Chapter 4 - THE DAUGHTER BEHIND THE RESTAURANT DOOR
“She’s yours.”
The old man’s voice came through the speaker and seemed to settle over every piece of furniture in Luca’s office.
I stared at the phone.
Luca looked at me.
Then at the birth certificate.
His face went completely blank.
“That is impossible,” he said.
Salvatore Moretti laughed once.
“Not your daughter, Luca. Use your head.”
I almost collapsed with relief, which was ridiculous because nothing about the situation was good.
Salvatore continued.
“She is yours because she belongs to your father’s bloodline.”
Luca stopped moving.
Mrs. Caruso whispered, “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying Antonio lied to all of you.”
Bianca Bellini’s eyes narrowed.
Even she looked surprised.
Luca leaned toward the speaker.
“You have ten seconds to stop speaking in riddles.”
“Your father was the one sleeping with Angela.”
Mrs. Caruso made a sound like something had struck her.
“No.”
“Ask yourself why he paid Carlo Bellini.”
“You were with Angela,” Teresa said. “Maria told me.”
“That was the story Antonio needed you to believe.”
Mrs. Caruso shook her head.
“I saw you together.”
“You saw me drive her places. You saw me cover for my brother.”
Salvatore’s voice hardened.
“You saw exactly what Antonio wanted you to see.”
Luca looked at the portrait of his parents.
His father’s hand rested on Maria’s shoulder.
His mother smiled toward the camera.
In the reflected mirror behind them, Angela stood half hidden.
The picture suddenly meant something different.
I wanted to leave.
I wanted to be anywhere else.
My father was recovering from a stroke in a small rehabilitation facility forty minutes away.
My mother sent me texts every evening reminding me what medication he had taken, whether he had eaten, whether insurance had approved another week of therapy.
Those were my parents.
Walter and Susan Reed.
Not people in photographs.
Not dead men whose names were on buildings.
Not women hidden in family stories.
Luca said, “If Antonio was Emma’s father, why does the birth certificate list my mother?”
“To protect Angela.”
“That part I know.”
“No,” Salvatore said. “You know the version Bianca’s father sold her.”
Bianca stood.
“My father had the original records.”
“Your father had whatever Antonio paid him to keep.”
Bianca’s face tightened.
Salvatore continued.
“Maria knew about the pregnancy.”
Mrs. Caruso sat down.
“No.”
“She knew before I did.”
“Maria would have left him.”
“She tried.”
The silence that followed was different.
Not shock.
Grief.
Luca looked suddenly older.
“What happened?”
Salvatore did not answer immediately.
“When Maria found out Angela was carrying Antonio’s child, she wanted Angela out of Chicago before the family could turn the baby into a problem.”
“A problem?” I said.
Everyone looked at me.
I had forgotten I was not supposed to speak.
But something inside me had cracked.
“A baby was a problem?”
Salvatore’s voice softened.
“No, kid.”
I hated the kindness more than I would have hated cruelty.
“The men around her were the problem.”
I stepped toward the desk.
“My mother is Susan Reed.”
“Yes.”
“She gave birth to me.”
“No.”
“You don’t know her.”
“I met her.”
My stomach dropped.
“When?”
“The day she took you home.”
I could not breathe.
Luca picked up the phone.
“Where are you?”
“Florida.”
“Get on a plane.”
“No.”
“That wasn’t a request.”
Salvatore laughed again, but there was no humor in it.
“That tone worked better on people who were afraid of your father.”
“You think I’m bluffing?”
“I think someone set fire to Caruso’s tonight.”
Luca went still.
“How do you know that?”
The line became quiet.
That was the contradiction.
We had not told him.
The fire had happened barely two hours earlier.
It was not on the news yet.
Luca’s voice dropped.
“How do you know?”
Salvatore exhaled.
“Because whoever is cleaning this up called me first.”
“Who?”
The line disconnected.
Luca immediately called back.
Straight to voicemail.
He looked at Bianca.
She raised both hands.
“Don’t.”
“Your family is involved.”
“My father is dead.”
“Your sister isn’t.”
Bianca’s face hardened.
“You think Vanessa set a restaurant on fire because she doesn’t like ravioli?”
“No.”
Luca picked up the copied birth certificate.
“I think ravioli made her afraid I’d ask the right question.”
I stared at him.
“What question?”
He looked at me.
“How did you get hired here?”
I blinked.
“What?”
“Three years ago. Who hired you?”
“Mrs. Preston.”
Our former house manager.
She had retired six months after I started.
“Who referred you?”
“The agency.”
“Which agency?”
“North Shore Domestic.”
Luca reached for his laptop.
Bianca crossed her arms.
“What does that have to do with anything?”
He ignored her.
I tried to remember.
I had applied to eight positions that month.
