Chapter 3 - [THE INK THAT BOUGHT MY LIFE]
The silence in the study was so absolute I could hear the rain starting to hit the windowpanes.
Luca took the folded blue stationery from Katie’s hand.
He opened it slowly.
I watched his dark eyes scan the elegant handwriting. His jaw tightened until I thought the bone might snap.
“Luca, darling, she’s lying,” Vanessa said. Her voice was high, desperate. “The girl is obviously trying to save her own job. She’s hysterical.”
Luca didn’t raise his head. “This is your stationery, Vanessa. The custom batch from Milan.”
“Anyone could have taken a piece from my desk!”
“And forged your handwriting?” Luca asked.
He finally looked up. He didn’t look angry. He looked entirely hollowed out, which was somehow much worse.
“‘Keep the girl in Geneva,’” Luca read aloud, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “‘If she comes back to Chicago, the arrangement is off. The bracelet is your collateral.’”
I felt the blood drain from my face.
Keep me in Geneva. Never let me come back.
I was a maid. I dusted shelves and polished silver. I sent half my paycheck to my mother so she wouldn’t lose our childhood home.
Why was I worth destroying?
Richard cleared his throat. He smoothed his tie, trying to regain the arrogant posture he’d held downstairs.
“Look, Luca. The women in your life clearly have a rivalry. But I don’t get involved in domestic disputes. Give me my coat. I’m leaving.”
“You’re not going anywhere,” Luca said.
He pulled a phone from his pocket and pressed a single button. “Marco. Send the guests home. Lock the front gates. Nobody leaves.”
Richard’s eyes widened. “You can’t hold me here! I’m a respected businessman—”
“You’re a man who tried to buy a twenty-five-year-old woman,” Luca corrected. “And you’re going to sit in that chair and tell me why my dead sister’s jewelry is being used as collateral.”
Marcus, the burly driver, stepped forward, reaching inside his jacket.
Luca didn’t even blink. “Pull it out, Marcus, and I promise you’ll never use that hand again.”
The driver froze. He slowly pulled his empty hand out and took a step back.
Luca turned to me. “Emma. Take Katie to my office down the hall. Lock the door. Do not open it for anyone but me.”
“Mr. Moretti, I—”
“Go,” he said, his voice softening just a fraction. “You’re safe. I swear it on my life.”
I grabbed Katie’s hand and pulled her out of the room. We ran down the carpeted hallway and slipped into Luca’s private office.
I locked the heavy mahogany door and leaned against it, gasping for air.
“Emma,” Katie cried, burying her face in my shoulder. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have looked—”
“No,” I said fiercely, gripping her shoulders. “You saved my life today. Do you hear me? You saved me.”
I walked her over to the leather sofa and wrapped a cashmere throw over her shoulders.
The office was dark, illuminated only by the streetlights outside. The walls were lined with bookshelves. On Luca’s massive oak desk sat a single, framed photograph.
I had dusted this room a hundred times, but I had never really looked at the photo.
I walked over to the desk.
It was a picture of a teenage Luca, smiling warmly next to a young girl with dark curls. Clara.
She was wearing the silver swallow bracelet.
But there was someone else in the photo. Standing slightly behind them was a tall man in a gardener’s uniform.
I picked up the heavy silver frame, my hands shaking.
I knew that man.
He had the same kind, tired eyes I saw in the mirror every morning.
It was my father.
My father had died of a sudden heart attack two years ago. He worked in construction. He had never mentioned working for the Moretti family. Never.
I flipped the frame over. There was a small latch on the velvet back.
I opened it. The photo slid out.
Tucked behind the picture was a folded piece of yellowed newspaper.
I opened the brittle paper. It was a clipping from fifteen years ago.
TRAGEDY ON LAKE MICHIGAN: HEIRESS DIES IN BOATING ACCIDENT.
But someone had taken a red pen and circled a single paragraph near the bottom of the article.
“Police are still searching for the estate groundskeeper, Thomas Sullivan, who was reportedly the last person to see the boat depart. Sullivan has been unreachable for questioning.”
My breath stopped.
My father didn’t just work here. He was involved in Clara’s death.
Suddenly, the locked handle of the office door began to jiggle.
Someone was trying to get in.
“Emma?” a voice whispered from the hallway.
It wasn’t Luca.
It was Vanessa.
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“Emma, open the door,” she whispered, her voice dripping with venom. “I know what you just found. And if you show it to Luca, I will make sure your mother joins your father by tomorrow morning.”
TITLE: THE LIE BURIED IN THE GARDEN
