Chapter 3 - THE MAN WHO CARRIED HER COFFINLuca Moretti listened to his mother's last night again.
Then a third time.
By the fourth replay, Marco Bellini had quietly removed every sharp object from the desk beside him.
Not because Luca had threatened anyone.
Because he hadn't said a single word.
And Marco knew his boss well enough to understand that silence was far more dangerous than shouting.
On the laptop, Bianca Romano's voice sounded almost cheerful.
"How long before he finds out?"
Vittorio Moretti answered with a low chuckle.
"Finds out what? That his mother died? He already knows she's sick."
"And the maid?"
"We'll handle her if she becomes a problem."
The recording ended.
Luca stared at the darkened screen.
Vittorio.
His father's younger brother.
The man who taught him to ride a bicycle when he was six. The man who taught him to shoot when he was thirteen. The man who attended every birthday dinner, every graduation, every funeral.
Vittorio had carried one corner of Elena Moretti's coffin.
Luca remembered watching tears roll down his uncle's cheeks.
Now he wondered whether those tears had been real.
"Boss," Marco said.
Luca didn't answer.
"Vittorio's car just entered the front gate."
That finally made him move.
He stood.
"Nobody tells him what we've discovered."
Marco nodded.
"And Bianca?"
"Keep her in the east sitting room. Take her phone. Search her belongings. No visitors."
"Understood."
Luca turned to Emma, who had been sitting silently beneath a blanket while Dr. Harris examined the injuries to her wrists.
"You need to rest."
Emma shook her head.
"You can't let him know."
"Emma—"
"Mr. Moretti, please listen."
Her voice was stronger now.
"Your uncle isn't a man who makes mistakes because he's frightened. He's a man who makes other people pay for his mistakes."
Luca looked at her.
"You knew?"
"I suspected."
"For how long?"
"Since the night your mother died."
The words landed like stones.
Luca struggled to keep his voice even.
"Then why didn't you come to me?"
Emma's face crumpled.
"Because I tried."
He frowned.
"What?"
"The morning after her death. I came to your office with a letter. I told your secretary it was urgent."
"I wasn't here."
"I know. Your uncle came."
Luca felt the blood drain from his face.
"He took the letter?"
"He said he would deliver it personally."
"Did he?"
Emma stared at the carpet.
"No."
Luca understood.
That afternoon, eleven months earlier, Vittorio had told him the maid was stealing valuables from Elena's bedroom.
He remembered ordering the household staff to search Emma's locker.
Nothing had been found.
Vittorio dismissed the accusation as a misunderstanding.
Luca had never asked Emma about it.
He had been grieving.
Busy.
Angry.
And terribly easy to manipulate.
"Why did you stay?" he asked.
Emma gave a small, exhausted shrug.
"Because your mother asked me to protect something."
"The key?"
"More than the key."
Before Luca could question her, Marco's earpiece crackled.
"He's asking for you, boss."
Luca looked toward the door.
Then made a decision.
"Emma stays with Dr. Harris. Marco, put four men in this hallway. Men who answer only to you."
"And Vittorio?"
Luca buttoned his jacket.
"I'll have dinner with my uncle."
Vittorio Moretti stood in the grand dining room beneath a crystal chandelier worth more than most people earned in a decade.
At sixty-one, he remained handsome in a silver-haired, aristocratic way. His tailored navy suit concealed a body that had once been strong enough to lift a grown man by the collar.
His smile widened when Luca entered.
"My boy!"
He opened his arms.
Luca embraced him.
For one terrible second, he remembered doing the same thing at his mother's funeral.
"Uncle."
Vittorio squeezed his shoulder.
"You're home early. Bianca said you wouldn't arrive until midnight."
"Plans changed."
"Business?"
"Something like that."
A servant approached with wine.
Vittorio accepted a glass.
Luca declined.
"You look troubled," Vittorio observed.
"Long day."
"Marriage preparations?" His uncle laughed. "They turn every man into a nervous wreck."
Luca studied him.
Eleven months.
Eleven months of Sunday dinners, birthday calls, business meetings, and advice.
