Chapter 4 - THE DUPLICATE KEY
Julian’s words hung in the chilly air between us like poison.
"Move, Julian," Luca commanded, his voice dropping into that chilling, dangerous calm that terrified even senior board members. He didn't look at me, but his broad shoulders remained a solid wall between his brother and me.
Julian laughed, a harsh, grating sound, but he stepped back, tucking the brass keys into his trousers. "Enjoy dinner, Miss Vance. The soup is always cold in this house."
He turned and swaggered down the hall toward the dining room.
The moment Julian was out of earshot, I slipped my right hand into the pocket of my wool coat, which was still draped over my arm. My fingers brushed against the smooth silk lining, searching the bottom seam.
My fingertips hit cold metal.
I pulled out a small silver key attached to a familiar blue plastic tag. It was a duplicate of the deadbolt to my two-bedroom apartment on 84th Street.
My stomach plummeted. I turned the key over in my hand, staring at Luca. "What is this?"
Luca looked at the key, and for the first time since I had met him, genuine shock flashed across his face, quickly followed by cold fury. "I didn't put that there, Emma."
"Julian just said your chauffeur made this yesterday!" My voice broke. The walls of the estate felt like they were closing in. "Have you been having someone watch my home? Have you been going through my private life while I was working twelve hours a day for you?"
"Listen to me," Luca said, gripping my shoulders firmly, forcing me to look directly into his eyes. "I have private security on your building—I have had them there for six months, ever since the Bellinis started making threats against my executive staff. But I never authorized a key. I never ordered anyone into your home. Julian is playing us. He wants you to run. If you walk out that door right now, my grandmother executes the family trust, Julian takes Clara, and you become an open target because you're no longer under my protection."
"Your protection?" I pulled away from his grip, my heart pounding against my ribs. "Luca, I am an executive assistant! I manage schedules! I don't belong in a mafia inheritance war!"
"You're not an assistant tonight," he insisted, his voice raw. "You're the woman wearing my mother’s sapphires. Look at the key, Emma. Look closely at the tag."
I forced my trembling hands to steady and turned the blue plastic tag toward the chandelier light. Scratched into the plastic wasn't my apartment number. It was a set of initials: E.M.
"Elena Miller," Luca whispered, his eyes darkening. "Clara’s mother. That isn't the key to your apartment. That’s the key to Elena’s old safety deposit box in Newark. Julian stole it from my safe in the city."
"Then why did he tell me it was my apartment?"
"To make you distrust me," Luca said. "To make you panic and throw the bracelet at my feet before we even step into that dining room. He knows that if you break, my claim breaks with you."
Before I could process the revelation, a dry, frail voice resonated from the archway leading into the grand parlor.
"Are you going to lurk in the shadows all evening, Luca, or do you intend to introduce your guest?"
Standing in the doorway was Donna Beatrice Moretti. At eighty-two, the matriarch of the family stood barely five feet tall, leaning on an ivory-handled walking cane, draped in black lace and pearls. Her silver hair was piled high, and her dark, hooded eyes were terrifyingly sharp.
Behind her stood Sofia Bellini, looking smug, and Julian, who was watching me with an arrogant smirk.
Luca took my hand, lacing his fingers through mine. His grip was warm, steady, and unyielding. "Walk with me," he murmured under his breath. "Do not look down."
We walked into the grand parlor. The room was vast, dominated by a towering stone fireplace where birch logs crackled, and a banquet table laid with silver and crystal.
Donna Beatrice didn't look at Luca. Her gaze pinned me like an insect under glass. She leaned heavily on her cane, taking three slow, deliberate steps toward us.
"Emma Vance," the old woman said, her voice like dry leaves scraping across concrete. "Four years you have answered my grandson’s telephones and filed his taxes. And now he brings you to my Christmas table wearing Francesca’s sapphires."
"Good evening, Mrs. Moretti," I said, keeping my chin lifted and my voice level, drawing on every ounce of corporate composure I had developed handling billionaire egos.
"A secretary does not wear the Moretti sapphires," Sofia spat from near the fireplace, swirling her wine. "It’s an insult to this family. Luca is making a mockery of the charter to protect his secrets."
"The charter states clearly," Luca said, his voice cutting through the room like a blade, "that the head of the house may present his chosen partner on Christmas Eve. The lineage does not dictate the bloodline; it dictates the loyalty. Emma has given four years of unblemished loyalty to Moretti Holdings. Can you say the same, Sofia?"
Sofia's face flushed with anger. "Your father promised—"
"My father is dead," Luca said ruthlessly.
Donna Beatrice raised her ivory cane, tapping it once against the hardwood floor. The sharp crack silenced everyone instantly.
"Enough," the grandmother commanded. She stepped directly in front of me, her rheumy eyes dropping to my wrist. She reached out a withered, ring-covered hand and touched the sapphire bracelet. Her skin was parchment-thin and cold.
"Francesca loved this piece," the matriarch said softly, almost to herself. Then she looked up into my eyes, searching for any tremor of deceit. "You think you know my grandson, child. You think you know what he gives, and what he takes. But you have no idea what price he paid to keep you in that office for four years."
My brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"
Donna Beatrice turned her head slightly toward Julian. "Show her."
May you like
Julian smiled coldly. He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a faded, folded sheet of paper—a document stamped with an official hospital seal from seven years ago.
"Let's see if the loyal assistant knows who paid for her mother’s experimental heart surgery in Boston," Julian said, his eyes glittering with malice. "The anonymous charitable grant that saved your mother's life wasn't a charity, Emma. It was a contract. Signed by Luca Moretti three years before he ever hired you."
