is."
"Yes," his mother sobbed. "But she still needs the key. And she knows Arthur gave it to Sophie’s mother before he disappeared."
Dr. Evans cleared his throat loudly from the doorway.
"Mr. Moretti, your five minutes are up. You need to leave. Now. Or I will call the police."
Luca stood up slowly. He didn't argue. He didn't threaten the doctor again.
He leaned down and kissed his mother’s forehead.
"I will be back for you. I promise."
"Don't trust her, Luca," she whispered fiercely.
Luca turned and walked out of the room. I followed him, my mind spinning so fast I felt nauseous.
We walked in silence down the sterile hallway, out the glass doors, and back to the waiting armored SUV.
Marcus was leaning against the hood, smoking a cigarette. He tossed it when he saw Luca’s face.
"Boss?" Marcus asked, opening the back door.
Luca didn't get in immediately. He turned to me.
"Where is your mother, Sophie?"
"She passed away five years ago," I said, my voice hollow. "Cancer."
"Did she leave you anything? A safety deposit box? A locket? A jewelry box?"
I thought back to the tiny box of possessions I had kept after clearing out her apartment.
"Just some old clothes. A few books. And... her wedding ring."
"Where is it?"
"In a wooden box on my dresser. At my apartment."
Luca looked at Marcus. "We aren't going back to the estate. We’re going to Sophie’s apartment."
"Luca," Marcus warned. "You have thirty VIPs sitting in your dining room waiting for you to carve the roast. If you don't show up, Vanessa is going to control the narrative. She’s going to tell them you abandoned the engagement. She’ll paint you as unstable."
"Let her paint whatever she wants," Luca said, his eyes burning with a terrifying, cold fire. "If she gets that key, she doesn't just ruin my reputation. She ruins this family. Drive."
We piled into the SUV. Marcus hit the gas, the heavy vehicle tearing down the winding driveway of the psychiatric hospital.
The drive to my small apartment on the South Side took forty-five minutes.
I sat in the back, clutching the bloody handkerchief to my arm, terrified of the man sitting next to me. He was no longer Mr. Moretti, the quiet, polite billionaire I cleaned up after. He was a mafia boss fighting for his life.
Marcus parked the SUV in the alley behind my dilapidated brick apartment building.
"Wait here," Luca told Marcus.
Luca and I walked up the three flights of stairs. The hallway smelled of old cabbage and stale cigarette smoke.
I fumbled with my keys, my left arm practically useless, and unlocked the deadbolt to apartment 3B.
I pushed the door open.
And stopped dead in my tracks.
The apartment had been destroyed.
The couch was slashed open, stuffing spilling onto the cheap carpet. The kitchen cabinets were torn off their hinges. Flour and sugar covered the linoleum floor.
Someone had tossed the place.
"Vanessa," I whispered, panic seizing my chest.
Luca drew a sleek, black 9mm handgun from his suit jacket. He stepped in front of me, clearing the small living room with terrifying, practiced precision.
"Clear."
I ran past him into my tiny bedroom.
The mattress was overturned. The drawers of my cheap plastic dresser were dumped on the floor.
I fell to my knees, frantically digging through the pile of clothes and junk.
I found the small wooden box my mother had left me. The lid was smashed.
I turned it upside down.
A few old receipts fell out. A dried rose petal.
"Is it there?" Luca asked, stepping into the doorway.
I looked up at him, tears of sheer terror welling in my eyes.
"The ring is gone," I choked out. "She took it."
Luca’s expression didn't change, but the grip on his gun tightened.
"The key wasn't in the ring, Sophie. The ring was the key. My father used a custom jeweler. The setting of the diamond was designed to fit the tumblers of the vault."
He looked around the destroyed room.
"She has the location. She has the key. She’s going for the ledgers."
Before I could process what that meant, a loud, heavy knock pounded on the front door of the apartment.
Luca instantly raised his gun, aiming it down the hallway.
"Police! Open up!" a deep voice shouted through the wood.
I froze.
Luca looked at me, a dark realization settling in his eyes.
"Vanessa didn't just toss your apartment, Sophie," Luca said quietly, lowering the gun slightly but not putting it away. "She called the cops. She’s framing you for robbing the estate, and she’s trapping me here with you."
The heavy wooden door splintered as a battering ram hit it from the outside.
