Chapter 3 - THE SAFE HOUSE
The brass key slid into the lock of apartment 402 with a quiet click.
I pushed the heavy oak door open, stepping into absolute darkness. The air inside smelled of dust, old books, and faint lavender. I reached for the wall switch, my bandaged right hand throbbing aggressively from the cold.
The lights flickered on, revealing a stunning, meticulously furnished penthouse. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the glittering Chicago skyline, rain lashing against the glass. The furniture was covered in white linen sheets, untouched for months.
I locked the deadbolt behind me, leaning against the door as exhaustion finally caught up with me. I was wearing Luca’s oversized cashmere coat, clutching his father’s shattered silver pocket watch in my left hand.
Why was there blood on it?
I checked my own hands. The blood wasn't mine. It was fresh, dark, and deliberate. A warning? A message?
I walked into the massive living room, pulling the damp coat tighter around my shoulders. The silence of the apartment was unnerving. Luca said he would come at midnight. The antique grandfather clock in the corner read 11:15 PM. I had forty-five minutes to wait.
“Hello?” I called out softly.
No answer.
I walked toward the hallway, looking for a bathroom to check the bandages on my fingers. As I passed the master bedroom, a flash of color caught my eye.
I stopped.
The door was slightly ajar. A small nightlight was plugged into the wall, casting a warm yellow glow across the hardwood floor.
Sitting in the middle of the floor, surrounded by a dozen scattered crayons, was a little girl.
She couldn't have been more than six years old. She wore a pale pink nightgown, her dark curls tumbling over her shoulders. She was coloring furiously on a large sheet of paper, her tiny shoulders tense.
My breath caught in my throat. I had worked at the Moretti mansion for nearly a year. Luca didn't have a child. He had no nieces or nephews. His only brother, Leo, had died tragically three years ago.
“Hi there,” I whispered softly, kneeling down near the doorway so I wouldn't frighten her.
The little girl flinched, dropping her blue crayon. She looked up at me. Her eyes were enormous, dark, and startlingly familiar. They were Luca’s eyes.
She stared at my bandaged hand, then at the oversized man's coat I was wearing. She didn't speak. She just pulled her knees to her chest, looking terrified.
“It’s okay,” I promised, keeping my voice gentle. “My name is Grace. I’m a friend. What’s your name?”
She pressed her lips together, shaking her head.
I noticed a child’s backpack sitting on the bed. A name was embroidered on it in silver thread. Mia.
“Mia?” I asked softly.
She nodded once, very slowly.
“Are you waiting for Mr. Moretti too?” I asked.
At the mention of his name, a tear spilled over Mia’s cheek. She pointed a tiny, trembling finger toward the drawing on the floor.
I crawled forward, wincing as my bruised knuckles protested. I looked down at the paper.
It wasn't a child’s scribble. It was vividly, horrifyingly clear.
She had drawn a grand staircase. At the top of the stairs stood a woman with bright blonde hair, wearing a distinct red dress and a large, jagged necklace.
Vanessa.
At the bottom of the stairs, lying in a pool of red crayon, was a man.
And hiding behind a potted plant, represented by a tiny stick figure with big tears on its face, was the little girl.
My stomach plummeted. Three years ago, Luca’s older brother, Leo, had fallen down the grand staircase of the Moretti estate. The official report said it was a tragic accident after too much scotch.
But this drawing...
“Mia,” I whispered, my voice trembling. “Did you see this happen?”
Before she could nod, the heavy thud of the front door unlocking echoed through the penthouse.
Mia gasped, scrambled backward, and hid under the massive four-poster bed.
I jumped to my feet, grabbing a heavy brass candlestick from the nightstand. If Vanessa’s men had found us, I wasn't going down without a fight.
Heavy footsteps moved rapidly down the hallway. A shadow fell across the doorway.
I raised the candlestick.
Luca stepped into the room.
His black suit was soaked with rain. His tie was gone, his collar undone. And across his right cheekbone was a fresh, angry cut, still bleeding slightly.
He saw me, saw the candlestick in my hand, and let out a long, ragged exhale.
“Put it down, Grace,” he said roughly, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him. “It’s just me.”
I lowered the brass weight, my hands shaking. “You’re bleeding. What happened?”
“Donatello’s men weren't entirely convinced by Vanessa’s little show. They tried to follow my car. I had to lose them.” He rubbed his jaw, looking exhausted. Then his eyes drifted to the floor.
He saw the crayons.
He saw the drawing.
Luca froze completely. The color drained from his face.
“Where did this come from?” he demanded, his voice dropping an octave.
“She was here when I arrived,” I said, my heart pounding. “Luca... who is she?”
Luca slowly dropped to his knees. He looked under the bed.
“Mia?” he whispered. His voice broke. It was the most vulnerable sound I had ever heard a man make. “Piccola mia?”
Slowly, the little girl crawled out from under the bed. The moment she saw Luca’s face, she threw her arms around his neck, burying her face in his soaked shoulder, sobbing silently.
Luca wrapped his large arms around her tiny frame, burying his face in her dark curls. He was shaking.
I stood there, entirely bewildered. “You didn't know she was here?”
Luca looked up at me over the child’s shoulder. His dark eyes were burning with a mixture of profound relief and lethal rage.
“My brother’s daughter died in a car accident two years ago,” Luca said softly, holding the child tighter. “I buried an empty casket because the car burned. That’s what Vanessa told me.”
My hand flew to my mouth.
“Vanessa hid her,” I breathed. “She’s been using her to control you.”
Luca looked down at the drawing on the floor. At the blonde woman pushing the man down the stairs.
“She didn't just hide her,” Luca said, his voice turning into ice. “She orphaned her.”
Luca stood up, lifting Mia effortlessly into his arms. She clung to him like he was her only lifeline.
He looked at me, his gaze dropping to the oversized coat I was wearing. “Did you find the watch in the pocket?”
“Yes,” I said, reaching into the coat and pulling it out. “But Luca... the glass is broken. And there’s blood on it.”
Luca stared at the shattered antique. He didn't look surprised. He looked terrified.
“That’s not my father’s watch,” Luca said quietly.
I frowned, looking down at the heavy silver object. “What do you mean? You carry this every day. I’ve seen you—”
“Grace, turn it over.”
My injured fingers fumbled as I flipped the heavy watch over.
On the smooth silver back, an inscription was engraved in elegant script.
To my beloved husband, Thomas Parker. Forever yours, Eleanor.
I stopped breathing.
Thomas Parker.
My father.
My father died in a hit-and-run accident twenty years ago. The police never found the driver. We lost everything. My mother and I had been drowning in debt ever since.
“How...” My voice was a broken whisper. “How do you have my father’s watch?”
May you like
Luca looked at me, the weight of the world resting on his shoulders.
“Because, Grace,” he said softly. “Vanessa didn't randomly hire you eleven months ago. She brought you into my house on purpose. And we have exactly three hours to find out why, before she has us both killed.”
