Chapter 3 - The Photograph of a Dead Woman
For several seconds, I couldn't breathe.
My mother had been dead for three years.
I'd spent those years working double shifts, paying rent, and trying to keep Sasha from falling apart.
Now a stranger was showing me a photograph of her standing beside Chicago's most feared man.
“Where did you get that?”
Alessandro watched me carefully.
“It was delivered to my office twenty minutes ago.”
“Who took it?”
“I don't know.”
“When was it taken?”
“About eighteen years ago.”
I stared at the photograph.
My mother looked younger, perhaps in her early thirties. She wore a dark blue dress and a delicate silver necklace.
Alessandro stood beside her, his expression considerably less severe than it was now.
He looked almost happy.
I touched the photograph.
“Why were you with my mother?”
“That's what I'm trying to find out.”
“You knew her?”
“I knew Elena Bennett.”
My throat tightened.
“What did you do to her?”
His eyes sharpened.
“Nothing.”
“Then why is someone sending you photographs of her?”
“That is a question I intend to answer.”
I stood abruptly.
“I want to go home.”
He didn't stop me.
“Luca.”
A young man appeared beside him.
“Take Miss Bennett home. Two cars. No one follows her.”
I shook my head.
“I don't need an escort.”
“You do tonight.”
“Mr. Moretti, I don't know what this is, but I'm not part of your business.”
He stood.
“Your mother was.”
The words struck harder than a slap.
I stared at him.
“What does that mean?”
Before he could answer, the silver-dressed woman approached again.
Her name, I learned later, was Vivienne DeLuca.
She was the daughter of a powerful Moretti ally, and her engagement to Alessandro had been announced six months earlier.
“Alessandro, we're leaving.”
“Not yet.”
Her gaze moved to the photograph.
The change in her expression was quick, but I caught it.
She recognized my mother.
I was certain of it.
“Do you know her?” I asked.
Vivienne looked at me.
“No.”
“Then why did you just turn white?”
Her smile returned.
“Because this conversation is becoming ridiculous.”
Alessandro folded the photograph.
“Vivienne, go to the car.”
“Excuse me?”
“Now.”
She stared at him, then at me.
For the first time, I saw something beneath her polished appearance.
Fear.
She walked away.
Luca escorted me through a private exit.
Outside, snow fell over Chicago's streets. A black SUV waited beside the curb.
I gave the driver my address and spent the entire ride staring at the photograph.
My mother had never mentioned Alessandro Moretti.
Not once.
When we arrived, I found Sasha sitting on our apartment floor surrounded by schoolbooks.
She looked up.
“Finally! I thought you'd been kidnapped.”
I almost laughed.
“Not exactly.”
Then she saw my face.
“What happened?”
I handed her the photograph.
Her expression changed immediately.
“That's Mom.”
“I know.”
“Who's the man?”
“Alessandro Moretti.”
Sasha went still.
“Why does that name sound familiar?”
“Because he's practically Chicago royalty.”
She studied the photograph.
Then her eyes widened.
“Wait.”
She grabbed one of Mother's old notebooks from the shelf.
“Remember when we were cleaning out her things? I found something tucked inside the back cover.”
She opened it.
A small photograph slipped out.
It showed my mother holding a newborn baby.
On the back, in her handwriting, were the words:
My little girl. My greatest sacrifice.
I looked at Sasha.
“That's me?”
She nodded.
But something else was written underneath.
A date.
The same date as the photograph Alessandro had shown me.
I reached for the notebook.
A folded letter fell out.
My mother's handwriting trembled across the page.
Nerissa, if you're reading this, then Alessandro has finally found you. Do not trust the Moretti family. Especially not the woman who wears the silver necklace.
I looked at the photograph.
My mother wore a silver necklace.
But Vivienne did too.
The same design.
The same small sapphire.
My phone vibrated.
An unknown number.
You have until midnight to return what Elena stole.
A second message arrived.
Otherwise, your sister dies.
Sasha looked at me.
“What does it mean?”
I grabbed her hand.
“I don't know.”
Then someone knocked three times on our apartment door.
A man's voice came through the wood.
“Miss Bennett? Mr. Moretti sent me.”
I approached cautiously.
“What's your name?”
“Luca.”
I recognized his voice.
I opened the door.
He stood there holding a black leather case.
“Mr. Moretti wants you to see what's inside.”
I took it.
The moment I opened the case, my knees nearly buckled.
Inside was a hospital identification bracelet.
My name was printed across it.
May you like
NERISSA MORETTI.
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