Chapter 2 - Someone Inside the House
Luca reached the hallway before the kitchen door finished swinging.
“Stop.”
The word cracked through the corridor.
A figure disappeared around the corner.
Luca ran.
He passed the servants’ staircase, crossed the west gallery, and caught a glimpse of black fabric near the conservatory.
“Marco!”
Footsteps thundered behind him as Marco DeSantis, Luca’s security chief and oldest friend, came running.
“Lock the estate down.”
“What happened?”
“Now.”
Marco touched the radio clipped beneath his jacket.
“Nobody enters or leaves. Shut the gates.”
Luca reached the conservatory.
Empty.
The French doors were locked from the inside.
He checked behind the curtains.
Nothing.
Then he noticed something on the floor.
A silver cuff link.
Luca picked it up.
A tiny letter M was engraved into the metal.
Marco stopped beside him.
“That yours?”
“No.”
Luca closed his fist around it.
There were dozens of men connected to the Moretti organization whose surname began with M.
There was only one person in the house that morning whose cuff links bore the family crest.
His uncle.
Vittorio Moretti.
The man who had practically raised Luca after Luca’s father died.
The man who had stood beside him at Elena’s funeral.
Luca looked toward the second floor.
“Where’s Vittorio?”
Marco hesitated.
“Breakfast room.”
“Keep him there.”
Luca returned to the kitchen.
Clara had crouched beside Sofia, speaking softly to her.
When Luca entered, Sofia ran toward him.
“Daddy, are we in trouble?”
He knelt.
“No.”
“You look angry.”
“I am.”
“At Clara?”
That question hit harder than it should have.
Luca looked over his daughter’s head.
Clara stood near the counter, pale and frightened.
“No,” he said. “Not at Clara.”
Sofia wrapped her arms around his neck.
He held her tightly.
Four years earlier, he had buried Elena.
Or at least he had buried a sealed coffin he had been told contained Elena.
The accident had happened on a mountain road during a storm. The car burned before emergency crews arrived. Identification had supposedly been made through jewelry and dental records.
Luca had never viewed the body.
Vittorio had convinced him not to.
“Remember her alive,” his uncle had said.
For four years Luca had believed those words were kindness.
Now they sounded different.
He stood and handed Sofia to Marco.
“Take her upstairs.”
“No,” Sofia protested.
“Sofia.”
“I want Clara.”
Clara's expression changed.
Luca noticed.
His daughter had not reached for him.
She had reached for the maid.
“Clara comes too.”
“Mr. Moretti—”
“That wasn’t a request.”
Clara stiffened.
Sofia looked frightened again.
Luca immediately regretted his tone.
“Please.”
Clara nodded.
As they started toward the door, Luca said, “Clara.”
She stopped.
“You said Elena came into that bakery every Thursday.”
“Yes.”
“How many times?”
“For almost six months.”
That made no sense.
“You saw her for six months?”
“Yes.”
“And you never knew her name?”
“She called herself Anna.”
“Did she ever mention me?”
Clara looked uncomfortable.
“Once.”
“What did she say?”
Clara glanced toward Sofia.
Luca understood.
“Marco, take Sofia.”
When they were gone, Clara lowered her voice.
“She said she loved a man who lived in a beautiful prison.”
Luca stared at her.
“She said the prison belonged to his family, but he didn’t know he was trapped inside it.”
The words landed like stones.
“What else?”
“One morning she came in crying. She asked if she could use our telephone.”
“Who did she call?”
“I don't know. But I heard her say something.”
“What?”
Clara swallowed.
“She said, ‘If Luca discovers what his uncle did, there’ll be a war.’”
Luca's face hardened.
“Why didn't you tell me this when you came to work here?”
“Because I didn't know you were that Luca.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“When I applied, the agency only said Moretti Estate. I knew her as Anna. I had never seen your face.”
“But you recognized Sofia.”
“Not immediately.”
“When?”
Clara's eyes lowered.
“The first morning she came into the kitchen.”
“And?”
“She asked for cinnamon rolls.”
Luca felt a chill.
“Then she started humming that song.”
“What?”
“She knew part of it. Only the beginning.”
Clara's voice trembled.
“She said her mother used to sing it.”
Luca turned away.
Elena had sung that song to Sofia hundreds of times.
That proved nothing.
But the photograph did.
Unless the date was false.
“Marco!”
His security chief appeared seconds later.
“Have the photograph authenticated.”
“Already started.”
“And pull every record from Elena's accident.”
Marco nodded.
“Everything?”
“Everything. Police report. Coroner. Dental identification. Tow company. Funeral home. Every person who touched that case.”
Marco left.
Clara spoke behind Luca.
“There's something I never told anyone.”
He turned.
“The last time I saw that woman in Boston, she gave me something.”
“What?”
“I don't have it anymore.”
His eyes narrowed.
“Where is it?”
“She gave me a key.”
“To what?”
“I didn't know.”
“And you lost it?”
“No.”
Clara looked toward the kitchen floor.
“I hid it.”
“Where?”
“In the bakery.”
Luca stared at her.
“After she left, two men came looking for her. They searched my purse. They followed me home. I got scared, so the next morning I taped the key beneath one of the old preparation tables.”
“Is the bakery still there?”
“I think so.”
Luca pulled out his phone.
“We're going to Boston.”
“Today?”
“Now.”
A voice came from the doorway.
“That would be a mistake.”
Luca slowly turned.
Vittorio Moretti stood there.
Sixty-two years old.
Silver-haired.
Perfectly dressed.
His uncle looked from Luca to Clara.
Then to the photograph on the counter.
For the first time in Luca's life, Vittorio looked afraid.
“Where did you get that?”
Luca said nothing.
Vittorio stepped closer.
“Luca.”
Luca opened his hand.
The silver cuff link rested on his palm.
Vittorio looked down.
His eyes changed.
“You dropped something.”
Silence.
Then Vittorio calmly raised both wrists.
His shirt cuffs were empty.
“I can explain.”
“Good.”
Luca stepped closer.
“Start with why you were listening outside my kitchen.”
“I wasn't.”
“Then explain the cuff link.”
Vittorio looked at Clara.
“Ask her.”
Luca's eyes narrowed.
Vittorio pointed at the maid.
“You're looking for a traitor inside this house?”
He gave a humorless smile.
“She arrived six weeks ago.”
He looked at Luca.
“And suddenly your dead wife starts sending photographs.”
Clara went white.
Vittorio's next words silenced the room.
“That woman didn't come here by accident, Luca.”
He pointed at Clara.
“Someone sent her.”
Clara whispered, “That's not true.”
Vittorio reached into his jacket.
Marco instantly drew his gun.
“Easy.”
Vittorio slowly removed an envelope.
He tossed it onto the counter.
Luca opened it.
Inside were surveillance photographs.
Clara.
At a Boston train station.
Clara entering a bank.
Clara standing outside the Moretti estate two months before she supposedly applied for the job.
Luca looked up.
Clara's face collapsed.
“Clara?”
She began crying.
“I can explain.”
Vittorio smiled coldly.
“Of course she can.”
Luca stared at the woman his daughter trusted.
“Were you watching my house before you became my maid?”
Clara said nothing.
“Answer me.”
May you like
Finally, she whispered:
“Yes.”
