Chapter 2 - THE LAST CUP ANTHONY MORETTI EVER DRANK
“He served Anthony his last cup.”
Evelyn Moretti's words remained suspended over the dinner table.
Forty-four guests sat motionless beneath the crystal chandeliers.
Nobody reached for a glass.
Nobody touched their food.
And Vanessa Bellini's father, Richard Bellini, looked at the little silver teaspoon as though it had just been pulled from a grave.
Luca Moretti slowly approached him.
“My mother asked you a question.”
Richard straightened his expensive gray jacket.
“Your mother made an accusation, Luca. There's a difference.”
“Were you with my father the night he died?”
Richard looked toward his daughter.
Vanessa was crying now.
“Daddy, tell him this is ridiculous.”
But Richard didn't answer her.
Instead, he looked at Evelyn.
“After everything your husband did for this family, Evelyn, is this how you repay him?”
The old woman's trembling hands curled around mine.
I felt her fingers tighten.
“Don't speak to my mother that way,” Luca said.
Richard gave a bitter laugh.
“Your father trusted me for twenty-six years. I helped him build half the businesses you inherited.”
“And now I'm asking whether you served him tea.”
Richard's face hardened.
“Yes.”
The room seemed to shrink.
“Yes, I served Anthony tea that evening. He'd been complaining about chest pain. His doctor told him to avoid alcohol. I brought him something warm.”
Arthur Bennett stepped forward.
“That's not what you told the family after the funeral.”
Richard turned sharply.
“Excuse me?”
“You said Anthony poured his own whiskey that night.”
Richard's jaw tightened.
“It's been nine years, Arthur.”
“Nine years doesn't change what I heard.”
Luca looked between them.
“What did you hear?”
Arthur hesitated.
Then he glanced toward Evelyn.
“Your father was frightened that night.”
Richard snorted.
“Anthony Moretti? Frightened?”
“Yes,” Arthur replied. “And he asked me to prepare his emergency signal.”
I looked down at the overturned cup.
Three sugar cubes.
A silver spoon.
Something terrible had happened in this dining room long before I arrived.
And Evelyn had spent nine years trying to tell her son.
Suddenly, Daniel, Luca's security chief, returned from the hallway.
“Sir, the physician is on his way. Police have been contacted.”
“Good.”
Daniel lowered his voice.
“There's another problem.”
Luca turned.
“What problem?”
“The kitchen staff says Mrs. Bellini personally brought a small bottle into the preparation area tonight.”
Vanessa stopped crying.
“That was my mother's herbal extract.”
“Where is it?” Luca asked.
“In my handbag.”
“Then leave the bag where it is.”
Vanessa clutched the leather strap.
“You're treating me like a criminal.”
“I'm treating my mother's warning seriously.”
Richard stood.
“This dinner is over. Vanessa, come with me.”
Two security guards moved discreetly toward the doors.
Luca didn't raise his voice.
“Everyone is free to leave once the police have collected statements. But nobody removes anything from this table.”
Richard's expression darkened.
“Be careful, son.”
Luca stepped closer.
“Don't call me that.”
For the first time, Richard looked uncertain.
Evelyn tugged my sleeve again.
“Claire.”
I crouched beside her wheelchair.
“I'm here.”
She pointed at the teaspoon.
Then at the carved walnut cabinet across the dining room.
“Blue.”
I frowned.
“The blue tea set?”
She shook her head.
“Book.”
Arthur heard her.
His expression changed immediately.
“The blue household ledger.”
Luca turned.
“What ledger?”
Arthur looked toward the cabinet.
“Your father kept records of everything served at important family dinners. Wine purchases, special meals, guest arrangements. He said people remembered celebrations differently once money became involved.”
Richard's face tightened.
“That book was destroyed.”
Arthur stared at him.
“How would you know?”
Richard said nothing.
Luca crossed the room and opened the cabinet.
Inside stood crystal decanters, antique serving trays, and several polished silver boxes.
No ledger.
He searched the drawers.
Empty.
Vanessa suddenly looked relieved.
“Can we stop this now?”
But Evelyn began striking the armrest of her wheelchair.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
“No,” she whispered.
I looked toward her.
“Mrs. Moretti, where is the book?”
She pointed at Arthur.
The elderly man seemed confused.
Then he slowly reached into his jacket.
From an inside pocket, he removed a folded piece of yellowed paper.
“I've carried this for nine years.”
Richard's chair scraped backward.
Arthur unfolded the paper.
A list of beverages.
Names.
Times.
And one handwritten line at the bottom.
9:42 p.m.—Special tea delivered to Mr. Anthony Moretti.
Beside the entry were two initials.
R.B.
Richard Bellini.
Luca took the paper.
His tattooed fingers tightened around its edges.
“Why didn't you show me this after Dad died?”
Arthur's eyes filled.
“Because the following morning, your mother begged me not to.”
Luca turned toward Evelyn.
“Mom?”
She lowered her head.
Richard spoke immediately.
“Because she knew there was nothing suspicious about it.”
“No,” Arthur said quietly. “Because she was afraid of what would happen to Luca if he started asking questions.”
The silence that followed was unbearable.
I had spent eleven months caring for Evelyn.
I'd seen her frightened by thunderstorms, embarrassed by her difficulty speaking, and frustrated when her hands wouldn't cooperate.
But I'd never seen the expression she wore now.
It wasn't confusion.
It was guilt.
“Mrs. Moretti,” I whispered, “what were you afraid of?”
She looked at her son.
“Luca.”
Then she began crying.
The physician arrived minutes later.
Dr. Helen Parker examined Evelyn while the police photographed the table and collected the tea service.
Vanessa's handbag remained on a nearby chair.
When an officer asked permission to examine its contents, Vanessa refused.
Richard immediately demanded an attorney.
Luca didn't interfere.
He simply sat beside his mother.
And held her hand.
“Mom,” he whispered, “I'm not twelve anymore. You don't have to protect me from everything.”
Evelyn touched his cheek.
For a moment, she looked like any mother trying to comfort her son.
Then she pointed toward Richard.
“Not... him.”
Luca frowned.
“What?”
Her gaze shifted toward the yellowed paper.
“Other... one.”
Arthur's face drained of color.
“Evelyn,” he whispered.
She repeated it.
“Other... one.”
Luca turned sharply.
“Arthur, what does she mean?”
The former butler lowered his eyes.
“Your father believed there were two people involved in what was happening to him.”
“Who was the second?”
Arthur hesitated.
Then Evelyn reached for the silver spoon.
She turned it over again.
Three scratches.
She pressed its handle against my palm.
And whispered something that made my blood run cold.
“Claire... mother.”
I froze.
“My mother?”
Evelyn nodded.
Luca stared at me.
“Claire, what is she talking about?”
I could barely breathe.
“My mother worked in this house eighteen years ago.”
Arthur slowly raised his head.
“What was her name?”
“Margaret Bennett.”
The spoon slipped from his fingers.
Richard closed his eyes.
May you like
And Arthur whispered:
“Margaret Bennett was the last person Anthony Moretti asked to see before he died.”
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