Chapter 3 - THE PHOTOGRAPH IN THE PRIVATE OFFICE
Luca did not move.
Neither did I.
Mrs. Caruso stared at Bianca Bellini as if she had just announced that one of the dead had walked through the kitchen door.
“You’re lying,” Teresa said.
Bianca tilted her head.
“Am I?”
Luca climbed the rest of the stairs.
He stopped a few feet from her.
“Say the name.”
Bianca smiled.
“No.”
“Then get out.”
“You asked where Angela’s daughter is.”
“And you decided to perform.”
“No. I decided to negotiate.”
Of course.
In Luca’s world, secrets were rarely given.
They were sold.
Bianca looked at the photograph in his hand.
“You have something my father spent years trying to find.”
“The picture?”
“The proof behind it.”
Luca’s eyes narrowed.
“There’s nothing written on it except four words.”
Bianca seemed genuinely surprised.
Then she recovered.
“So Teresa never told you.”
Mrs. Caruso stepped forward.
“Stop.”
Bianca looked at her.
“You protected them long enough.”
“I protected a child.”
“And condemned another one.”
I felt lost.
Luca did not.
He seemed to be collecting every word.
“What child?” he asked.
Bianca smiled without humor.
“My sister.”
Vanessa.
The name did not need to be spoken.
It entered the room anyway.
Luca’s expression turned dangerous.
“Be careful.”
“That warning would matter more if you knew what you were defending.”
“I’m not defending Vanessa.”
“No?”
Bianca nodded toward the black ledger.
“You were about to marry her while your father’s payments kept her family rich for twenty-eight years.”
Luca looked at the ledger.
Then back at Bianca.
“Why?”
“That’s what you should be asking.”
“I am.”
“No. You’re asking where Angela’s daughter is.”
Bianca stepped closer.
“You should ask why your father paid mine after Angela disappeared.”
The restaurant felt smaller by the second.
Mrs. Caruso said, “We need to leave.”
Bianca laughed.
“You think the basement is safe?”
“No,” Teresa said. “I think Luca’s office is.”
Luca looked at her.
“My office?”
“Your father had a private room above the restaurant before you were born.”
“I know.”
“You don’t know everything.”
Bianca’s face changed.
That was enough.
Luca took out his phone.
“Emma, take Teresa upstairs.”
I stared at him.
“What about you?”
“Bianca and I are going to have a conversation.”
Bianca folded her arms.
“Finally.”
Mrs. Caruso grabbed the ledger.
“No.”
Luca looked at her.
“No what?”
“No splitting up.”
He almost argued.
Then glass shattered in the front dining room.
We all froze.
A second crash followed.
Luca turned.
The smell came first.
Gasoline.
Bianca went pale.
“That isn’t mine.”
Luca looked at her.
“You expect me to believe that?”
Flame flashed beneath the dining room door.
Mrs. Caruso gasped.
“Kitchen exit.”
Luca shoved the photograph inside his jacket and grabbed the ledger.
We moved fast.
Smoke rolled into the hallway.
The old restaurant that had survived forty-eight Chicago winters began to burn in less than a minute.
I pulled Mrs. Caruso toward the rear door.
Behind us, Luca caught Bianca by the arm.
“You’re coming.”
“I told you I didn’t do this!”
“Then prove it outside.”
We stumbled into the alley.
Cold air hit my face.
A delivery truck blocked one end.
At the other, a dark SUV accelerated away.
Luca watched the plate.
Too far.
No chance.
Mrs. Caruso turned toward the restaurant.
“My God.”
Orange light appeared behind the kitchen windows.
She tried to go back.
I grabbed her.
“No.”
“My husband’s pictures.”
“You can’t.”
“My husband is in there.”
She meant the memories.
The walls.
The booths.
The framed wedding photo near the register.
The corner table where Luca’s father had eaten every Sunday.
Everything that made a building more than property.
Sirens sounded in the distance.
Luca stood beside Teresa.