All while this man knew exactly what had happened to Elena.
"Speaking of Bianca," Luca said, "we had an argument."
Vittorio raised an eyebrow.
"Already?"
"She accused one of the maids of stealing."
"Ah."
Something flickered in the older man's eyes.
"What maid?"
"Emma Carter."
Vittorio's wineglass stopped halfway to his mouth.
It was a tiny movement.
But Luca saw it.
"That girl again?"
"Again?"
Vittorio smiled.
"Your mother was far too trusting of her."
"Was she?"
"Elena had a weakness for wounded birds. She collected them, gave them shelter, and expected gratitude."
Luca slowly pulled out a chair.
"Did my mother ever tell you about a second will?"
For the first time, Vittorio lost his smile.
"Second will?"
"Apparently she considered changing some things."
"Who told you that?"
"A lawyer mentioned it."
"Which lawyer?"
Luca leaned back.
"Why?"
Vittorio laughed, but the sound was stiff.
"Because we've already settled the estate. Anyone reopening that subject is either a fool or a thief."
"Interesting."
"Listen to me, Luca."
Vittorio set down his wine.
"You've worked too hard to build what you have. Don't let servants and sentimental strangers interfere with family."
Luca looked at him for a long moment.
Then smiled.
"You're right, Uncle."
Vittorio relaxed.
A mistake.
"Family comes first," Luca continued.
"Always."
"Even when family lies?"
Vittorio's face changed.
"What exactly are you suggesting?"
"Nothing."
Luca rose.
"Enjoy dinner. I have something to take care of."
He walked out before Vittorio could stop him.
But as he reached the hallway, he heard his uncle speaking into a phone.
"She's still here," Vittorio whispered.
A pause.
"No. He doesn't know everything."
Another pause.
Then:
"Move the girl tonight. Before he finds out who she really is."
Luca kept walking.
He didn't turn.
He didn't rush.
But the instant he entered his private office, he called Marco.
"Find everything you can about Emma Carter. Her parents. Her childhood. Her previous employers. Every record."
"Why?"
"Because my uncle knows something about her that I don't."
Upstairs, Emma sat alone beside the window.
Dr. Harris had cleaned the cuts on her wrists and given her medication for the pain.
She should have been relieved.
Bianca had been restrained.
Luca knew the truth.
For the first time in months, she was no longer completely alone.
But relief wouldn't come.
Instead, she watched the darkness settling over the gardens and remembered Elena Moretti's last warning.
Emma, when Luca learns the truth, he may hate you before he understands.
Emma touched the brass key around her neck.
Twenty-two years.
That was how long the secret had followed her.
She had been ten years old when the fire destroyed Blackthorn House.
Ten when the newspapers announced that three people had died.
Ten when the authorities changed her name.
And ten when a frightened little girl learned that wealthy men could erase entire families with the stroke of a pen.
A quiet knock sounded.
Emma turned.
"Come in."
The door opened.
Vittorio Moretti stepped inside.
He smiled.
"Hello, sweetheart."
Emma's blood turned cold.
He closed the door behind him.
"I hear you've been telling stories."
She stood so quickly the blanket fell from her shoulders.
"Mr. Moretti—"
"Don't insult me."
His smile vanished.
"I know exactly who you are."
Emma backed toward the window.
Vittorio moved closer.
"And if my nephew discovers your real name, he'll know why you came into this house."
He reached into his jacket.
Emma's breath caught.
But instead of a weapon, he withdrew an old photograph.
Three people stood outside a white farmhouse.
A smiling mother.
A serious-looking father.
And a little girl with dark curls.
Emma's family.
Vittorio held the photograph between two fingers.
"Your father should have minded his own business."
Emma felt tears sting her eyes.
"You murdered them."
Vittorio tilted his head.
"Careful, Emma."
Then he said something that made her heart stop.
"Your brother made the same accusation this morning."
Emma stared at him.
"My brother is dead."
Vittorio smiled.
"Is he?"
May you like
He leaned close enough for her to smell the expensive whiskey on his breath.
"Then perhaps you should explain why he's currently tied to a chair in one of my warehouses."
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