My father’s business had been struggling even before his stroke.
I needed something stable.
Mrs. Preston had called me twice after the interview.
She said the household had a good feeling about me.
At the time, I had been grateful.
Now the phrase made my skin crawl.
Luca typed.
Then stopped.
His eyes narrowed.
“What?”
I moved closer.
He turned the laptop slightly.
An old employment email filled the screen.
The message had been sent from Mrs. Preston to Luca’s assistant.
Candidate recommended by V. Bellini. Background already reviewed. Expedite.
I felt cold.
Vanessa.
“She recommended me?”
Luca looked at me.
“You knew her before?”
“No.”
Bianca leaned over the desk.
Her face lost color.
“Oh, God.”
Luca turned.
“What?”
Bianca pointed at the date.
“That was three weeks after my father died.”
“So?”
“My father’s personal files disappeared after the funeral.”
She looked at me.
“Vanessa said she destroyed them.”
Mrs. Caruso whispered, “She found Emma.”
Bianca nodded.
“She must have.”
I backed away.
Three years.
Vanessa had known who I was for three years.
She had watched me polish silver.
Carry laundry.
Clean the room where she slept beside Luca.
She had corrected the way I folded napkins.
Once, she had made me redo an entire guest bathroom because a hand towel was turned toward the wall.
I had thought she was cruel because I was staff.
What if she had been cruel because she knew?
Luca stood.
“Why bring her into the house?”
Bianca looked at the birth certificate.
“To watch her.”
Mrs. Caruso shook her head.
“Or to keep her close.”
My phone rang.
Everyone jumped.
I looked at the screen.
MOM.
My hand shook as I answered.
“Hi.”
Susan Reed was crying.
Not quietly.
“Emma, where are you?”
“Work.”
“Are you alone?”
I looked around the room.
“No.”
She inhaled sharply.
“Get away from the Morettis.”
Every person in the office froze.
“Mom?”
“Listen to me. Do not ask questions. Do not tell them where Dad is.”
My knees weakened.
“How do you know I’m asking questions?”
Silence.
Then a man spoke in the background.
A nurse, maybe.
My mother said, “Someone came to the rehab center.”
Luca was beside me instantly.
“Who?”
My mother heard him.
Her voice broke.
“Is that Luca?”
I had never told her my employer’s first name.
Not once.
“Mom, how do you know him?”
She started crying harder.
“Emma, please.”
“Who came to see Dad?”
“A woman.”
My eyes moved to Bianca.
She shook her head.
“What woman?”
“She said her name was Vanessa Bellini.”
Luca took the phone gently from my hand.
“This is Luca Moretti.”
My mother went silent.
“No one is going near Walter again,” he said. “I’m sending security.”
“No.”
“Mrs. Reed—”
“No Moretti security. No Moretti cars. No Moretti anything.”
Her terror was so complete that even Luca stopped talking.
Then she said something that made the room tilt again.
“I already trusted one Moretti man with Emma’s life.”
Luca looked at me.
“Who?”
My mother answered.
“Your father.”
The office became silent.
Luca’s eyes went to Antonio’s portrait.
My mother continued.
“And it almost got all of us killed.”
The call ended.
For several seconds, all I heard was my own breathing.
Then Mrs. Caruso stood.
She took the old photograph from the desk.
“Antonio used to keep a room upstairs at the restaurant,” she said.
Luca nodded.
“You mentioned it.”
“No one entered after he died.”
“Why?”
“Because Maria locked it.”
Luca looked at her.
“You said my mother never came back to Caruso’s after his funeral.”
“She didn’t.”
Mrs. Caruso turned the photograph over.
ANGELA, MARIA, AND THE PROMISE.
She pressed her thumb against the word PROMISE.
A faint line appeared beneath the paper backing.
“There’s something inside this.”
Luca took a letter opener from his desk and carefully separated the photograph from the old cardboard.
A smaller strip of paper slid out.
Not a letter.
An address.
CARUSO’S — THIRD FLOOR — ROOM 3C.
Below it was a handwritten sentence.
IF ANTONIO BREAKS THE PROMISE, THE DAUGHTER GETS THE ROOM.
My mouth went dry.
“What daughter?”
Mrs. Caruso looked at me.
Then someone knocked on the office door.
One of Luca’s security men stepped inside.
“Mr. Moretti, there’s a woman at the front gate.”
Luca frowned.
“Who?”
The man looked at me.
“She says she’s Emma’s mother.”
I stared at him.
“That’s impossible.”
My phone was still in my hand.
My mother had called from the rehabilitation center.
“She’s with my dad.”
The security man’s expression did not change.
“She showed identification.”
“What name?”
He looked down at his phone.
May you like
“Angela Reed.”
Mrs. Caruso dropped the photograph.