For once, he had nothing to say.
Then the sprinkler system activated.
Water hammered the windows from inside.
Smoke poured out.
Firefighters arrived within minutes.
By midnight, the worst of the flames were contained.
The dining room was damaged.
The kitchen worse.
But the building was still standing.
Mrs. Caruso sat in the back of an ambulance with a blanket around her shoulders.
I sat beside her.
Luca stood several yards away talking to police and fire investigators.
Bianca leaned against a brick wall under the watch of two men from Luca’s security team, who had arrived after the first emergency call.
She looked less confident now.
Vanessa was nowhere.
That mattered.
At least to me.
At one in the morning, Luca came over.
“Teresa, you’re coming to the house.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I have an apartment upstairs.”
“You had smoke damage.”
“I have a niece in Oak Park.”
“You’re coming to the house.”
Mrs. Caruso glared at him.
“You were bossy at nine too.”
“So I’m told.”
She sighed.
Then looked at me.
“Emma?”
I nodded.
“I’ll make up a room.”
Luca shook his head.
“You’re not working tonight.”
The words startled me.
“Sir?”
“You inhaled smoke.”
“I’m fine.”
“That’s not a medical opinion.”
The paramedic beside us said, “She’s fine.”
Luca looked annoyed.
The paramedic shrugged.
“You brought it up.”
Mrs. Caruso laughed for the first time since the fire.
An hour later, we were back at the mansion.
The engagement flowers were still everywhere.
White roses.
Hundreds of them.
The house smelled like a celebration that had died before anyone cleaned up.
Luca took Bianca into his private office.
I helped Mrs. Caruso upstairs.
She refused the guest suite Vanessa had chosen for her own parents.
“Too much gold,” she said.
We settled on a smaller room overlooking the garden.
When I returned downstairs, Luca’s office door was open.
Bianca sat in a leather chair.
Luca stood behind his desk.
The photograph lay between them.
The black ledger sat beside it.
“Emma,” he said.
I stopped.
He surprised me again.
“Come in.”
Bianca looked irritated.
“She doesn’t need to hear this.”
Luca said, “Neither did you until tonight.”
I stepped inside.
The room was darker than the rest of the house.
Bookshelves.
A fireplace.
One framed photograph of Luca’s parents.
Nothing of Vanessa.
I had cleaned the room dozens of times, but I had never really looked at the family picture.
Now I did.
Luca’s mother, Maria, stood beside his father.
Behind them, almost hidden by a curtain, was a third woman reflected in a mirror.
I leaned closer.
“Is that Angela?”
Luca looked.
His face changed.
He picked up the frame.
Bianca stood.
“Let me see.”
He did not hand it over.
He removed the backing.
Nothing.
Then he held the picture near the lamp.
A faint crease crossed the lower corner.
“Someone cut this photo,” he said.
Bianca nodded.
“My father.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I watched him do it.”
Silence.
Bianca looked at the photograph from the restaurant.
“When I was eleven, my father kept a picture of Angela in his desk.”
“Why?”
“He said she had ruined two families.”
Mrs. Caruso’s voice came from the doorway.
“Your father ruined those families.”
We all turned.
She had come downstairs wearing a borrowed robe.
Bianca looked at her.
“You never liked him.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because Carlo Bellini sold fear for a living.”
Bianca laughed.
“And the Morettis sold flowers?”
Luca’s expression hardened.
“Enough.”
Bianca pointed to the ledger.
“My father received those payments because Antonio Moretti owed him.”
“For what?”
“Angela’s child.”
Luca’s face tightened.
Bianca continued.
“When Angela became pregnant, Salvatore wanted to leave his wife.”
Mrs. Caruso shook her head.
“No. He said he did.”
Bianca nodded.
“Exactly.”
Luca looked between them.
“What happened?”
Teresa sat down slowly.
“Your father found out.”
“My father?”
“He was afraid of scandal. Afraid of war between families. Afraid Camille’s father would retaliate.”
