Chapter 2 - THE NAME BEHIND THE FIREPLACE
“The person your father left that house to isn't dead,” Charles Whitman repeated. “And Vanessa has been in contact with them.”
Luca Moretti looked at the attorney without speaking.
Behind him, thirty-six dinner guests stood frozen beneath the chandeliers.
His fiancée's engagement ring glittered against the red silk of her dress.
And his nine-year-old daughter was still clutching the little coat her grandmother had made.
“Who is it?” Luca asked.
Charles glanced at Vanessa.
“I think you should see what your father left behind.”
Luca's jaw tightened.
“You just told me someone may own my mother's house. Now you're asking me to wait?”
“I'm asking you not to make a mistake based on incomplete information.”
Vanessa suddenly stepped forward.
“Luca, please. This doesn't have to happen in front of everyone.”
He turned toward her.
“You had no problem humiliating my daughter in front of everyone.”
She looked at Isabella.
For the first time that evening, something resembling shame crossed her face.
“I wasn't trying to hurt her.”
“Then why is she afraid of you?”
Vanessa had no answer.
I stood near the dining table, pressing a napkin against my bleeding hand.
My name is Emily Carter.
Ten months earlier, I'd taken a housekeeping job at the Moretti mansion because my mother's medical bills were piling up.
I had never expected to become involved in a family dispute worth millions.
But that evening, I understood something.
Whatever was hidden behind the fireplace had frightened Vanessa enough to make her threaten a child.
And people didn't become that frightened over ordinary paperwork.
Luca turned to me.
“Emily, you're coming with us.”
I blinked.
“Sir?”
“My daughter trusts you.”
Vanessa gave a humorless laugh.
“Wonderful. Now the housekeeper is involved in private family business.”
Luca didn't raise his voice.
“She was involved the moment you put scissors in her hand.”
He looked toward his head of security, Daniel Russo.
“Please escort our guests out. Make sure everyone gets home safely.”
Then he turned back.
“Charles. Vanessa. My study.”
Isabella caught his sleeve.
“Daddy, I want to come.”
Luca knelt.
“Sweetheart, you don't have to.”
“But Grandma gave me the key.”
He looked at the little brass key resting in his palm.
Then at the frightened child in front of him.
“All right,” he said gently. “But if you want to leave, just tell me.”
She reached for my uninjured hand.
“Miss Emily comes too.”
“Of course.”
We crossed the quiet hallway toward Luca's private study.
The room hadn't changed much since Anthony Moretti's death eight years earlier.
Dark walnut bookshelves.
A heavy leather chair.
And a wide stone fireplace surrounded by photographs of the Moretti family.
One photograph caught my attention.
Anthony stood beside Margaret on the front steps of the Lake Shore Drive residence.
Between them was a young woman holding a baby wrapped in a yellow blanket.
“Who's that?” I asked.
Luca followed my gaze.
“I don't know.”
Charles looked up sharply.
“You've never seen that picture?”
“No.”
Luca removed it from the shelf.
On the back, written in faded blue ink, were three words.
Summer, 1994. Finally home.
Vanessa turned toward the fireplace.
“Can we please finish this?”
Her impatience seemed strange.
She had spent the evening trying to keep the cabinet closed.
Now she wanted it opened.
Luca noticed too.
“You're suddenly in a hurry.”
“Because I want this nightmare over.”
He placed the photograph on the desk.
Then approached the fireplace.
Behind the decorative wooden panel on the right side was a narrow cabinet Anthony had installed years before his death.
Luca inserted the brass key.
It turned smoothly.
The lock clicked.
Isabella squeezed my hand.
“Grandpa really kept secrets,” she whispered.
Luca managed a small smile.
“Apparently.”
He opened the cabinet.
Inside sat a rectangular metal box, several leather-bound notebooks, and a photograph album.
But there was something else.
An empty space in the dust.
Something had been removed recently.
Luca ran one finger across the clean rectangle.
“Someone's already been inside.”
Vanessa shook her head.
“That's impossible.”
Charles leaned closer.
“Not necessarily. The cabinet may have been opened before Margaret gave Isabella the key.”
Luca lifted the metal box.
Inside were old financial records, property surveys, and a sealed envelope addressed to Margaret.
The envelope had never been opened.
He set it aside.
Then removed the first leather notebook.
Anthony Moretti's handwriting filled the pages.
There were dates.
Payments.
Names of construction companies.
And repeated references to a property trust established in 1994.
Charles adjusted his glasses.
“This is what Margaret was worried about.”
Luca studied a page.
“Why would my father create a trust for a house he already owned?”
“Because apparently,” Charles said, “he wasn't holding it for himself.”
Vanessa moved toward the desk.
“Those records are thirty years old. Whatever arrangement existed has probably expired.”
Charles shook his head.
“Not necessarily.”
Luca opened the photograph album.
The first pages contained pictures of Anthony and Margaret as young parents.
Then photographs from family holidays.
And finally, several pictures of a little girl.
The same child appeared year after year.
At five, standing beside a birthday cake.
At seven, sitting on Anthony's shoulders.
At ten, holding a school certificate.
Luca frowned.
“I've never seen her.”
Charles leaned over.
“That may be the beneficiary.”
Vanessa's hands began trembling.
Luca turned another page.
A photograph fell onto the desk.
It showed Anthony Moretti standing beside a teenage girl outside a brick apartment building.
On the back was a handwritten name.
Elizabeth Carter.
My breath caught.
Carter.
It wasn't an unusual surname.
But the girl had the same dark eyes as my mother.
And the same crooked smile I'd seen in photographs from her youth.
Luca looked at me.
“Emily?”
I reached for the photograph.
My fingers were shaking so badly I nearly dropped it.
“That looks like my mom.”
Vanessa stepped backward.
“No.”
Everyone turned.
She was staring directly at me.
Not at Luca.
Not at Charles.
At me.
“What?” Luca asked.
Vanessa's lips parted.
Then closed.
I studied the photograph again.
The girl couldn't have been older than seventeen.
My mother had been seventeen in 1994.
And the building behind her looked painfully familiar.
It was the apartment building in Chicago where my mother had grown up.
“Her name is Elizabeth Carter,” I whispered.
Luca stared.
“You know her?”
My throat tightened.
“She's my mother.”
Silence settled over the study.
Then Charles slowly opened one of Anthony's notebooks.
He turned several pages and stopped.
“Mr. Moretti,” he said, “I think we've found the person your father was protecting.”
Luca looked down.
Beside the name Elizabeth Carter was a handwritten instruction.
The house is to remain protected until Elizabeth or her lawful descendants can claim their interest.
I barely heard the words.
Because Vanessa was suddenly looking at my bandaged hand.
And she whispered something I would never forget.
“Your mother was never supposed to tell you.”
Luca turned.
“Tell her what?”
Vanessa closed her eyes.
Then answered.
“That Anthony Moretti wasn't just helping Elizabeth Carter.”
May you like
Her voice shook.
“He was hiding what my father did to her.”
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