Luca stared at her.
“So he sent Angela away.”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Wisconsin.”
Bianca corrected her.
“At first.”
Teresa’s eyes narrowed.
Bianca smiled.
“My father moved her.”
“Why?”
“Because Antonio paid him to.”
Luca’s hand closed around the edge of the desk.
“Moved her where?”
“Indiana.”
Mrs. Caruso whispered, “No.”
Bianca ignored her.
“Angela gave birth in a private clinic outside South Bend.”
Luca’s eyes did not leave her face.
“And the baby?”
“Healthy girl.”
“Then what?”
Bianca looked down.
“My father arranged an adoption.”
Mrs. Caruso covered her mouth.
“You said she died.”
“I didn’t.”
“Your father did.”
“Yes.”
Luca’s voice was flat.
“Who adopted her?”
Bianca looked at him.
“That is where things become complicated.”
“Make them simple.”
“I can’t.”
“Try.”
Bianca took a breath.
“The adoption was never finalized under Angela’s real name.”
“Whose name?”
“Maria’s.”
Luca stopped.
“My mother?”
“Yes.”
That made no sense to me.
Then suddenly it did.
Or something worse did.
I looked at the photograph of the sisters.
They could have passed for twins.
Bianca continued.
“The paperwork listed Maria Moretti as the birth mother.”
Luca’s face lost color.
“Why?”
“To protect Angela.”
Mrs. Caruso whispered, “And to hide the baby from Salvatore.”
Bianca nodded.
Luca looked at his mother’s picture.
“If the records say my mother gave birth…”
He didn’t finish.
He didn’t have to.
Bianca did.
“Then legally, somewhere, there is a woman who may appear to be your sister.”
Silence.
“But biologically,” Bianca said, “she is your cousin.”
Luca closed his eyes for one second.
Then opened them.
“Name.”
Bianca hesitated.
He leaned forward.
“You said I had dinner with her tonight.”
“I said you had dinner with Angela’s daughter.”
“Who?”
Bianca looked toward the doorway.
For a moment I thought she would say Vanessa.
Instead, she looked at me.
Directly at me.
My stomach turned cold.
“No,” I whispered.
Bianca’s expression softened in a way that frightened me more than anything else she had done.
“Your full name is Emma Catherine Reed, isn’t it?”
I couldn’t speak.
Luca stared at her.
Then at me.
Bianca reached into her coat pocket and placed a folded photocopy on the desk.
A birth certificate.
My name was typed across the top.
EMMA CATHERINE REED.
Below it, under MOTHER, was a name I had never seen on any document in my life.
MARIA MORETTI.
The room tilted.
I grabbed the chair.
“That’s fake.”
Bianca said nothing.
“It’s fake.”
Luca picked up the paper.
I looked at him.
“My mother’s name is Susan Reed.”
Bianca’s voice was quiet.
“The woman who raised you, yes.”
I shook my head.
“No.”
Mrs. Caruso stood so quickly the chair scraped the floor.
She crossed the room and took my face in both hands.
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-seven.”
“What month were you born?”
I could barely hear my own voice.
“March.”
Her hands began trembling.
“What day?”
“March seventeenth.”
Mrs. Caruso closed her eyes.
Luca looked at her.
“Teresa?”
She opened her eyes again.
There were tears in them.
“That was the date Antonio told us Angela’s baby died.”
Nobody spoke.
Then the office phone rang.
Once.
Twice.
Luca answered.
His expression changed immediately.
“What?”
He listened.
Then looked at me.
The silence stretched.
Finally he said, “Put him through.”
A man’s voice came over the speaker.
Old.
Rough.
And furious.
“Luca, do not trust the girl.”
Luca went still.
“Uncle Salvatore.”
My blood turned to ice.
Salvatore Moretti continued.
“Emma Reed is not Angela’s daughter.”
May you like
I stopped breathing.
Then he said, “She’s yours.”
